Dark Flight (30 page)

Rhona felt a sharp jab of pain in her foot. She trod water for a moment, feeling gingerly with her hands and feet, trying to judge how far she could swim into the tangle of branches. A loud plopping sound beside her told her she had disturbed something big, causing it to surface.

There was a shout from the shore. Then the light swung over the water. Rhona took a gulp of air and sank.

Her eyes were open, yet she could see nothing. The water lapped over her head. Her shirt billowed in
descent, snagging on a twig. She struggled, panic-stricken, imagining herself trapped for ever in this watery coffin. The twig snapped, freeing her. She rose against her will, broke the surface and gasped for air.

The motor boat was inching towards her, the head-lamp slowly turning this way and that, searching.

Rhona filled her lungs and sank again.

She had no idea how many times she did that. Up for air briefly, then down again. The men were frustrated and angry. She heard the rapid Hausa, sometimes English, as they called for her across the water. Eventually the motor boat gave up and headed for shore.

She waited until she was sure, before she dared leave her thorny refuge. Then she trod water, wondering which way to swim, her limbs heavy, her muscles aching from tension and exhaustion.

Could she reach the shore or should she return to the bungalow, safe now in the knowledge that they thought her gone?

She had no idea how long she had been swimming. Her world had turned into the swish of water, the plop of fish, the moon on the surface of the lake, the ever-distant lights. If she ceased her stroke she knew she would sink like a stone. At first she counted using Hausa numbers to keep her awake.
D’aya, biyu, uku, hud’u, biyar, shida, bakwai, takwas, tara, goma
. She only knew up to ten and repeated them endlessly until she remembered them too easily, and started to nod off. She switched to Gaelic, then French.

She was in her fourth group of ten in French when her hand hit the side of a dugout canoe.

The panic she caused the occupant was almost as bad as her own. The night fisherman dropped his net mid-cast, startled out of his wits. He grabbed for his paddle.

Rhona clung desperately to the side, her body exhausted, her sodden clothes dragging her downwards.

‘
Don Allah
,’ she shouted. ‘Please, God. Help me.’

The compound consisted of two roundhouses, a grain store sitting on misshapen wooden stilts nearby.

Her rescuer, who said his name was Joshua, brought her to a central fire, kept alive and banked up overnight. Rhona was shivering now, in rapid juddering waves. He gave her a blanket that smelt of dust and smoke. She wrapped it around her and huddled close to the glow.

At a shout from Joshua, two women appeared from one of the houses. One was elderly and walked with a pronounced limp. The other was a young woman, a baby suckling one breast.

From the door of the roundhouse, three sets of eyes stared at Rhona with more curiosity than fear.

Joshua had displayed some knowledge of English in the boat as he paddled her to shore. Rhona had tried to explain that her boat had sunk in the lake. He’d accepted this without question and did not ask why she was alone.

The younger woman put some water to boil in a black kettle over the fire. When it began to simmer, she threw
in a pinch of tea from a leather pouch at her waist. The result was a hot sweet concoction of boiled tea, goat’s milk and lots of sugar, which tasted delicious. Rhona drank it all down and was offered another.

When she tried – with her few words of Hausa and his halting English – to explain that she needed to get to Kano, Joshua looked baffled. He understood the urgency of her request from her tone, but how was she to get there? He only had his canoe.

‘
Baturi
?’ she asked. ‘Are there any
Baturi
?’

Joshua nodded, understanding.

‘Yes –
Baturi
houses, lake. We go?’ he said, pointing back towards the island.

She had no way of telling him that she wanted to know about houses on the shore of the mainland, and the thought of being transported back to where she had come from was too much to bear.

She fell asleep at the fire, the hum of a motor boat engine punctuating her dreams, transforming them into nightmares. When she woke, it was still dark, the night lit only by a white moon and surrounding stars. The fire had burnt to a glow and its lingering smoke hung in the air, mingling with the mist that clouded the lake.

Joshua and his family were nowhere to be seen. She had grown used to the rustlings and mutterings of the family and the silence of the compound was unnatural.

Rhona tried to stand, her body stiff with exhaustion.

‘Joshua!’

She let the blanket fall. The air was warm and sultry, yet she shivered as though drenched in cold water.

‘Joshua!’ she called again, willing him to walk into the fire circle or emerge from a roundhouse.

The figure that did appear, came from the direction of the rocks behind. At first alone, then followed by two men.

He was dressed like a
Baturi
, but moved with the graceful ease of an African. As he drew closer, Rhona saw the three tribal scars scored across each cheek.

The two men behind were halted in their approach by his raised hand. The scarred man stood still, taking time to appraise Rhona. His glance passed from her feet upwards, paused briefly at her breasts, then rose more slowly until his eyes met hers. Rhona was trans-fixed like a small mammal waiting for a snake to strike.

Her instinct was to break that locked gaze, yet she could not. Both fear and fascination kept her eyes on his. This was the man who terrified Stephen so much he drew pictures of him and scribbled them out. This was the man who had made Carole run across continents to escape him. This was the man responsible for her mutilation and death.

The words were gently spoken, his English perfect, with no hint of his African origin.

‘You are far from home, Dr MacLeod.’

The words were gently said, but unmistakable in interpretation. She was far from home. Alone and helpless in an alien culture. He could do with her as he liked.

‘The British consul will find me.’

‘I will make sure of that,’ he said.

STEPHEN SMELT THE
heat and dust and knew he was nearly home. The terror he’d felt on the long journey by van then plane had been eased by the man with him. The man called Sam he’d seen in church. Sam had told him everything would be all right.

‘Your mother asked me to help you.’

‘My mum’s dead.’

Sam had held his hand then and let him cry.

‘Your mum’s in heaven, watching over you.’

Sam was his friend. He had taken him from that terrible dark place, washed and dressed him in clean clothes and told him he was going to take him home. That it was what his mum would have wanted.

Stephen told Sam about Boniface. About his red velvet spiders that came with the rain. They sang Stephen’s favourite song as Sam drove.

Give me courage when the world is rough,
Keep me loving though the world is tough;
Leap and sing in all I do,
Keep me travelling along with you
.

When they reached the airport Sam explained that Stephen was to be his
yaronsa
, his boy. He was to be
called Stephen Haruna. That way he would be allowed to go home.

The plane was small with a big red S on the side. It was a private jet. A friend of his mother had sent it from Kano, Sam told him. They would fly over the desert. Maybe see a camel train trekking towards Kano. Had he ever been to the camel market in Kano?

They never talked about HIM or the man Stephen had seen bent over his dead mother. He was safe now, Sam said, and Stephen believed him.

PRINCE KABIRU SULEIMAN
greeted the arrival of police officers at his home in the West End with bemused indifference. The pleasant surroundings of the town house were in stark contrast to the city mortuary, where Bill had seen him last.

‘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.

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.