Dark Flight (15 page)

The bones choose their next victim
. That’s what Sam’s mother had written.

Judy was right. There was something creepy about the bones. Rhona pushed them away, disgusted and frightened by the images they conjured up.

She faxed her results to Bill, knowing she should have picked up the phone and called him, but they were somehow estranged from such familiarity, like a couple ‘on a break’.

Both men in her life were keeping secrets from her.

An insistent pain had begun to throb at her right temple. She had tensed up and the muscle contraction in her neck had worked its painful way up the side of her face. She tried to relax, letting her shoulders sink and closing her eyes.

The funeral was tomorrow. She would have to decide soon.

‘Dopehead,’ Chrissy announced on entry.

‘What?’

‘Presumptive tests indicate the presence of cannabis in the urine on Enid’s hair. Toxicology report confirms this.’

‘Only cannabis?’

‘No alcohol, no other drugs. But enough cannabis to make him pretty high.’

Cannabis, alcohol and other chosen drugs of abuse were a common mix in violent crime. Cannabis on its own wasn’t particularly associated with violence. Although the drug was linked with paranoia, especially if there was evidence of mental illness.

Chrissy was examining her like a specimen. ‘You look terrible.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Okay, what’s up?’

‘Nothing.’ Her denial was too quick. Rhona could have kicked herself. Keeping things from Chrissy was an art form.

Chrissy glanced pointedly at the clock. ‘Lunchtime. I’m starving.’

Chrissy was always starving. Where the food disappeared to was a mystery. The word
diet
didn’t figure in her vocabulary and didn’t have to. Chrissy ate anything and everything with relish and stayed the same weight.

‘What about going out for lunch?’ she suggested.

Going out for an interrogation more like.

‘I’d be happy with a sandwich,’ Rhona protested weakly. It was a forlorn hope.

‘You need a walk in the fresh air.’

Chrissy was already pulling on her outdoor gear, a fitted furry jacket that conjured up an image of a wolf stalking its prey.

They walked down University Avenue to Di Maggios on Gibson Street, a Chrissy favourite with portions to match her appetite. It was lunchtime busy but Chrissy had a word with the waitress and they were quickly led to a secluded table. Rhona’s forensic assistant was wasted in the lab. She should be in the CID, or MI5 for that matter.

Rhona glanced at the menu and ordered a hot sandwich. Chrissy went for a two-course menu.

Silence descended. ‘The funeral is tomorrow,’ Rhona began.

‘And you’re worried about going?’

This was too easy. ‘We’re . . .’

‘So busy. Your favourite excuse.’

Rhona managed a guilty smile. It wasn’t difficult.

‘An early morning flight from Glasgow to Dublin. Come back the same day. But hey, it’s the weekend. Come back Monday morning.’ Chrissy was on a roll.

‘Sean wants away as soon as possible,’ Rhona explained.

‘And
you
are the perfect excuse.
You
need to get back for work.’ She was triumphant.

Rhona allowed Chrissy her moment.

‘Okay, when we get back to the lab, you go online and book.’ Chrissy wasn’t taking no for an answer.

‘Maybe.’

‘Definitely.’

It was as though the decision had been taken out of
her hands. But she had forced fate to play the card she wanted. That was the truth.

Rhona’s sandwich tasted like cardboard in her guilty mouth. On the other hand, Chrissy, the innocent, enjoyed the largest serving of Fettucine Di Maggio known to woman, followed by a mammoth helping of Hot Banana and Rum Pancakes.

VIOLENCE. A CANCER
eating its way through the heart of his city. A city he loved, despite its tough reputation. Those who wrote about Glasgow often forgot it was also known as the friendliest city in the UK. The city where old ladies paid bus fares for tourists when they heard a story of exile. Bill knew, because it had happened to a Canadian nephew of his, who would never grow tired of telling the tale.

See Glasgow. The worst and the best. And the worst was exposing its racist underbelly. A black child was missing, a black child’s torso found floating in the Kelvin. So it must be African voodoo. How the hell had the newspapers got hold of the voodoo angle? Not from him, that’s for sure. Black immigrants mixed up in voodoo – a racist’s dream ticket.

There had already been a flurry of incident reports from those brave enough to lodge them. It made a change from sectarian abuse. Dark skin was as much a marker as a Rangers or Celtic scarf. Only now both sides of the religious divide had a common enemy: anyone of a duskier hue than themselves. The continent of origin wasn’t an issue. Africa, Asia, they didn’t even know where they were on a map. Just as
long as they could vent their self-righteous spleen on someone different.

Bill had taken Janice’s phone call as a constable laid the report list in front of him. He was pleased DC Clark had a lead on the white van, yet the words
well done
stuck in his throat. Anger coloured everything. Made you spit when you should smile. What was the point of being nice, when shit kept coming anyway? Bill suddenly felt ashamed. If Margaret thought he was taking problems in his personal life out on his team, she would never forgive him. She wasn’t taking it out on anyone. She had confessed to raging around the house, punching cushions and shouting her anger, but had waited until he left for work and the kids for school.

The buzz of conversation in the outer office faded to silence when he opened his door. Bill marshalled his expression into something resembling pleasure.

‘DC Clark’s got a number for the white van.’

There was a wave of excitement, almost a cheer.

Bill passed the number to the nearest officer. ‘See if Traffic can tell us anything about the owner.’ He paused. ‘If anyone’s looking for me, I’m at the Nigerian Church of God, Maryhill Road.’

The congregation met in an old Presbyterian hall. The neighbouring church building had been converted into a singles bar called the Dream Club. Bill had done a routine internet search and discovered the Nigerian Church of God had ministries in all West African countries, a strong presence in Europe and England,
150 churches in North America, and had recently purchased a multimillion-dollar property in Dallas, Texas. Apparently Glasgow was their first foray into Scotland.

Miracles were high on their agenda. That’s what people wanted to believe in, why they paid their tithe. And judging by the rapid increase in membership from an initial half-dozen members meeting in a room in Lagos in 1957, to millions worldwide, the members thought they were getting what they paid for.

Bill checked himself, as he often did when his natural scepticism came into opposition with his wife’s religion. Margaret was a believer; even her illness hadn’t shaken her faith.

There was no sign of Janice when he drew up in front of the church hall. Bill trusted she would spot his parked car and went in alone.

The big oak door spoke of wealthier times. In the foyer a display of church dignitaries consisted of six colour photographs with names and positions below. All but one of the dignitaries were black and wore national dress. Pastor Achebe looked imposing and confident in his position and beliefs. Bill wished he felt the same. A list of activities included Daily Worship, Sunday School, House Fellowship and Internet Radio broadcasts. A special Miracle Service was scheduled for the last Sunday of every month. Members were requested to state the miracle they desired. As Bill ran his eye down the list, a distant murmur rose and fell like waves on a shore, audible through the half-open inner door.

Inside a large echoing room, ten people sat in a circle, heads bowed in prayer. In the centre was a table like a small altar on which six candles burnt. The room smelt warmly fragrant.

Bill waited as the tide of voices rose to a crescendo, finishing with a joyous chorus of ‘Hallelujah’, which sent an involuntary tingle up his spine. A belief in God had been the unspoken certainty of his childhood, along with a clear definition of right and wrong, and perhaps the greatest gift his mother could bestow: a respect for people whoever they were. Only the God bit had gone.

A tall man he recognised as Pastor Achebe came towards him, hand outstretched. First impressions could be wrong, but not often. The churchman’s expression was open and welcoming. ‘You must be Detective Inspector Wilson.’

Bill took the large firm hand in his. He had not warned the pastor of his intended visit, nor was he sure how he had been recognised. Either Sam Haruna had furnished a very good description, or the pastor had second sight as well as an ability to perform miracles.

‘I do not perform miracles, only God can do that.’

‘What?’

The pastor smiled, exposing two rows of perfect white teeth. ‘I saw you reading the request list, Detective Inspector. If you ask God for help, I am sure he will answer.’

‘I’ll settle for your help, Pastor, for the moment.’

‘Of course. Would you like to come through to my study?’

The candles had been blown out, the altar moved to
the wall. Six men and three women were donning coats and heading for the door, calling their goodbyes.

‘Christ be with you.’

‘And with you.’

Bill ran a swift eye over the worshippers. Mixed age group, two white faces among the black, both of them middle-aged women.

Pastor Achebe led him to an open door at the rear of the hall. The room was warmed by a gas fire and lit by a single window that looked out on a stone wall three feet away, which, judging by direction, belonged to the Dream Club. A simple wooden cross hung on the wall behind a desk that housed a pile of papers and an ultra-slim laptop. Beside the cross hung a map of the world, many of the countries marked by a small cross. The map reminded Bill of the one in his old schoolroom, but with the Nigerian Church of God replacing the pink expanse of the British Empire.

He took the seat the pastor indicated.

‘I understand Carole Devlin and her son were members of your church?’

The pastor settled himself behind the desk. He was a broad man, his bulk more likely to be muscle than fat. ‘Not
my
church,’ he gently corrected. ‘
God
’s church. I am merely a member.’

‘But you are in charge?’

‘I have certain responsibilities, yes.’

His professions of modesty were beginning to irritate.

‘Tell me about Carole.’

‘She came with Stephen most Sundays. The boy
attended Sunday School while his mother worshipped in the main hall.’

‘How well did you know her?’

‘Not well, I’m ashamed to say. But I understand she attended one of our sister churches in Kano before returning to the UK. She did not mingle with the other worshippers here, merely arrived for the service and left swiftly afterwards.’

‘Wasn’t that strange?’

‘Our church is our family, Detective Inspector. Yes, it is, was, unusual. What I can tell you is that Carole entered a request for a miracle last Sunday, the day before she died.’

He pushed a black diary across the desk and pointed at an entry which said simply ‘
Don Allah
’.

‘What does it mean?’

‘In the Hausa language it means “please” or, more precisely, “please, God”.’

‘That’s all?’

‘God knows everything. There was no need for her to write down the miracle she needed. It was enough to say please.’

‘Do you know what she wanted?’

He shook his head. ‘No. But I can surmise.’

‘And?’

‘In my experience women rarely ask anything for themselves. Whatever she wanted it would be for her child.’

Bill changed tack. ‘And Carole Devlin’s husband?’

‘I never met him.’ The pastor’s tone of voice didn’t change, but his answer was almost too swift.

Bill examined the eyes that stared unblinkingly into his. ‘Do you know a Dr Olatunde?’

The pastor had no difficulty with that question. Practice was making his responses perfect. ‘Not directly. Sam Haruna has mentioned the name to me. He works at the university, I believe.’

‘He is not a member of your church?’

He shook his head sadly.

‘But he is Nigerian?’

The pastor placed his hands together in a prayer-like gesture. ‘Not all Nigerians are men of God.’

‘There are elements of this case that suggest a link with voodoo.’

The pastor looked distressed. ‘The African term is juju, Inspector. Yes, I am sorry to say some of my fellow Africans still run after fetish priests and other powers of darkness for assistance.’

‘Like Dr Olatunde?’

‘I cannot say that, for I do not know.’

Bill felt he was wading through treacle. Regardless of how accommodating Pastor Achebe appeared to be, he had told him nothing, except that Carole had asked for a miracle and her God had failed her. ‘I will need contact details for all members of your church.’

Pastor Achebe opened his mouth to protest, but Bill went on regardless. ‘I will also require every male over the age of sixteen to give a DNA sample to eliminate them from our enquiries.’

The pastor had regained his composure. He rose from the chair, with an accepting smile. ‘Of course, Inspector. I understand. Although among the black
community, might such a requirement be seen as police harassment?’

Bill was already rehearsing the conversation he would have with his superior officer over such a request. And sampling the male congregation depended entirely on Pastor Achebe persuading his flock to come forward. The Nigerian Church of God, he suspected, had members entirely unknown to the Home Office. Perhaps an admission of illegal status was as sacrosanct to Pastor Achebe as an admission in the confessional.

When they emerged from the office, Janice was in the foyer, reading the miracle list. She threw Bill a swift smile, before adjusting it to a nod. Obviously smiling had not been well received of late.

Bill introduced her to the pastor, who shook her hand.