Dark Flight (16 page)

‘Pastor Achebe has kindly agreed to supply us with the names of males over sixteen in his congregation, for DNA testing. I want you to wait here until he puts this together.’

Janice’s presence might encourage the pastor to give a more comprehensive list.

‘In view of the nature of the case, I would also like the names of families with children under the age of sixteen.’

‘Of course, Inspector. I will do everything I can.’ The pastor’s expression grew grim. ‘Those who engage in witchcraft have great control over believers and a vested interest in keeping that control. For that reason alone, they are dangerous.’

It struck Bill as he walked to his car that had the pastor substituted ‘religion’ for ‘witchcraft’, his pronouncement would have held the same truth.

MALCHIE WAS WORRIED
, although he was sure the story of the van and stolen goods had worked. Danny had played that detective along, even fooled his da into believing the shit-scared trick. A rare wee actor was Danny.

The charge of sexual assault had no hope either. The security cameras were too far from where they’d handled the woman. And anyway, the cameras had been smashed so often that if any of them worked it would be a miracle.

Malchie gnawed at his fingernail, biting it to the quick. But if HE thought for a minute they’d led the police to the site? He and Danny had been given the job of keeping folk away from that building, and they’d been paid well for it. Heavy-duty shit that blew your mind even without the drink.

Malchie ran a furred tongue over his lips, finding a sore at the corner of his mouth. He picked at it, tasting the salt of his own blood.

At least he didn’t have the mobile on him when they took him to the police station. He’d managed to slip it down the side of the settee when it was obvious the pig would insist he go with them. If
the fucking phone had gone off, he really would have shit himself.

To make himself feel better, Malchie imagined doing more than just sticking his hand between the woman’s legs. He would fix her for reporting them. Fuck the bitch till she bled. A rush of pleasure filled his groin and he rubbed himself hard, imagining her frightened face, looking up at him, begging him to stop. When he was ready, he yanked down the tracksuit bottoms and let fly, shouting short staccato ‘fucks’ with each spurt.

Momentarily released from his anger, he slumped back in the chair. Whatever he did to the woman wouldn’t bring his job back. Now that the police were swarming all over the site, that was gone, along with his supply. No shit, no fun and no cash.

He pulled out the phone. What if he was the one to make contact? Tell HIM what was going on here. Tell HIM about the woman.

Whatever fantasy he dreamt up to pay her back was nothing to what he might be told to do.

Malchie punched out the keys before he changed his mind, and waited for a connection. HE had never answered the phone, only a standard answer machine. This time there was nothing but a dead-end drone. Malchie tried again, cursing under his breath, already suspecting that any contact they’d had was at an end. His drug ticket was gone. He didn’t know who HE was or where to find HIM. Their only contact had been the mobile.

He threw the phone on the bed, slammed the door
behind him and went downstairs to take it out on his mother.

She was in the kitchen, her hands in the sink. The radio was on, playing a stupid tune and she was humming. He stood at the door watching and waiting. He’d seen his dad do that lots of times. Wait till she looked happy before he moved in for the kill. Sometimes his father would go out of his way to make her happy. Her expression would slowly change from fear to hope, then pleasure. Malchie’d watched the performance as a child, still on her side, hoping when she hoped. Gradually he learned that hers was the losing side. Learned to hate her when she cowered like a frightened sheep. From then on he got what he wanted. He was his dad’s partner in the game, a game that grew ever more cruel.

His mother turned, sensing his presence. For a moment she was his mum, the one who used to shield him from his father’s rages. Malchie immediately dismissed the uncomfortable feeling that gave him.

‘Food,’ he demanded.

She pointed at a pot on the stove. ‘There’s mince.’

‘Fuck mince.’

He snatched her purse from the table.

‘Ah haven’t . . .’ she began, then stopped, drying her hands nervously on a tea towel as he rifled through the purse, taking the one note in there. She opened her mouth to protest, then rapidly shut it again.

The gesture of futility fanned Malchie’s simmering resentment. He lifted the pot from the gas and threw it
across the table at her. The boiling mince flew out, spraying the table, the floor and her outstretched hand.

She smothered a scream, clasping the burnt hand to her chest.

Malchie turned from her shocked face, enjoying the rush of adrenalin pumping through his veins. The money would buy him dope, drink and a pizza, in that order.

When she heard the slam of the front door, she turned on the cold tap and stuck her hand under the running water. The radio was playing a love song. She held the injured hand with the other to stop them both shaking. She was muttering, ‘Malcolm, Malcolm,’ under her breath as though to a child. Her eyes were dry as dust, red-hot from unshed tears. Her knees buckled slightly and she pressed them against the sink, forcing herself to stay upright. When the pain lessened, she wet the tea towel with cold water and wrapped it around the rising blisters.

She held the banister with her good hand as she climbed the stairs. When she pushed open the door of her son’s bedroom, the smell of unwashed male rushed out. She walked to the window and opened it, then looked around the room.

The fancy mobile was lying on the bed. She picked it up, without looking at it. Downstairs again, she slipped on her coat and put the mobile in her handbag along with her purse, after checking she had enough change for the bus.

Malcolm hadn’t told the police about the phone. But
she would. The phone had something to do with that place they’d found the wee boy’s shoe.

There was a bus waiting at the terminus. She got on, paid and sat at the back, one hand still wrapped in the wet cloth. Her man would come home and find the mess. No tea either. The script was already written for what would happen next, but for once she would not be playing her part.

After the police station she would go to Karen’s. She knew where her daughter lived; the men of the family didn’t. Karen had wanted her mother to leave ever since she’d left home herself.

But she hadn’t wanted to go until she was sure. She couldn’t say ‘sure that Malcolm was going to turn out like his father’, not out loud, nor even silently in her head, because she knew that by staying and taking it for so long, she had probably made that happen.

The woman was sitting in reception when Bill got back to the police station. She wore the same resigned expression, her eyes somewhere else, far, he suspected, from the here and now.

The desk sergeant explained in a low voice, ‘She wants to see Dr MacLeod. I told her she was forensic and not a policewoman. She was adamant. Dr MacLeod.’

The woman was probably here to plead her son’s case. More fool her. Didn’t she realise that the more she covered up for him, the worse he was likely to get?

‘Mrs Menzies? Can I help?’

She turned a startled gaze on him. ‘I need to speak to the woman, Dr MacLeod.’

‘Sergeant MacVitie has explained. Dr MacLeod is a forensic scientist, not a police officer. She doesn’t work here.’

‘I have something to tell her.’

‘Will I do?’

A flash of stubbornness crossed her face. Something had driven her to come here. It had taken courage. She wasn’t going to give up now. ‘I have to talk to the woman.’

She turned from him, settling back into her trance.

It was then he noticed her hand, wound around with what looked like a kitchen cloth.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’

She glanced down. ‘I burnt it on a pot.’ She took a sharp breath that sounded like a sob.

‘Sergeant, a cup of tea for Mrs Menzies. And bring the first-aid kit,’ he ordered.

The sergeant raised an eyebrow, then dropped it when he saw Bill’s expression.

‘Right away, sir.’

Bill left her sitting there and went straight to his office.

The lab phone rang out half a dozen times before Chrissy picked up.

‘She’s here all right,’ she answered Bill’s swift enquiry. ‘I’ll get her for you.’

Bill had worked with Rhona MacLeod long enough both to respect and like her. But his current view on the world had made him feel estranged from everyone, including her. Despite his best efforts, his voice still
sounded gruff. ‘Malcolm Menzies’s mother is here. She wants to speak to you. I’ve told her—’

Rhona interrupted him. ‘I’ll come.’

‘I don’t think she wants to plead his innocence.’

‘I don’t think she does, either. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

The main incident room was ringing with phones, chatter and the relentless click of computer keys. McNab had caught Bill’s eye and followed him to his office, waiting impatiently while he made the call to the lab.

McNab spoke as soon as the receiver went down. ‘The van belongs to the Nigerian Church of God by way of a charity called One World.’

‘Bastard!’ Bill’s fury caused McNab to take a step back. ‘Call DC Clark. She’s with the pastor now. Find out what he knows about that van.’

Bill was still seething when Rhona arrived fifteen minutes later. Her face was pale against the long slim-line black coat. He was struck by the purple shadows under her eyes.

Bill talked to cover the unease between them. ‘Chrissy’s lead to the Nigerian Church of God was a good one. Turns out the van is owned by a subsidiary charity of theirs.’

‘Oh.’ Rhona thought for a moment. ‘If you suspect a member of the church might be involved—’

Bill cut in, his tone abrupt. ‘I need a DNA check on all male church members over sixteen.’

She regarded him coolly, a questioning look in her eyes, then nodded. ‘Of course.’

It would mean a massive effort on both their parts. But such a move had produced results before now.

However, if Stephen were still alive, it might put him in danger . . .

It seemed Rhona was reading his thoughts. ‘I think Stephen’s alive.’ She seemed puzzled by her own certainty.

‘Why?’

‘I can’t explain.’ She shook her head. ‘Is there any chance he’s been smuggled out of the country?’

People were trafficked into the UK. Women and children mostly, to work in brothels and God knows where else. London was the most popular destination but Scotland was by no means free from the trade. With its extensive remote coastline and direct sea links to Northern Europe, it would take an army to watch every possible landing point. If someone brought illegals in, they could take them out as well.

‘His mother requested a miracle before she died.’ Bill felt embarrassed saying it. ‘The church has a miracle service once a month. You put in your request and God answers, apparently.’ He didn’t like the sneer in his own voice.

‘What did she ask for?’ Rhona’s voice was low, almost breathless.

‘
Don Allah
. Please, God. That’s all.’

Rhona thought about that. ‘She was asking God to protect her son.’

‘You think she knew her attacker?’

‘Circumcision is personal. I think she was punished for bringing Stephen here, away from something or someone. I think whoever punished her wanted Stephen back.’

It made sense, but then many scenarios could be written to try to make sense of the few facts they had.

The next step was Customs and Immigration. To find out where, when and how illegals were arriving in Scotland.

‘My biggest mistake was to let so-called Mr Devlin out of my sight.’

‘We all make mistakes, Bill.’ She looked tired. Tired but determined. ‘Okay, where’s Malchie’s mum?’

WOMAN TO WOMAN
with Dr MacLeod. That was Malchie’s mother’s request. Bill had agreed, on condition the interview was observed and taped. Mrs Menzies had something to say. If there was the slightest chance it concerned the murder investigation, then it had to be on record.

Rhona waited until the female constable had set the tape running, announced who was present, then exited, shutting the door. She didn’t glance at the two-way glass, behind which Bill and McNab stood unobserved.

‘Mrs Menzies,’ she began.

‘My name’s Sara. Please call me Sara.’

‘Mine’s Rhona.’

They exchanged cautious smiles.

‘I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.’

Rhona’s heart sank. Was that the only reason Mrs Menzies had asked to speak to her?

‘I needed to say that first.’

Rhona waited for her to go on.

A pulse beat rapidly at the side of the woman’s thin neck. Small beads of perspiration clung to her pale forehead. She cleared her throat, then, as though
making up her mind, she reached in her handbag and withdrew something.

Rhona caught a flash of black metal. Realising what it was, she raised her hand to indicate to the silent watchers that there was nothing to fear.

Sara laid the fancy black mobile phone on the table between them.

‘He was using it to contact somebody about –’ her voice caught in her throat – ‘that place on the wasteland.’

Rhona could taste the woman’s fear.

‘Somebody was giving my son drugs to keep folk away from that building.’ She wiped an eye with a shaking hand.

‘How long for?’

‘He’s been smoking dope for months. That and drink. So he was getting money from somewhere. Today he took money from me.’

Rhona’s eyes were drawn to the bandaged hand. ‘The police can protect you.’ The words sounded as feeble as the promise.

Sara made a small noise in her throat. ‘Aye.’ The acceptance was more for Rhona’s peace of mind, than her own.

‘What was Malcolm guarding?’

‘I thought it was stolen stuff or drugs.’ Her eyes reluctantly met Rhona’s. ‘Then I worried it might be something worse.’