Dark Flight (25 page)

They said nothing as the car negotiated the packed streets of honking horns, weaving people and roadside vendors. Every time the vehicle slowed down, a woman or child appeared at the window, a tray balanced on their head, offering nuts or fruit for sale.

Rhona stole a quick glance at McNab. She had seen this before, and remembered quite vividly her first reaction to Africa. Sweat was trickling down the side of his face, rolling under his shirt collar. The air was clammy, like red soup. They were breathing in the Sahara Desert.

‘Harmattan dust,’ Abdul explained. ‘It should have
gone with the rains.’ He shook his head, annoyed by nature’s trick on them.

The honorary consulate was in a leafy cul-de-sac, magically quiet after the madness of the teeming streets. They drew up in front of a wide verandah festooned with white and blue blossoms, the cooling air thick with their scent.

A man and woman rose from easy chairs to greet them. Henry Boswell OBE and his wife, Karen, were the epitome of charm. Everything Rhona had heard about ‘our man in Kano’ proved to be true. When he offered them a gin and tonic sundowner, she couldn’t resist throwing McNab a ‘told you so’ look.

Sitting on the verandah with her drink, the remains of an African sunset streaking the sky, Rhona wished she were here for reasons other than the murder and abduction of minors. But after the niceties of hospitality, their host brought them swiftly to the task in hand. Abdul had been offered a seat beside them. The consul spoke intermittently to him in Hausa as he discussed with Rhona and McNab the details of the trip.

‘First of all, your accommodation. The Prince Hotel is directly across the road. It is surprisingly good.’ He didn’t say ‘for Nigeria’. That was implied in his wry smile. ‘I have set up a meeting with John Adamu. He is your contact with the police force. Abdul will take you to meet him tomorrow.’

‘Did you know Carole Devlin?’ Rhona asked.

The consul glanced briefly at his wife. It was she who answered. ‘I met her about six years ago. Her husband was an engineer. She was pregnant at the time.’

‘That must have been Stephen,’ Rhona said. ‘And you never met her again?’

‘She moved to Lagos before the child was born.’

‘But she was living in Kano before she returned to Scotland?’

‘When she came back from Lagos she was with another man, a Nigerian, I believe. She no longer mixed with expats.’ Karen seemed embarrassed. ‘This is a divided society,’ she explained. ‘The British are tolerated, but we are no longer a sizeable minority. If a British woman forms a relationship with a Nigerian, she joins their society. Carole never kept up with any of her friends here and most of them have left Nigeria now.’

‘She apparently attended church here. The Nigerian Church of God.’

Abdul came in at this point, muttering quietly to Boswell in Hausa. When the conversation was over, the consul told them, ‘Kano State is predominantly Muslim and currently under Sharia law. The Christian church is tolerated but its members keep a low profile. The leader of that particular church is Pastor Oyekunde.’

‘We’d like to speak to him.’

‘Of course. Abdul will arrange this.’

Rhona outlined the investigation and the urgency of their hunt for Stephen. Henry told them that the search for the boy had already begun. Abdul was known in all the local communities. Henry was convinced they stood a better chance of locating the boy via him, than through the police force.

‘Ordinary Nigerian citizens don’t trust the police,’ he told them. ‘Until recently their anti-crime campaign was called “Operation Fire with Fire”. Confrontation rather than protection. The fallout, I’m afraid, from the many military regimes. The new motto is “Serving with integrity and honour”. Nice words but not much to back them up yet. Unfortunately the force is poorly paid. They make up their wages by demanding money from the public at checkpoints. One out of twenty stopped is shot, by accident of course.’

McNab was finding this hard to believe. ‘There’s plenty at home don’t like us either.’

‘Mostly criminals, I suspect,’ Karen said. ‘Here it’s the innocent.’

‘What chance do we have with the investigation, then?’ Rhona asked.

‘There are good policemen who are trying to make a difference. John Adamu, your liaison officer, is one.’

‘Is a week here long enough?’

‘We’ll do what we can.’ Henry sounded nervous, but determined.

Rhona’s limbs felt like lead as she stood up. The journey and the heat were taking their toll. If she stayed awake long enough to eat, it would be a miracle.

‘We would have offered you dinner,’ the consul said, ‘but unfortunately Karen and I are out on official business tonight. A meal has been booked for you at the hotel. I recommend the Lebanese dishes. They are excellent.’

They strolled across the road to the Prince Hotel.
According to Abdul, the driver had already delivered their luggage and it would be in their rooms. The dust had cleared and above them the night sky was alive with stars. The evening air was scented by cooking fires mixed with dust and oranges – the smell of Africa.

Rhona felt lethargic, as though the rhythm of the dark continent had entered her soul. ‘
Master must learn patience
,’ Henry had told them before they left. ‘You’ll hear that said a lot.’

The Prince Hotel was cool and quiet, an oasis of white walls and greenery. Abdul escorted them to the dining room and helped them order. McNab fancied a beer, but didn’t think it would be allowed under Sharia law. He was wrong. Cold African beer arrived in a large teapot with two china cups, so as not to offend any Muslim guests eating in the restaurant.

It felt like an illicit tea party. The sweet African beer quickly went to Rhona’s head. A fan whirred above them as they ate, while outside a million insects sang.

She was too tired to care what her bedroom looked like, and got the haziest impression of white walls and African print curtains before exhaustion claimed her. The hum of an air conditioner rendered the temperature almost European. Rhona slipped between cool white sheets and was asleep in seconds.

RHONA WOKE NEXT
morning to a room filled with sunlight. A distant splash suggested someone was already up and using the swimming pool. She lay absolutely still, unable to believe she was here in Africa.

She finally rose, switched off the air conditioner and threw open the window. The white patterned security grille was locked and she had to be content with the view it afforded.

The air was clear, with no evidence of yesterday’s harmattan. It smelt hot and damp and pungent. Through the leafy branches of a flame tree she could see the pool, a dark head moving through the blue water. Rhona wondered if it was McNab, but dismissed the thought. She didn’t remember him as a fitness fanatic. Then she recalled how he’d run across the waste ground towards her. He’d got in shape since they were together. He obviously now relied on more than just sex for exercise.

The swimmer was McNab. Rhona watched as he pulled himself from the pool and began to towel dry. He turned, sensing someone watching, and Rhona slipped out of view, feeling foolish and embarrassed at the same time.

She decided against joining him and chose to shower instead. According to the information leaflet, breakfast was served between seven and nine. It was just before seven now.

McNab rang the room phone as she got out of the shower. ‘Breakfast?’

‘I’ll be down in five minutes.’

‘See you in the dining room.’

Rhona noticed the bones as she hung up. They were lying on the bedside table, tucked behind the lamp.

For a second, it was as though she were back in the tiny front garden, with the murdered bodies of the two women in the house behind.

Only now she knew what she was looking at. Now she knew what the fetish meant.

The bones choose their next victim
.

She withdrew her trembling hand from the receiver and willed her shallow breaths into longer, deeper ones. Only when she felt in control, did she take a closer look.

As before, they appeared to be children’s forefinger bones, tied with red thread in the shape of a diagonal cross. Each bone had three striations. There was no mistaking the pattern.

Water from the shower trickled down her body mixing with beads of perspiration. The realisation that she’d slept all night with the cross beside her made her heart take off again. If this was a threat, it was working. It had scared her half to death already. She forced herself into motion. Dried her body. Put on clothes. She had told McNab five minutes. He would come looking if she did not appear.

Once dressed, she fetched her forensic case, donned latex gloves, picked up the cross and dropped it into an evidence bag, taking time to write the place and time on the label.

The phone rang as she finished.

‘Are you coming?’ McNab sounded worried.

‘On my way.’

He was seated at a table by an open French window leading to the pool. He looked up as she entered and Rhona readjusted her expression. She would have to tell him about the bones, but she didn’t want to look frightened when she did it.

She fetched fresh fruit and yoghurt from the buffet table. McNab was already tucking into a cooked breakfast. The big overhead fans were working hard, moving the moist air of the dining room in an effort to cool it. McNab was wearing a khaki shirt and trousers and looked comfortable despite the heat.

‘I spoke to Abdul. He says to walk across when we’ve eaten. He’ll take us to the police station.’

Rhona took a sip of coffee before speaking.

‘I found a set of crossed bones by my bed this morning.’

‘What?’ McNab almost dropped his fork.

Rhona produced the evidence and handed it to him.

He glanced inside the bag and his face blanched. He was interpreting the find just as she had.

‘They weren’t there last night?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered truthfully.

‘You heard nothing during the night?’

‘I don’t think anything would have woken me.’

‘Were there any signs of a break-in?’

‘I haven’t had time to look. We can check the room after breakfast.’

They sat in silence, food now untouched. Rhona assumed they had reached the same conclusion: somebody associated with Stephen’s case knew they were in Kano. That wasn’t surprising since Abdul had already been out asking about Stephen. But whoever knew didn’t like the fact.

‘I don’t like being threatened.’ McNab’s expression was grim.

‘Neither do I.’

When they opened the door, her bedroom had assumed an ominous air.

‘Did you see anything unusual as you undressed for bed?’ asked McNab.

‘I only had the light on briefly,’ she answered.

She ran through the previous night in her mind. Briefly admiring the African print curtains, the snowy walls. Noting the security grille outside the window. Listening for mosquitoes and hearing only the satisfying hum of the air conditioner.

McNab was thorough in his search. Rhona tried not to mind his presence in what was effectively her bedroom, with her clothes, including underwear, scattered about. Her forbearance was rewarded with a partial footprint below the window. A large bare foot had rested briefly on the tiles, leaving its imprint in red harmattan dust.

‘It could have been left by a member of staff,’ McNab suggested.

‘I haven’t seen one with bare feet.’

He nodded in agreement. ‘Even the gardener wears flip-flops. Whoever got in didn’t use the window.’

He echoed her thoughts entirely. McNab had tried hard to open the security grille, to no avail. ‘Let’s hope there isn’t a fire while we’re here,’ he said cynically.

They decided against questioning the management themselves. According to the consul, it was better if Abdul did the talking.

A call for Rhona came through to reception as they were leaving. Her mobile was useless here, as was McNab’s. Henry had promised them handsets that would work in Kano, but there was little chance of reception outside the city. The lack of contact from home was a serious problem.

‘Rhona?’

‘Chrissy! It’s great to hear your voice.’

There was a short silence as though the phone had cut out.

‘Chrissy, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ There was a catch in her throat.

Rhona’s heart sank. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Sam’s disappeared.’

‘What?’

It came tumbling out. ‘He sent me a strange text. It just said, “I’m sorry.” I went round to his flat, because he hadn’t turned up for work at the club. Some of his clothes were in a skip outside. Then –’ she paused and cleared her throat – ‘his DNA was on the Velcro of Stephen’s shoe.’

‘He went to church with Stephen,’ she tried. ‘Maybe he helped him put on his shoe.’

‘Sam told me he’d never met Stephen or Carole.’

Nothing Rhona could think of offered an explanation. ‘Have they searched his flat?’

‘There’s nothing there. It’s as though he never existed.’

‘There must be something,’ Rhona insisted. ‘What about his laptop?’

‘No sign of it. Bill thinks Sam’s left the country. They’re checking the airports.’

‘His mother lives in Kano. We’ll find her. Maybe she knows where he is.’

Sam had disappeared either because he had something to hide, or because someone wanted him out of the way. An image of Malcolm Menzies’s tortured body flashed through Rhona’s mind. Sam guilty or Sam dead? Neither was a prospect she wanted to consider.

‘What if Sam’s involved in this?’ Chrissy voiced her fears.

‘No!’ Rhona was adamant. ‘I don’t believe that.’

When she rang off, McNab was waiting. From his expression it was obvious he had been trying to interpret the one-sided conversation.

‘What don’t you believe?’

Rhona looked at his worried face. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

CHRISSY REPLACED THE
receiver, her hand shaking. Rhona’s words had done little to ease her worries. It was easy enough to say that Sam wasn’t involved, but the evidence pointed to the opposite. She kept remembering things he’d said, things she’d seen. Innocent words and actions began to take on new meaning. His words, ‘I have done nothing wrong.’ And what about the picture of Stephen in the bible? A chill ran down her spine. She thought of the times they had slept in the same bed, how they had made love. It filled her with horror. What if Sam was involved in juju or, worse still, a killer?