Dark Flight (6 page)

‘Are there any calls between you and your wife on that phone?’

Devlin thought for a moment. ‘I talked to Carole briefly after she arrived in the UK.’

‘Make your call, then I’d like our technical boys to take a look at your phone, if that’s all right?’

Devlin looked perturbed, then nodded. ‘Of course, if you think it will help.’

The ring of Bill’s own phone broke the moment. It was Janice, her voice trembling with shock.

‘They’ve found the body of a boy.’

Bill turned away from Devlin and kept his voice low. ‘Stephen?’

‘We don’t know, sir. But the boy is black.’

Bill swore under his breath.

‘Okay, Janice. Give me directions.’ He listened carefully, then hung up, preparing his face and accompanying lie for John Devlin. There was no use telling him about the body until they were sure it was Stephen’s.

But when Bill turned, the waiting room was empty. Devlin had disappeared. Bill checked the washroom first then ran outside. The car park was bare apart from
his own vehicle and two others, one he recognised as Dr Sissons’s. The blue Vauxhall Corsa had gone.

Bill cursed again.

What an idiot. Thirty years in the force and he let Devlin fool him with his posh accent and studied calm. He radioed in and put out a description of Devlin and the car.

The body had been spotted floating at the mouth of the Kelvin. A man had called the Humane Society at their base in Glasgow Green. Their boat, used to picking up suicides and drownings in the Clyde estuary, had radioed the Police Boat, which had provided the high-profile policing on the river since April 2003. Staffed by a sergeant and seven specially trained constables it had plenty of work. The River Clyde was at the heart of 650 square miles of west of Scotland inland waterway.

Bill called Rhona and asked her to meet him there. He suspected, when she picked up, that she had hoped the call would be good news. He was sorry to dash her hopes.

‘You think it’s Stephen?’

‘It’s a black kid. That’s all Janice could tell me.’

‘Does Devlin know?’

Bill related the incident in the mortuary and Devlin’s sudden disappearance.

‘He was shocked when he learned the truth,’ Rhona suggested.

‘Or he didn’t want me to have his phone.’

‘Taking photos of your wife isn’t a crime, even if she’s dead.’

‘It’s not just that. There’s something weird about Devlin’s reaction to all this. Particularly to the kid missing. It was as though he didn’t care.’

‘Remember, he came to you. Would he have done that if he’d killed his wife?’

Probably not, but then murderers often offered help to get close to the investigation.

The Clydeside Expressway was nose to tail with lunchtime traffic. Distracted by his thoughts, Bill shot past his exit and had to double back. As a result Rhona got there before him.

BY THE TIME
Rhona arrived, the body had been dragged ashore. Josh Baird, the man who’d spotted it in the water, had taken it for one of the recently returned seals, with its head missing. He’d been shocked when he learned the truth.

McNab had an incident tent erected as near to the bank of the Kelvin as was sensible, given the tidal nature of the river. The slippery surface squelched under Rhona’s feet, the smell a pungent mix of decaying vegetation and river silt. She was grateful for the wellies she always kept in the boot of the car.

This same tributary flowed below her laboratory window. She had stood on many of the numerous bridges that criss-crossed it, weaving a path through the famous Kelvingrove Park. This was the first time she had seen where it eventually ended, swallowed up in its greater cousin, the River Clyde.

An inner and outer cordon had been secured around the incident tent, a constable on the outer cordon logging everyone coming in and out of the crime scene.

Rhona signed in and approached the tent, hoping Bill was already there; but the tent was empty apart from McNab.

When he saw her, his stern expression didn’t change, although the way he said her name irritated her. ‘Dr MacLeod.’

‘Where is it?’

He stood to one side, revealing the object on a metal table. A shock wave ran through Rhona. She had expected horror, but not this.

The small black naked corpse was limbless and headless, just as Josh had suggested. She stepped closer, drawn by disbelief.

The legs had been sawn off at the top of each femur; the arms at the upper humerus. The head had been parted from the body cleanly, perhaps with one stroke. Rhona examined the genital area. The torso was male although the genitalia had also been sliced off.

The final mutilation was a diagonal cross carved in the centre of the small thin chest.

Rhona did a quick mental calculation. The skin had whitened and was heavily puckered. Such a degree of maceration meant the torso could have been in the water between twelve hours and three days. Which meant it could be Stephen.

She let the thought wash over her that all the time they’d hoped, searched and prayed for the little boy, he was already dead and in the water.

The torso showed no sign of hypostasis. No blood had followed the law of gravity and sunk to the blood vessels in the lower part of the body. There were no livid patches so no blood had coagulated. The boy’s blood, she realised with horror, had been drained from his body, prior to his immersion in the river.

McNab handed her an evidence bag. Inside was a pair of blue boxer shorts. ‘He was wearing these when we pulled him in.’

‘That’s it?’ she asked.

‘That’s it.’

If the torso turned out not to be Stephen, then a pair of shorts might help them identify the kid, but it was a long shot. And as far as she knew there had been no reports of a missing black boy, apart from Stephen. Scotland didn’t have a large black population, but it was easy enough to travel across the border from England.

‘You think it’s Stephen Devlin?’ McNab asked.

‘We’ll know soon enough.’

One thing she could prove was whether this torso was related to Carole Devlin. Rhona had a gut feeling it was not. Maybe it was just a strong desire for it not to be Stephen. She didn’t know. But the feeling was powerful. And if the torso wasn’t Stephen, that meant they had a child murder
and
an abduction to deal with.

McNab hovered close by as she took tissue samples. He’d not given her any cause for concern since his return to active duty, but there was something about this pregnant silence that unnerved her. He had always been chatty before. That’s what she’d first liked about him. When their relationship had moved into the sexual arena, his attitude remained the same. It had somehow led her to believe he felt the same way about their relationship as she did. When she broke it off, his reaction had thrown her completely. The easy chat had turned vitriolic, full of demands and accusations.

When Bill walked in the atmosphere changed. Rhona was so aware of the change, she thought Bill must sense it as well, but he was too focused on the body.

‘Is it Stephen?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

His glance ran the length of the torso, taking in the gaping wounds and the cross cut into the chest. ‘The same symbol.’

‘Looks like it.’

Rhona explained about the blood letting.

Bill looked haggard, dark shadows circling his eyes.

‘Are you okay?’

He didn’t seem to hear.

‘Bill?’

‘What?’

‘You look terrible.’

He made a face at McNab. ‘Always the kind word from Dr MacLeod, eh?’

The twisted smile was meant to reassure Rhona. It didn’t.

He changed the subject. ‘So, how soon before we know if it’s Stephen?’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘In the meantime we keep on looking.’

The school playground was empty. DC Janice Clark glanced at her watch. School was already out. No hum of chat from closed classrooms, no teacher’s voice giving instructions.

Schools were peaceful places without kids. The main door was lying open, but reception was manned by a
woman in her fifties with a no-nonsense air. ‘Can I help you?’

Janice flashed her badge.

The lady took time to study it. No one was going to get past without her okay. ‘You’re here to see Miss Stuart?’

When Janice nodded, the woman indicated an open visitors’ book. ‘Please sign in. Your name and the time. You are also expected to sign out.’

Once Janice had signed, she was buzzed through the electronically controlled door. Schools weren’t the open places of her day. Since Thomas Hamilton had blazed his way through Dunblane Primary in 1996, killing sixteen children and their teacher, the local authorities were pretty stringent about security. Janice’s own memories of doors staying open summer and winter no longer rang true. Then, the kids just thought of getting out of the place at the end of the day. There was no thought of someone wanting to get in.

Miss Stuart’s classroom was three along on the ground level. The door was shut and Janice glanced in the small rectangular window to see the teacher sitting at her desk, a pile of jotters beside her. Marking, the bane of most teachers’ lives. Janice knew all about it. Her big sister was a teacher. Marking, and stroppy kids. The worst in secondary schools, when the hormones started rioting. As far as Janice knew, the rioting had moved steadily downwards and now took place in many primary classrooms.

She knocked on the door and a clear steady voice called, ‘Come in.’

The classroom had been painted bright yellow. One wall held a long mural of an historic battle, ‘Bannock-burn 1314’ blazoned along the top. The combatants were a motley crew. It looked as though the scene had been divided into rectangles and different kids got to draw their own stick-like men. The result was a lot of missing arms and legs, big swords and blood.

Miss Stuart studied Janice’s badge of office and pointed to a seat across the desk from her.

‘I heard on the news. It’s terrible.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a paper hanky. Janice gave her time to blow her nose.

‘How well do you know Stephen?’

‘Not well at all. He only arrived in school a month ago.’

‘Does he ever speak of his father?’

‘No, but . . .’ Miss Stuart rifled through the jotters on her desk. ‘This is Stephen’s news jotter. The children write a bit each day. He’s only six so there’s more drawings than words. And he often uses Nigerian words when he isn’t sure of the English. I don’t know if he spells them correctly.’ She looked apologetic, as though teachers were supposed to know everything.

Janice pulled the open jotter towards her and flipped through the pages. Most were headed with the day of the week and a date in big circular letters. There were coloured drawings of the weather, a bus and one of an orange underground train.

‘He likes Glasgow underground,’ Miss Stuart explained with a smile.

Janice stopped at a picture of a wide muddy-coloured river, with high banks.
Rua
was written below.

‘I think
rua
means water, or river, in Hausa. That’s the language he sometimes uses. There’s a drawing of a man on the next page.’

The figure was tall and stately. Broad but not fat. He was wearing a suit and a blue tie. There was a thick, angry pencilled cross drawn through his face.

If this was Stephen’s father, he didn’t like him very much.

‘May I take this with me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Where does Stephen sit?’

Miss Stuart pointed to a desk in the second front row.

‘And friends? Who sits beside him? Plays with him?’

‘Stephen doesn’t have a particular friend. He likes playing by himself.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Although he does chat to Yana on occasion.’

‘Yana?’

‘She’s black too.’ She looked embarrassed to use the word. ‘Her father works at Glasgow University.’

‘It might help to speak to Yana.’

Miss Stuart opened her register and wrote an address on a slip of paper. ‘I will call Dr Olatunde and tell him I’ve given you his contact details, if that’s all right?’

‘Of course.’ Janice nodded her understanding.

‘There’s one other thing . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘Stephen is afraid of the dark. Very afraid. Something happened to make him that way.’

‘He told you that?’

She shook her head. ‘No. His mother did.’

‘And she never mentioned a Mr Devlin?’

‘No. And I never asked,’ she said firmly.

Single parents were apparently a common occurrence for Miss Stuart.

‘Did Carole Devlin give the impression she was afraid of something or someone?’

‘No. She seemed calm and well organised. If she was fearful it was for her son. She worried whether the other children would be mean to him because of his colour.’

‘And are they?’

‘Not in my presence,’ she retorted angrily.

As Janice left, the teacher went back to her marking. Overtime in teaching wasn’t paid for. A bit like CID.

The corridor smelt of disinfectant. Janice breathed it in. For a moment, she was a school kid again and it was just as scary now as it had been then.

CAROLE DEVLIN’S FLAT
was as neat and tidy as a hotel bedroom and just as impersonal. Bill watched as a team went carefully through her meagre belongings. It looked as though Carole had come here with nothing and had amassed nothing while here. Two suitcases in a hall cupboard. Minimal clothes in the wardrobes and drawers. The kitchen had enough food for a couple of meals. Plenty of cornflakes and milk suggested Stephen was a cereal fan. The flat was a private rent. He’d already spoken to the owner, a Mr Fisher, who lived above. He was elderly, deaf and very pleasant. He didn’t like renting to students, he’d told Bill. He could hear their music even when he turned his hearing aid down.

Mrs Devlin and the boy were quiet. She paid two months in advance and had taken the flat for six months initially. She brought him his milk and paper when she went to the shops. In fact she was a perfect tenant. His rheumy eyes betrayed his distress at her demise.

‘What about Stephen?’ he asked, his voice shaking.