Dark Flight

by Lin Anderson

  ‘You left the mortuary in a hurry.’

  Suleiman – or Devlin, as he had been called then – nodded graciously, as though Bill had said something amusing.

  ‘I would like you to accompany me to the police station.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As you are no doubt aware, I have protected status in this country.’

  ‘As far as I am aware, your name is Devlin and you are the husband of the murder victim Carole Devlin. As such I am taking you into custody on suspicion of murdering your wife.’

  ‘My name is Prince Kabiru Suleiman.’

  ‘My officer here,’ Bill indicated Janice, ‘will confirm that you came to the Pitt Street Police Station and declared yourself to be Mr Devlin. You produced a passport with the name Devlin and your photograph in it.’

  The smooth demeanour faltered.

  ‘I wish to phone my lawyer.’

  ‘Of course. From the police station.’

  Bill didn’t know how long he could hold Suleiman under the name of Devlin. Long enough to parade him in front of Danny Fergus. Long enough to get a fingerprint and a DNA sample, to ‘eliminate’ him from their enquiries. Long enough to find out why he had passed himself off as Devlin and why he had taken photographs of Carole Devlin’s mutilated body.

  Suleiman was studying Bill intently, his expression malevolent. He muttered something under his breath in Hausa. It sounded like a curse.

  ‘Threatening a police officer is an offence in this country.’

  Suleiman smiled. The smile made Bill’s skin crawl. He felt a strong sense of menace, yet Suleiman was simply standing before him, hands by his sides, his expression calm. Bill’s thoughts jumped to Margaret. He had a sudden and irrational sense that she was in danger too.

  ‘Sir?’ Janice was looking at him strangely.

  Bill pulled himself together. He stood aside to let Suleiman pass. He had no wish to have this man at his back.

  ‘Book him in as John Devlin,’ Bill told the desk sergeant. ‘He’ll be in interview room two.’

  ‘But, sir?’

  Bill threw the sergeant a look that shut him up. He knew Room 2 was already occupied. The quickest way to see if Danny knew Suleiman was to confront him with him ‘accidentally’. In his terrified state Danny would react to anyone he knew who was connected to the case.

  Bill ordered the confused constable to unlock the door.

  ‘In here.’ Bill shoved a reluctant Suleiman inside. The room had a sharp acrid scent of sweat and dribbled urine. Danny was sitting at the table, his head in his hands. He looked up as Suleiman entered and Bill got a clear view of his reaction over Suleiman’s shoulder.

  Danny’s face went white. Suleiman tensed, like a leopard ready to spring. Bill heard him hiss like a snake.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ Danny was on his feet. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bloke with Malchie.’ Danny was terrified, his face drawn back from his teeth like a death mask. He backed against the wall, as though Suleiman was coming for him. ‘Get him away from me!’ He put his hands over his eyes.

  Suleiman had turned and was trying to push past Bill, but the constable had barred the door.

  ‘Forgot this room was occupied,’ Bill told the constable. ‘Better put Mr Devlin next door.’

  Bill turned to Danny, who was still flat against the wall. ‘See, Danny, I told you we would get him.’

  Bill nodded at Janice to turn on the recording equipment. He gave the time and place and the names of those present. He used the name Devlin for Suleiman.

  The lawyer interrupted. ‘My client’s name is Prince Kabiru Suleiman.’

  Bill spoke for the benefit of the recording. ‘Kabiru Suleiman, alias John Devlin.’

  Kabiru’s face was impassive.

  ‘Why did you tell us you were John Devlin?’

  Kabiru was silent.

  ‘Why did you have John Devlin’s passport with your photograph in it?’

  The lawyer spoke. ‘My client has diplomatic immunity. You are obliged to inform the Home Office of any alleged offence.’

  ‘I intend to charge Mr Devlin with the murder of his wife and mother-in-law and the abduction of his son, Stephen Devlin.’

  ‘She was not my wife. He is not my son.’ Suleiman curled his lip in disgust.

  ‘Yet you asked to see her dead body. We have you on tape taking photographs of her mutilation . . .’

  The lawyer looked uncomfortable. ‘I must stress that the Home Office must be informed.’

  ‘And I remind you that under Scottish Law the Procurator Fiscal’s Office decides whether there is a case to answer.’ He addressed Suleiman. ‘Mr Devlin, you just said “he is not my son”.’

  The significance of the present tense had not been lost on the lawyer either.

  ‘How do you know Stephen is alive?’

  Something resembling fear flashed in Suleiman’s eyes, then he was back in control.

  ‘We have reason to believe Stephen was smuggled out of this country and is currently in Kano, Northern Nigeria, with your family.’

  The lawyer threw a worried glance at Suleiman.

  ‘You have a brother called Naseem?’

  Suleiman ignored the question.

  ‘He had an affair with Carole Devlin against your father’s wishes.’

  Anger rippled across Suleiman’s face.

  ‘When she fled Nigeria, Naseem had you track her down and kill her.’

  ‘Why would my client claim to be Carole’s husband then photograph her body if, as you allege, he killed her?’

  ‘If Mr Devlin, or Mr Suleiman, would agree to give a DNA sample, we can eliminate him as a suspect.’

  The lawyer thought for a moment then said, ‘I suggest you comply with their request.’

  Bill didn’t like the smug look on Suleiman’s face as he gave his consent. That could only mean one thing. Suleiman didn’t murder Carole or her mother. But he knew who did, and it seemed likely he had arranged to have them killed. Now the reason for his visit to the mortuary was clear. He wanted evidence that the honour killing had been carried out. That’s why he’d taken the photographs.

  Day 9

  Tuesday

  52

  THEY APPROACHED THE reservoir at early dawn. The massive expanse of African sky loomed over them, bruised blue and red. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of morning cooking fires, smoke rising to hang above the shadows of roadside shacks and the more distant compounds.

  McNab’s certainties had evaporated in this dry dusty heat. Death was not a stranger in Glasgow, but he knew its violent forms induced by alcohol and drugs. Here, death wore a different face. One he was unfamiliar with. Talking about witchcraft in Glasgow, he could afford to be cynical. But not here. Not now.

  Henry had the look of a man on a mission. His image belied someone who had lived here most of his life, yet McNab knew that Henry understood this country and its people as much as any Baturi could.

  ‘John has gone on ahead. I spoke to him before we left. The two guards did not return to police headquarters. They have gone bush. The jeep was found abandoned in the Sabon Gari.’

  Fear of punishment or fear of reprisal? McNab could only hope whoever John Adamu brought with him this time could be trusted.

  As they passed through Rano, the town was slowly rousing itself in the early light. McNab thought of Carole and her house with its big verandah and flame trees. He imagined Stephen happy there, playing in the garden. Capturing red velvet spiders with Boniface. ‘They will kill him now,’ Boniface had said, despair and resignation on his face. Life was precarious here, and all the more precious for it. Boniface had loved Stephen. McNab corrected his tense. Boniface loved Stephen.

  McNab looked out over the vast expanse of water and his heart sank. At an estimate it must be over twenty kilometres long. How could they search that length of shoreline?

  ‘I have a motor boat moored at my weekend place,’ said Henry. ‘We’ll
use that. John’s already commandeered the expat sailing club’s security vessel. He’ll check the Suleimans’ island and any houses along the far shore. This area is well populated with fishermen and farmers. If something’s going on, the local community will know.’

  But would the locals be willing to talk? McNab remembered the reaction to the police when Rhona went missing. The guards tried to blame him for frightening the stall owner, but McNab thought fear of the police a more likely explanation.

  After checking all the expats’ weekend cottages, Henry and McNab headed out on the motor boat, leaving Abdul and the driver to drive up the lakeside as far as they could with the vehicle, visiting the local settlements this side of the reservoir.

  They could hear the distant beat of another motor boat echoing across the glassy water, but the mist that clung to the surface prevented them from seeing it.

  Henry headed out confidently into the lake, weaving expertly between the grey tree trunks that periodically rose from its surface. ‘We’ll check the island first.’

  McNab wondered if he didn’t trust Adamu as much as he said, or if he expected bad news there.

  It took them at least ten minutes to reach the outcrop that rose like a volcano’s tip from the silt waters of the reservoir. The island was nothing but rock, the bungalow filling its surface area with only a narrow strip of surrounding shore. With no trees or shade apart from a heavy overhang of thatch, the bungalow was already baking in the morning sun.

  Adamu’s launch bobbed a few metres from shore. McNab spotted the dark police shirts, and a figure he recognised as Adamu.

  Henry pulled alongside the small jetty. ‘Try not to get your feet wet.’

  McNab decided not to ask why.

  Adamu caught sight of him through the open window and held up a pair of sandals. ‘We found these on the shore. And someone’s eaten in this room recently.’

  A posse of ants were busy clearing up the remains of a meal.

  McNab examined the blue sandals. They looked like the ones Rhona had been wearing and were about the right size.

  ‘These are foreign sandals. Not available locally.’ Adamu showed McNab the writing inside. Good old Marks and Spencer. Rhona had been here all right.

  Where was she now?

  ‘They brought her here, probably overnight.’

  And took her away again. But where?

  ‘Someone will have seen the motor boat come out here. The lake is fished night and day.’ The mist had dispersed as the sun rose, exposing at least a dozen dugouts spread over the reservoir. ‘The fishermen know every white man who comes here for weekends. They even have nicknames for them.’

  McNab was tempted to ask what Henry’s was, but didn’t.

  ‘Dr MacLeod is a stranger, a Baturi stranger. Someone will have seen her.’

  By midday, Adamu had a reported sighting. A white woman had been picked up in the water during the night by a fisherman called Joshua.

  ‘Rhona’s alive?’ said McNab. ‘Thank God! What the hell was she doing in the water?’

  He had the horrible thought that they had tried to drown her.

  Adamu seemed to disagree. ‘I think she was trying to escape the island.’

  ‘In the dark? The woman must be a maniac!’

  ‘Maybe,’ Adamu said, ‘but she did make the shore.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  Adamu’s face grew grave. ‘She was taken from Joshua’s compound by a man with scars on his face.’

  ‘Stephen was terrified of a man with a scarred face.’

  ‘The Suleiman men have followed the tradition of tribal markings.’

  ‘It was Naseem, then.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Adamu was more cautious. ‘Markings are common here.’

  ‘Where have they taken her?’

  Adamu shook his head, at a loss.

  They were sitting on the small verandah that fronted Henry’s shoreside cottage. It was early evening and the heat had dwindled to a manageable level. Abdul had returned with no news, so all they had to show for the day’s search was that one sighting.

  ‘God, she could be anywhere,’ McNab concluded.

  Henry came in. ‘Tell me about the ritualism in this case. What happened in Glasgow?’

  McNab told him about the deaths, the strange building on the waste ground, the skulls with nails driven through them.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ He realised that in the trauma of losing Rhona he’d never mentioned their find at Carole’s house to either Henry or Abdul. ‘There was a small green snake under the covers of Stephen’s bed. Rhona found it. It had a nail driven through it.’

  Again, Abdul seemed to be struggling to conceal his fear. ‘The snake draws the worshippers to the place of sacrifice.’

  ‘Carole’s house? But what about water?’

  Then McNab remembered that the house backed onto the river.

  Their determined entry into the line of traffic on the main Rano road caused an explosion of honking horns and a few hands held up, palm directed towards the driver.

  ‘The worst insult they can afford him,’ Henry told McNab. ‘It suggests he’s the illegitimate child of a woman with loose morals.’

  Their driver let go of the wheel with his right hand and returned the compliment to shouts of Hausa abuse.

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘I’ll try to get John on the mobile. We’re still close enough to Kano for a signal.’

  The line was bad and broke up as Henry explained their plan. McNab gathered from the exchange that John had two vehicles with him. He announced his decision to stay near the Suleiman house, just in case. Two men would follow them to Rano in the other jeep.

  Night was swiftly falling as they drove up the avenue of flame trees. McNab’s guts were churning, his body on high alert. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too late. Was he approaching a crime scene where the murder had already taken place?

  53

  STEPHEN STOOD ON the verandah. Above him the trees sang with crickets. The line hung between the acacia trees, empty of washing. He walked through the open glass door. The louvred windows of the sitting room were open, curtains trembling in the breeze. He thought he smelt rain on the wind.

  He walked slowly through to the kitchen, all the time saying, Please be there, Mummy. Please be there. The kitchen was empty. His mum’s favourite mug had been washed and sat on the draining board. There was a smell of heat and emptiness. Tears ran down his cheeks. He’d thought if he came back, everything would be all right. That what happened at Granny’s house would go away.

  Sam had said, ‘Trust me, Stephen. Whatever happens. Promise?’

  He had promised, not understanding.

  He shouted for Sam, but there was no answer, just the singing crickets and the buzz of heat and flies.

  Stephen went back and stood at the open door. The creeping grass of the straggly lawn was still green. Boniface had watered the garden, thinking they were coming back.

  Stephen glanced to the right. Sam’s vehicle was there, but another had pulled in beside it. A man got out of the big black jeep. Stephen saw Sam appear from behind the house and approach the man.

  The two stood a metre apart. Stephen could see neither of their faces.

  He heard the word uwa, mother, and thought they were talking about his mum. Sam was very angry. Then Sam shouted, ‘You said if I brought the boy . . .’

  Stephen wanted to call out, but fear trapped his voice in his throat. It was the return of his nightmare. The stranger turned and Stephen saw the scars.

  54

  SHE SAT BETWEEN the two minders in the back seat. The smell of male sweat swamped the silty aroma that still clung to her clothing. Both men stared straight ahead, their bulky bodies allowing little room for her. Prince Naseem Suleiman, as he had politely introduced himself, sat in front with the driver.

  He had declined to tell her where they were going, but Rhona suspected they were heading back to Kano.

  Her
repeated requests to be taken to the British consul had ended when the man to her right produced a knife and held the point to her neck.

  Darkness swept past the windows, punctuated by an occasional figure caught in the vehicle headlights, or the glow of a communal fire. The car was unnaturally cool, the air conditioner turned high. Rhona’s clothes had dried, but her flesh still felt damp and chilly.

  Exhaustion and fear had rendered her brain incapable of logical thought, but then nothing about this case seemed logical. The man who sat in the front seat was a killer. He may not have killed with his own hands but he had ordered Carole’s death. An honour killing?

  How can there be honour in mutilating and murdering two women? And what about Stephen?

  She had asked about Stephen as she was forced into the car. Suleiman gave her a look that suggested she would find out soon enough.

  When they turned into the avenue of flame trees, Rhona knew that it would end here, where it had begun.

  Glasgow was an awkward cul-de-sac Naseem had been forced to deal with. When she ran into Malchie on the waste ground, she had created a problem. The Suleiman family did not like problems. Especially those caused by a woman.

  Rhona wondered how long it had taken for Carole to realise what she had got herself into. Perhaps it was Stephen and his fear of Naseem that showed Carole what the man really was. Or maybe she found out more about him than he wanted her to know. Whatever it was had terrified Carole enough to make her flee her home. But Glasgow hadn’t been safe either. The world had become smaller and Naseem’s family had a long reach.

  There was a vehicle to the left of the house. When they drew alongside, a man appeared from the rear of the building. Rhona watched the long stride and felt a jolt of recognition.

  Sam did not see her, wedged as she was between the two men in the back, the knife to her throat. Then Rhona caught sight of Stephen, standing on the verandah where she’d imagined him only the day before. He was watching Sam, disbelief flooding his face. Then Naseem turned and Stephen saw the scars.