Dark Flight (23 page)

‘You have Sam’s sample?’

‘Helen did it.’

‘And?’

‘It’s being checked against the database.’

Rhona changed the subject. ‘The Velcro fastener on Stephen’s trainer was a rich source of DNA. We need to check my results on that against the samples from the church.’

‘Will do.’

The small trainer was a timely reminder of what this was all about. The scuff marks, the torn stitching, the worn sole, told the story of a small boy’s life. A boy who was afraid of the dark. A boy who saw his mother die.

Rhona spent an hour putting together notes for Chrissy and filing her results. A week was a long time away from a case. She had to keep reminding herself that the Kano trip was just as important as the work going on here. At the moment it felt like running away.

RHONA HEARD THE
miaow when she opened the door. The kitten came skidding across the polished wood towards her. It was the colour of a tiny wildcat. When she picked it up, it wrapped itself around her neck in a gesture of violent affection.

She waited for Sean to appear and explain, not keen to let down her guard and seek him out. Eventually she wandered into the kitchen to find a litter tray, cat food and a note.

I phoned the cat refuge and they said they had a motherless kitten. If you don’t like him
,
they’ll take him back. He’s called Tom
.

Have to cover at the club for Sam. Won’t manage to get back before you leave
.

Sean

Rhona wanted to be irritated by Sean’s interference but didn’t have the heart. He knew how much she missed her cat and had been encouraging her to get another one for months. She had finally decided to replace Chance but the pressure of work had conspired against her. He had simply saved her the bother.

If it was a peace offering, it had worked. But a break in hostilities didn’t mean the end of the war.

She had left herself little time to finish her preparations before McNab arrived to pick her up. If she was honest she had delayed coming home. Sean was astute enough to sense her mood and make himself scarce, leaving behind a surrogate object of affection.

Psychologically, a good move.

The kitten watched her with interest from the bed as she closed the suitcase and put on clothes suitable for travelling. The weather in Kano was currently hot and humid, and she had packed accordingly. Despite the seriousness of the trip it felt like going on a summer holiday.

She wasn’t a great flier, but did it from necessity. Despite being a scientist, Rhona could never really accept the physics of flying and always needed a stiff drink beforehand. Flying with McNab would either make things much better or a hundred times worse.

McNab was bang on time. Rhona was ready for him, having bolstered herself with a glass of wine. She lifted the sleeping kitten from her knee, laid him on the couch and went to answer the buzzer. She told McNab she was on her way down.

McNab met her halfway and offered to carry her case. It seemed churlish to refuse. Rhona followed behind, thinking that if they were going to be thrown together for a week she would have to make an effort.

He loaded her suitcase into the boot of the police car alongside a large leather holdall, which she assumed was his. Rhona slipped her forensic case on top.

McNab offered her the front passenger seat beside the plain-clothes driver but she declined. ‘I’m happy in the back.’

Rhona slipped in and fastened her seat belt. For some reason she felt more comfortable with McNab in front rather than behind her.

‘The hotel’s booked. We should get there in time to eat.’

Rhona acknowledged this, then lapsed into silence as the car approached Charing Cross and negotiated its way through the Saturday city traffic and onto the M8 motorway, heading west.

The sky over the airport was a flat grey, weighted down with impending rain. A few spots dotted the windscreen as they drew up in front of the main entrance. This time Rhona wouldn’t let McNab take her case. She pulled it along behind, the forensic bag hooked over the handle.

They waited silently in the queue for Heathrow. Now that they were completely alone, without the structure of their profession, Rhona could see how difficult this was going to be. She should have asked not to go. Made some excuse about Sean’s father’s funeral. Anything not to be standing alone with Michael McNab on her way to Nigeria.

McNab’s expression reflected her own discomfort covered with a thin veneer of bravado. Any thought that he might have engineered this trip together evaporated. McNab was as awkward about this as she was. The realisation made Rhona relax a little. After they’d handed over their luggage, McNab suggested coffee or a drink.

‘A drink. I don’t like flying.’

‘I remember.’ He looked annoyed at his quick answer, realising it might irritate.

‘We can’t go on like this,’ she told him firmly.

‘No.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘You could start by calling me Michael?’ He smiled.

As always, it was difficult to tell when McNab was coming on to her. Rhona had avoided using his name at all, had to acknowledge silently that she had been thinking
McNab
in her head. His surname had a distance to it she was happier with.

‘Okay,’ she conceded.

‘I take it I can call you Rhona?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘That’s my name,’ she said in a neutral fashion.

‘I also propose we forget the past.’

‘Agreed.’

Easier said than done, but worth a try.

She settled for a gin and tonic. McNab ordered a pint of lager, which gave Rhona another pang of familiarity. They discussed the plan for Kano. Rhona was impressed by how organised McNab was.

‘Apparently our man in Kano is the remarkable and charming Henry Boswell OBE, who has been there for ever. He’s a true Brit, tea in the afternoon and cucumber sandwiches.’

‘Gin and tonic sundowners on the verandah?’

‘You wish.’

‘I know,’ Rhona replied firmly. ‘I’ve been to Africa before, remember?’

Discussing the case and the arrangements brought
them back on neutral ground. They could even afford to smile and joke with each other.

‘We’re staying at the Prince Hotel, just across the road from the consulate,’ McNab went on. ‘It’s modern, clean and secure. We meet the police liaison officer as soon as it can be arranged.’

‘Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.’

He accepted her praise with a wry smile. ‘Both the police and the consul know about Stephen. Let’s hope there’s some news by the time we get there.’

They lapsed into silence, reminded of the reason for their journey.

Heathrow was a madhouse, as usual, with armed police officers everywhere. The contrast with a relatively sedate Glasgow was marked.

A bus took them straight to their hotel. Rhona was hungry and quickly agreed when McNab suggested they eat as soon as they got there. They met in the lobby ten minutes later, just enough time to wash her face and compose herself. She was hoping for a meal and bed and no long chats in the bar.

She checked her mobile before ordering but there was nothing from Chrissy or from Sean. Relief must have shown on her face.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Looks like life goes on without me.’

It was meant to be flippant, but in retrospect took on more meaning. McNab busied himself with his bread roll. ‘I’m seeing someone,’ he said.

Rhona looked up, trying not to appear curious. It didn’t work.

‘It’s Janice Clark.’

Now she was surprised. She’d seen nothing to suggest they were an item. ‘I didn’t know,’ she stammered.

‘We’ve kept it quiet.’

They had also kept it quiet. Three months and no one but Bill knew, and only when she had to tell him. There was Chrissy, of course, but despite her love of gossip her assistant was the soul of discretion where friends were concerned. She might give you a mouthful about it, but she would fight your corner to the death.

McNab had told her about Janice to make her more at ease. Rhona had a fleeting thought that he might be making it up. After all, she could hardly ask Janice. And Chrissy obviously didn’t know about it, the way she’d gone on about McNab’s return. And Janice didn’t even seem his type.

Rhona was glad when the main course arrived and she could concentrate on her food.

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence. Afterwards she declined coffee and declared herself ready for bed. It meant she went up in the lift alone.

She checked her phone before she went to bed, but there was nothing from Sean. Through the sealed windows she looked out on greater London, a myriad of lights on a flat plain that seemed to go on for ever.

Her sleep was punctuated with vivid and grotesque dreams. A maze of rooms, each one more dark and claustrophobic than the one before, and always the wrong one no matter how carefully she followed the child’s high, frightened voice.

MARGARET WAS AT
church. The silence suggested both his kids were still asleep.

Normally Bill liked a Sunday morning. Alone, but not really alone. Margaret’s warm presence a part of the surrounding silence, even though he’d heard the click of the front door and knew she had already left.

It was the only day in the week he lay in bed longer than necessary, putting off the moment he had to engage with the day.

The bedroom was their place, shared for all of their married life. They had created two children in this bed, loved, laughed and cried. He sat up, watching pale morning light stretch across the covers. He lay his hand on Margaret’s side and imagined he could still feel her warmth. The scent of her lingered and he breathed it in.

When their son, Robbie, was born, he wanted to buy Margaret a present. She asked for perfume, L’Air du Temps. He remembered her sitting up in bed, the baby in the cot beside her, dabbing the scent on her neck.

She’d worn that perfume ever since. It had become part of her. She laughingly said she couldn’t smell it any more, but he could.

The normal comfort of a Sunday morning was gone, replaced by a creeping fear that it could never be recaptured. The time of certainty was past and Bill wondered if he had ever really appreciated it when it was there. What if the empty space beside him was to become the norm?

He rose, refusing to let his mind answer the question. He too was going to church this morning: the Nigerian Church of God.

Church attendance wasn’t high in Scotland, but on a Sunday morning it looked that way. There were few cars on the road and no one was up and about, apart from groups around church doors. When questioned, most folk said they believed in a god, they just weren’t church regulars. Like Bill, they had too many questions and not enough answers.

The sky above Glasgow was a clear blue. The air was crisp, the pavements dry with a light silver frosting. He left the car a hundred yards from the church hall and walked along, enjoying the spring sunshine.

Outside the Dream Club, someone had sprayed the contents of their stomach over the pavement. A man with a bucket approached from the church hall as Bill passed, sloshing soapy water over the offending mess.

Pastor Achebe was greeting his flock at the front door. When he caught sight of Bill, he beamed, as though the prodigal son had returned. ‘Detective Inspector, I am glad you have come.’ He offered his big hand.

‘Strictly business,’ Bill told him.

‘All business is God’s business.’

The man could always turn the subject back to God. It was called living the faith.

‘Today is our miracle service.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘You wish to ask for a miracle?’

Bill shook his head. ‘I would like to observe.’

The pastor shrugged his shoulders. ‘God’s door is always open.’

‘I’d also like to speak to the Sunday School teacher who taught Stephen.’

It was Pastor Achebe’s turn to look serious. ‘Of course. Sunday School today follows the miracle service, so the children can be with us during the requests.’

As it turned out, the experience reminded Bill of an AIDS service he’d attended with Margaret at Christmas. Victims’ names read out and lovingly remembered by friends. A candle lit for each one. Here, the names weren’t those of the dead, but those who feared death. A prayer was sung for each name and a candle lit. The voices of the congregation rose and fell in a harmonious wave, resonating deep in Bill’s chest, as though warm hands had been placed there.

When the voices went silent he felt suddenly bereft.

The children, about twenty of them, began to file out, followed by a young man and woman, both black. Bill followed them into the side room.

Small blue plastic chairs were placed in two circles, an adult-size chair alongside. The young woman looked up enquiringly as Bill entered.

The young man came towards him and offered his hand. ‘May we help you?’

Bill showed his ID card and asked who taught Stephen. The two exchanged glances before the man answered, ‘Stephen is in my class, with the younger ones.’

A circle of children aged between six and nine stared solemnly up at Bill.

‘Can I have a brief word with you about Stephen?’

The man nodded. ‘Of course. We will go to the storeroom.’

The storeroom was little more than a cupboard, walls shelved and filled with books, paper and boxes of crayons. From beyond the closed door, Bill heard children begin to sing in high piping voices. It was a song Lisa had learned at Sunday School and insisted on singing to him at every available opportunity.

‘My name is Isa,’ the young man said formally. ‘I gave a DNA sample yesterday.’

His skin was blue-black, the whites of his eyes a creamy yellow and a little bloodshot at the corners. His wrists were thin and bony inside the frayed but clean shirt cuffs.

‘How well do you know Stephen?’

Isa thought for a moment. ‘Not well. He has not been coming to church for long. He likes to sing that song.’ He inclined his head towards the door. ‘He told me his granny liked to hear it.’ He thought again. ‘He draws well. Lots of pictures of his life in Kano. A garden with acacia trees and bananas. And drawings of
insects. He said he had a collection. Red velvet spiders are his favourite.’