Sacrifice Read online

  “Who is?”

  “Pastor Xabi. He came over with the first suspect, another pastor. But this Xabi character disappeared about six weeks ago and hasn’t been seen. The team have checked, and we don’t believe he’s left the country. I reckon he’s still here and perhaps being protected. From what we’ve seen so far, people are shit-scared of Xabi. And he’s nothing more than a butcher back in his home country. He thrives on violence. He’s a hate preacher, and has been responsible for more deaths than we can imagine.”

  Meadows took a deep breath as he tapped the end of his pen on the table. He contemplated his options as he stared at his desk, occasionally glancing in Scott’s direction.

  “As you know, Scott, I’m not in favour of going for press appeal, because I’m concerned about scaring parents. It’s enough for a lot of parents to start panicking that there’s a child murderer roaming the streets.”

  Scott knew Meadows had a point. Any type of press appeal connected to the murder of a child had the potential to escalate into mass hysteria. Most parents would panic. However, on this occasion, Scott could also see the other side of the argument.

  “I understand, Sir. But we’ve got someone who has to be in the Sussex area and more than likely in Brighton. Wouldn’t it make sense to get a press appeal out there? It may bring him out into the open and cause him to make a move that leaves him exposed. My hope is that he gets spotted. Let’s get the public to be our eyes and ears?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause as Meadows rose from his chair and walked around to his window. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and then rocked back and forth on his heels contemplating his options. He turned and nodded towards Scott.

  “Okay, you’ve got it. We’ll set up an appeal for tomorrow morning. I’ll contact our press officer and get the ball rolling. I need to warn you, Scott,” Meadows added jabbing his pen in Scott’s direction. “It’s a tinderbox on the Whitehawk. There are cases of racism, rocks being thrown at windows, late-night intimidation of the minorities who live there. We need to be extra vigilant that the racial tensions don’t escalate.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Go and see what this other pastor has to say, and let me know,” Meadows added, flicking his head in the direction of the door.

  21

  Pastor Mabunda sat stony-faced as Mike and Scott entered interview room one. He showed neither fear nor dread as the officers took their seats opposite him. They’d waited until a duty solicitor was available.

  On this occasion, a female legal representative sat perched on the end of her chair, with her fingers entwined and resting on the desk. Scott figured she couldn’t have been older than her late twenties, and exuded an air of keenness and energy that appeared missing in the older solicitors. In his opinion, the profession, the rules, regulations, complexity of cases, and sheer long hours took their toll. The older they got, the more tired looking they appeared to be as they trudged in, accompanying their clients.

  Scott opened, having waited a few minutes whilst he sifted through his paperwork. It was a psychological tactic he liked to use in his interviews. He’d built up the style through years of policing experience and exploring human patterns of behaviour. The psychological manipulation, as he called it, began before he even opened his mouth.

  The physical layout of an interview room was designed to maximise a suspect’s discomfort and sense of powerlessness, from the moment he or she stepped inside the room.

  Four chairs, a desk, a CCTV camera mounted in the ceiling and nothing on the walls. The room created a sense of exposure, unfamiliarity, and isolation, which heightened the suspect’s “get me out of here” sensation throughout the interview.

  “Pastor Mabunda, we’re here investigating the disappearance of another young boy, Nathi Buhari. Have you seen him?”

  Mike and Scott had decided prior to entering the room, to hold back regarding the discovery of another body.

  Mabunda glanced towards the solicitor who gave him the smallest of nods. “No.”

  “But you know of him?”

  “Of course,” he said, nodding once. “He came to my Sunday school.”

  “So you can confirm that Nathi has been in your apartment.”

  “Yes.”

  “Once, or many times?” Scott probed.

  “Many times. Over a few months.”

  Mike took notes as he leant back in his chair. His large stomach stretched his shirt buttons.

  Scott cut straight to the point. “Where is Pastor Xabi?”

  Mabunda’s eyes flickered for a moment as they looked up to the left, before narrowing to focus on Scott with suspicion.

  “I don’t know.”

  Liar.

  “You see, we have information to suggest that you and Xabi have been exploiting your positions, to gain the trust of the families and their children. What do you say to that?”

  Mabunda checked with his solicitor once again, who shook her head. “No comment.”

  “Do you know what muti killings are, Pastor Mabunda?”

  “No comment.”

  “Here’s my theory. I believe that you gained the trust of young children, used the Sunday school as a front to build that trust, and then introduced them to Xabi. We have four children still missing, one dead and I believe that you’re an accessory to the abduction and murder of Michael Chauke. What do you say in reply to that?”

  Mabunda stiffened this time but refused to budge.

  Scott’s continued questions around muti, Michael’s death, child offerings, and Xabi’s whereabouts were met with a series of well prepared, “No comments.”

  For the time being Mabunda couldn’t be held in custody without further evidence. He was released pending further investigation.

  “Where do we go from here, Guv?” Mike asked as they headed back to CID. “We’ve got DNA to prove that kids have been in his apartment. But the Buharis are unwilling to make a formal statement, so that will not stand up in court, even if Mabunda is an accessory to the abduction and murder of Michael.”

  “We keep digging, Mike. We keep digging. Someone will slip up, if we keep applying pressure. Mabunda knows we’re watching him, and if he knows where Xabi is, he’ll try to warn him. That might flush Xabi into the open.”

  The team gathered around the incident board. Following the release of Mabunda, the team shifted focus to identifying the whereabouts of Xabi. With a press appeal scheduled for tomorrow morning, hopes were high that the hunt for Xabi would be expedited.

  “Guv, forensics came back following further analysis of Michael’s blood. They found…” Raj attempted to repeat the name of the compound identified. “Griffonia simplicifolia.”

  Scott cycled his hand to speed up the feedback.

  Raj read the formal findings. “Griffonia simplicifolia is a climbing shrub that grows in West Africa and Central Africa. It’s a source of the compound 5-HTP, which works with the calming, anxiety-reducing neurotransmitter serotonin, and the sleep-inducing hormone melatonin. The seed pods from the shrub are sometimes made into a supplement and used as a natural sleep aid.”

  “So can we assume that this compound was used to drug Michael and sedate him?”

  “Sounds like it, Guv.”

  “Abby and I went over to the Whitehawk, in what turned out to be a futile attempt to get some of the families to talk to us. Some wouldn’t open their doors, and others just shook their heads and played dumb. They are either too terrified of us, or Xabi.”

  “Or both,” Mike offered.

  Scott had to agree. As far as the families were concerned, everyone seemed out to get them.

  “I did more digging around with community groups and churches and got somewhere. A whilst back, the families all met at a small community hall, but that was some time ago. It might be worth exploring, Guv? The support group worker I spoke to said that a pastor used to run the group. Then it just stopped about seven weeks ago.”

  “Have you got contact details for the community hall,
Mike?”

  Mike handed him the slip of paper with all the details on it.

  “Abby and I will pay the hall a visit. In the meantime, Helen, what’s happening with reviewing the CCTV footage near the pier?”

  “I’m looking at it, Guv, so is the Brighton CCTV control room. But it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s so busy. Locals, tourists, children’s parties on a day out. It’s just a sea of people. We’re narrowing down the time slot hoping to find something.”

  “See if you can nab a uniform or two to help you. We need a picture now.”

  Whitecross community hall was on the northernmost boundary of the Whitehawk estate. Buried amongst a small complex of non-descript brown council blocks, it was dwarfed by its eight- and nine-storey neighbours. Built over ten years ago, the council offered it as a focal point for the local community. It had seen its fair share of weddings, birthday parties, community meetings, and wakes.

  The caretaker and council had endeavoured to keep the place clean and tidy, but the remoteness of the hall and its proximity to its neighbours, meant that it saw more activity at night than during the day. The caretaker would do his morning round, a litter picker in one hand, and a black bin liner in the other. Discarded beer cans, Rizla papers, silver laughing gas canisters, and needles were picked up every morning.

  “Surely, if you put in a community hall somewhere, you put it in the middle of the community, not the bloody outskirts,” Abby said in bewilderment as she stepped out of the car. “Who will want to traipse all this way, on a winter’s night when it’s dark by five o’clock?”

  Scott agreed. It might explain why the hall was turning into a ghost town. With youths on bicycles and mopeds, robbing and attacking the elderly for the few pounds that they held in their wallets and purses, it was enough to make most people avoid venturing this far.

  They were here to see Barry Johnson, the forty-nine-year-old caretaker who had spoken to Mike. As they approached the front of the building, Scott found a man sweeping away dust and debris that had gathered during the day. “Barry Johnson?”

  The man stopped, and held his broom by his side. “Yes, that’s me,” he replied in a rough, gritty voice. Many years of smoking had left him with a hoarse throat. He licked his dry lips as he eyed up the two officers.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Baker, and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Trent, we are from Brighton CID,” he said presenting their warrant cards.

  He wasn’t the fittest of looking men in Scott’s eyes. No more than about five feet seven inches tall, his navy, tight polo shirt stretched around his protruding belly. Faded, ill-fitting jeans hung to his waist, exposing what Scott always referred to as a builder’s bottom. Several days of stubble made the man look untidy and unfit. Scott imagined that he was a type of man who enjoyed going down to the pub most nights for several pints and a packet of crisps. He’d probably dined on cheap microwave meals or a pie and chips from the local chippy.

  Scott could see the displeasure etched on Abby’s face. If there’s one thing that she hated more than anything else, it was dirty, unkempt people and their habits. With her OCD about cleanliness and tidiness, she would no doubt prefer to shoot herself in the foot than shake the man’s hand.

  “We wanted to ask you a few questions about a community group that used to hold meetings here. In particular, asylum seekers housed in the community. What can you tell us about it?”

  Johnson scratched his head and narrowed his eyes as if trying to recall from memory. “That’s right. There used to be a regular once a week thing where a whole load of those asylum seekers used to turn up. They used to sit and chat for hours. Occasionally, you would get a member of the council turning up to answer questions they had. To be honest, they all spoke a funny language, so I didn’t have a fucking clue what they were on about.”

  “Was there any bother here, any trouble of any sorts?” Scott asked.

  Johnson shook his head. “No, not really. Lots of tears mind you. You’d always get at least one woman every week moaning and crying. In fact it wasn’t even crying, screaming would be a better way of describing it.”

  A bus drowned out Scott’s next question. They watched it pass before he repeated himself. “Did they organise these meetings themselves? Or did someone else organise them?”

  “No. It was organised by some priest bloke. He was the one who called and confirmed the booking each week. He’d be here to chat to them all. They would bring their kids, and the little brats would just be running riot.”

  “And did this priest bloke have a name?” Scott asked pulling his shoulders back to relieve a niggling ache in his back.

  The question caused Johnson to reflect and look away. His lips moved as if he was talking to himself. Searching deep into his memory, his eyes sharpened as he grasped the name. “Mab, Maby…or something like that.”

  Scott and Abby exchanged a glance. “You can’t be more precise than that?” he asked.

  Abbey held out a picture. “Have you seen this man before?”

  Johnson stabbed the picture several times with his index finger. “That’s the fella. Maby something.”

  “You told my colleague that the meeting group was shut down. How did that happen?”

  Johnson rubbed his stubbly chin, the noise rasping in the air. “Well, it ended suddenly, if you know what I mean. One minute it was on, and the next minute I get a call saying that the community group wasn’t allowed to meet here any more.”

  Scott looked perplexed as he pursed his lips. “Who was the call from?”

  Johnson shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t remember, to be honest, since it was a whilst ago. All I remember was that it was a posh bloke calling from the council to say that the group wasn’t allowed to meet there any more. The meetings had to end with immediate effect. He went on to say that failure to comply would mean that the community hall would be shut down. So, who am I to argue? It’s owned by the council, anyway. I just do what they say.”

  22

  The darkness of the woods enveloped him, offering protection from the outside world. On this occasion, he had parked the vehicle some distance away, and had approached the dense woodland from a different direction.

  He knew that repeating the same patterns attracted attention. In the darkness of night, his shadowy figure blended into the blackness. Cloud cover this evening assisted him. Without the illumination of the moon, he could move between the trees unnoticed. He stopped occasionally and listened. He needed to be sure that he wasn’t followed. Having taken this path several times, and despite the blackness of the night, he moved swiftly. An occasional rustling of the leaves caused him to pause.

  The path twisted and turned as he was led through corridors of trees that disappeared into the gloom until he reached a familiar bend. He darted off to his right, dipping below low-hanging branches, careful to avoid leaving traces of his visit. The track opened out into a clearing where up ahead the familiar outline of the wire fence posts came into view. He paused by the edge and waited.

  He didn’t rush, convinced he could take his time. Once assured he hadn’t been followed, he proceeded towards the shed.

  The familiar click of the padlock sounded loud enough to be heard some distance away. Once inside, he lit a small candle in one corner to provide some illumination. He had travelled light, with just his roll of tools and a large sports bag that contained his next victim.

  One by one, he lit the circle of candles. As each one glowed, burning bright, the room warmed with a reassuring orange luminosity. The still air provided the ideal backdrop for the flickering flames. They stayed steady and bright, enough to relieve the darkness of the room, but not enough to read by. The arcs of brilliant gold in the blackness of the night left him mesmerised. It was magical, mystical, and empowering.

  He scattered flowers and the bundled herbs within the sacred circle before proceeding to open a Tupperware box. Having removed the chicken’s claw and cat’s foot, he placed them eithe
r side of his sacrificial bowl. He glanced around to ensure that he had set out everything the way he had been taught. The instructions were precise, the demands specific.

  Rolling out his tool bag, he’d decided that an eight-inch, sharp, steel knife with a razor tip point would suit the purpose today.

  With the A-frame in position, he strung her up by the legs and pulled on the rope until she swung. The squeaking sound of the pulley barely audible as the screams echoed through the small shed. Using the knife, he slipped the point in as deep as he could at the neck, cutting the jugular. The silence was restored as she bled out, her life extinguished in an instance. She’d suffer little pain.

  “Amandla avela empilweni entsha,” he recited as euphoria coursed through his veins. His heart pounded like a bass drum in his chest.

  On this occasion, he needed to skin her first rather than gut her. Gutting her first carried the risk of staining the skin. He knew the skin would prove useful on other occasions.

  With a smaller knife in hand, he pulled and teased the skin away from the muscle. Bit by bit, he slipped the knife in, teasing the skin away and moving across the body.

  He rolled the skin down her body like a stocking on a lady’s leg, all loose and flaccid. With her skin stored in a plastic container, his next task was to fillet her. Innards slid out and landed with a plopping sound on the floor. The warmth of the body cavity warmed his hand. The hot, sticking matter clung to his skin making it hard to grab the heart. Each time he tried, it would slip from his fingers.

  Several attempts later, her small red heart sat in the palm of his hand. He marvelled at its structure, and its potency for life. The most precious of a gift to offer the gods.

  Within thirty minutes, he’d sacrificed, skinned, and gutted her. He breathed a sigh of relief as he stood. They would be pleased with the result. He was sure of that as he cleaned up.