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  Scott leant back in his chair. “I just can’t comprehend how there’s no thorough investigations.”

  “You’re not kidding. Despite South Africa being the most developed African economy, Inspector, a large proportion of its population still believe power, wealth, and health are better guaranteed by witch doctors, than stockbrokers, market analysts, and medical doctors.”

  Scott nodded as he listened intently. Simon opened up a world he never knew existed. The closest he’d come to this was watching Baron Samedi as the voodoo spirit of darkness and death in the James Bond movie Live and Let Die.

  “Muti has two purposes, either medicinal or for luck and power. What you need to determine is which one is the motivating factor for your case? Has anyone come over here seeking medical help, or are there African businessmen in Sussex looking to build or grow businesses?”

  Scott shrugged not knowing the answer to either suggestion. His mind wandered as he crunched the sizeable task ahead. Until this point, Scott hadn’t taken much notice of Simon’s room. Adorning the walls were various African tribal prints and a dark wooden tribal mask that appeared to be too thin and long to fit a face. A bookshelf in one corner held more books than it had been designed for, the majority Scott could see related to African culture and history.

  Simon reached behind his chair and grabbed a lever arch folder. He flicked through until he found what he needed. “The fact is, Inspector, that people who want to do better, people who want to be promoted at work, gamblers and politicians who want to win and even bank robbers who seek to get away with crime, turn to muti back at home.”

  “It has that much of an influence?” Scott asked, a heavy accent of surprise in his tone.

  Simon nodded enthusiastically. “The nature of what body parts have been dismembered plays a key role. How the body parts are used varies according to what one wants to achieve. So, for example, the victim's body parts, and sometimes the contents of the victim’s skull, are used as ingredients for ridiculous and outrageous get-rich-quick concoctions that are eaten, drunk, or smeared over the ambitious person who’s requested help.”

  “That’s crazy,” Scott said, incredulous. He couldn’t even fathom that rational human beings considered these heinous acts effective.

  “And it’s not just kids. It’s weird, Inspector. Various body parts are used for different purposes.” Simon referred to some notes in his folder. “I know of one case where a man who had difficulty fathering children, killed a father of several children and used the victim’s genitals for muti purposes. In another case, a butcher slapped each of his products with a severed human hand every morning before opening without fail. Why? Because he saw it as a way of invoking the spirits to bring customers to his shop.”

  “So, it could be someone trying to bring luck?” Scott asked.

  Simon nodded and raised a brow. “It’s possible. It just so happens that children are targeted because it is believed that virgins hold greater power, and that magical powers are awakened by their scream as they meet their premature death.” Simon paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I see it as symbolic logic. This is the idea that another person’s dick will cure one of impotence, or that a perpetrator’s far-sightedness will be strengthened by gouging out and eating the victim’s eyeballs. Even blood is thought to increase vitality, so they guzzled that down too.”

  “So our first victim was beheaded and had his arms and heart removed. So if we’re working on what you suggested earlier, the head was removed in relation to someone’s desire to be ambitious…possibly?”

  Simon nodded as he glanced at his notes. “The heart may have been removed because it represents life and longevity. It’s what gives people power. So again, someone wanting to dominate and be powerful may have asked for this ritual. The arms or hands can be buried under the door of a shop or business. It’s believed that these would bring customers to the premises, making the owner wealthy.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t really see at all. In all his years of being a detective, he thought he’d seen and heard it all. This shit leapfrogged over every other sadistic act he’d ever encountered.

  “Of course, Inspector, we need to consider medicinal muti killings too. In Africa, particularly South Africa, medicine is manufactured using traditional means. And I use the term traditional loosely. Healers, or witch doctors, grind up human body parts and mix them with roots, herbs, seawater, and animal body parts to prepare potions and spells for their clients. The resulting medicine can be rubbed on the skin, into open wounds, or ingested as per the witch doctor’s instructions. So, you may wish to look into anyone from the community who’s unwell, or ill.”

  Confusion crept into Scott’s brain. He had gathered more than enough information, and had certainly opened his mind as to potential motives for Michael’s killing and the potential abduction of a second child. “Just one final question, Simon. Do they have any special tools and instruments that they use?”

  Simon shook his head. “Not particularly. They can use anything from sharp kitchen knives, through to machetes, shards of glass and even an axe. I do recall one particular case where the perpetrator had been arrested with what the police called a medical bag containing a woman’s placenta, the severed head of a cat, and chicken skin. All paraphernalia that could be used as part of a ritual process.”

  17

  Back in the shed once again, the man prepared to hone his skills. The past few weeks had allowed him to experiment and practise the exact techniques he’d been taught. Each opportunity had filled him with fascination, with excitement and ecstasy.

  One by one, he took his time to place each candle in a large circle. From the bag of chicken feathers, he placed two feathers at chosen intervals around the circle. Taking the large plastic tub from one corner, he lifted out one of his prized possessions, a dog’s skull. He had enjoyed stripping the skin and flesh to reveal the white bone structure beneath. He placed it at the top end of the circle furthest away. Lighting each candle, the darkest corners of the shed glowed. Mystical shadows from the flames danced across the walls.

  He finally emptied the crushed herbs from a smaller container and placed them on one side and unrolled his toolkit. Gleaming steel blades reflected in the candlelight. He traced his forefinger across the flat edge of one knife. Beautifully crafted tools. Perfect killing machines, which had the strength to cut through the thickest flesh, tendons, and cartilage. A large eighteen-inch machete felt heavy in his hand as he lifted it just a few inches to judge its balance.

  Dazed and tired, the boy looked around the shed that had been his home and prison. With just a blanket to sleep on, he had shivered in those moments of lucid awareness. Awake now, the effects of his medicine eased.

  He’d been held here for a few days. Fraught with worry, his parents had remained silent for fear of retribution and angering the gods. He glanced around the shed and wrapped his arms around his naked body. Shivers of fear or cold, he wasn’t sure which, raced down his spine and through his limbs. His eyes were dark and empty, resigned to what his mind and body feared. Unable to move, his body felt weak and fragile from dehydration and little food. He’d devoured the handful of nuts and raisins his captor had just given him. Sadly, it wasn’t enough to fend off the hunger demons that roared from within.

  The man lifted the frail boy and placed him in the circle of flames. His small head flicked from side to side. The first signs of fear erupted in his wide eyes as he felt the heat from the flames lick his body. The man stroked the boy’s head and offered him the smallest of smiles for reassurance as he pushed the boy back on to the floor. The boy wriggled as the man rested his forearm on the little boy’s chest to pin him to the ground.

  Terror poured from the little boy’s eyes as he screamed at the sight of a shimmering blade looming closer to his face. The harder he struggled, the tighter his chest felt as the man pushed harder. The little boy’s arms and legs flailed, his heels scraped across the floor attempting to gain some lev
erage.

  His high-pitched, terrifying screams echoed off the walls as his agony lasted a few brief seconds. His eyes flickered close as the rasping sound of a gurgle emanated from his severed throat. The metallic, sickly sweet smell of the boy’s blood filled the room.

  “Amandla avela empilweni entsha,” he chanted. He had practised those words over and over to ensure that when the time came, he would be able to say them without stuttering.

  His mind swirled, his brow glistened, and his heart raced as it pounded on his chest. He could hear his pulse beating in his ears as he sat back on his heels. Time was of the essence, he needed to work fast now as he severed the boy’s head. He lifted it with both hands aloft and chanted once again before storing it in a clear plastic container. Pushing that one aside, he got to work removing the other body parts as requested.

  Sweat from the man’s brow crept into his eyes. He blinked to fight off the stinging sensation. He knew he was being judged. How he delivered this ceremony would determine whether he would be trusted to conduct one alone. He glanced over his shoulder, a nod from the observer confirmed that he had delivered what was expected.

  Happy with the endorsement, he turned to continue his work.

  18

  Scott’s gamble of applying pressure on Dolores Carter paid off. He arrived the next morning to find her sitting in the station reception with Sizani and Musa Buhari. The three were ushered into a private interview room where they were joined by Abby, whilst they waited for Scott to arrive.

  Scott came in armed with his notepad, to find Dolores sitting to the left of Sizani, holding her hand. Musa sat to his wife’s right, holding her other hand. He pulled out a chair to join Abby on the other side of the table, whilst observing Sizani and Musa. Fear and suspicion were etched in their worried eyes. Sizani appeared to have been crying for some time, her eyes puffy and small. Musa sat tight-lipped, his jawbone tense as nerves and frustration racked his body.

  The silence in the room stifled the atmosphere. The grey bland walls matched the sombre mood. Abby did the introductions for the benefit of the tape, introducing all those present, and providing the caution.

  Scott moved his attention away from the parents and towards Dolores who smiled softly. “Dolores, I understand my colleague Abby spoke to you yesterday. As a result of the conversation, you’ve been able to find out some information that could help us with our investigation. Is that correct?”

  Dolores nodded once. “I spoke to a few families last night. The majority are just too frightened to say anything. You have to understand, Inspector. They are thousands of miles away from their homes. They’ve fled persecution, torture, famine, and war to get a better life for them and their children. It stands to reason that they are cautious of everyone. But Musa told me something yesterday which I need you to hear.” She turned towards Musa and gave him a nod.

  Four pairs of eyes drilled into Musa. He licked his dry cracked lips. Nerves robbed him of all moisture as he gingerly brought a cup of water up to his lips and took a few sips. “I have valuable information for you. Please protect us.”

  Abby leant across the table and cupped her hands. “Protect you from who?”

  Sizani glared at her husband, who raised his hand to pacify her.

  “We don’t want to be sent back. We like England. But they have our son.”

  Scott and Abby exchanged glances. “Who?” Abby asked.

  “The pastor.”

  Both officers stiffened as Abby motioned for Musa to continue.

  His voice softened to a whisper. “Five boys and girls have been taken in just a few weeks. One of them was Michael. They are taken by the pastors as offerings to the gods. There are powerful African businessmen who have come to England, and the children are being offered to the gods, in return for wealth and prosperity.”

  Scott stood and paced around the back of the room as his mind processed what Musa had told him and what he had heard from Simon Young. Fuck. It was all making sense. “What is the name of the pastor?”

  “Pastor Mabunda. He came to the country after another man called Pastor Xabi. We know Pastor Mabunda very well, but the other pastor we do not know. He came to Brighton, but he is a very weird man. He has magical powers and very cold eyes. He can deliver what most people can’t. No one challenges him. It is said that if you anger him he can pull your heart out with his bare hands.”

  Musa cupped a hand and tightened it to a fist as if to show.

  “Have you seen him?” Scott asked.

  Musa shook his head. “He came here about eight weeks ago, but he has not been seen for six weeks. No one sees him, just the businessmen. They pay him lots of money to make their wishes come true.”

  “Has Pastor Mabunda taken the children?”

  Musa shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s a very religious man. He was teaching all our children about God. But he too does not look at Pastor Xabi in the eyes. No one does. Everyone is frightened of Xabi!” he said with fear in his eyes.

  “And where can we find Pastor Xabi?”

  Musa shook his head again. “Please find our son. We want him back.”

  Scott and Abby burst through the doors and headed over to the incident board. The team gathered as Scott and Abby related the outcome of the interview. A nervous energy rippled through the team as Scott added Xabi’s name to the board.

  “Our number one priority is to find Xabi. By all accounts, he’s hardly seen and feared by many in the community. They believe he possesses magical powers.”

  “Any clue to his whereabouts?” Helen asked.

  Scott shook his head. “He’s not been seen for six weeks. Start with the airports and ports, we need to identify if he’s left the country.”

  “And the missing four children? Any idea on where they’re being held?”

  “We find Xabi first. Ask around the churches and community centres. Also, check with the other asylum seekers, look everywhere. If he’s in Brighton, then I want him in a cell. Mike, pull in Mabunda. They know each other. We need to identify the connection between them. Mabunda may not be responsible for Michael’s death, but he’s implicated. I’m sure of that. Get on it.”

  The team split off in a flurry of activity. Mike grabbed his jacket and weaved his way through the desks as he went off in search of Mabunda. Helen busied herself online searching for African-based businesses with interests in the UK and Sussex in particular.

  Abby pulled up Google and typed in Xabi’s name. Her eyes narrowed as stories and images filled her search results. “Guv, you need to see this.”

  Scott pulled a chair alongside Abby’s desk and peered over. The page Abby had clicked on showed a black man with shoulder-length, tight, scruffy dreads. His black robes were draped over one shoulder. Other than the robe, he appeared to be wearing nothing else. It wasn’t what he wore that caused Abby to say, “Fucking hell,” but the facial and body scarring that caused her to recoil. At some point in life, he’d suffered heavy burns to most of his face and upper body.

  Scott watched a video interview that followed. Xabi spoke and with authority. He openly and publicly dared any of his critics to challenge him in a battle of supernatural powers.

  He praised his god for providing him with special powers that were needed by different pastors from all walks of life.

  Abby smirked as the reporter panned the camera away from Xabi and towards dozens of top-of-the-range cars parked in his compound. He boasted how prominent business people and celebrated church founders sought his help. “Not short of cash then,” she added.

  Xabi boasted that consultations cost a minimum of five thousand dollars which excluded the cost of the rituals. He then went into detail about his ritualistic processes, part of which incorporated hanging a cat alive, slaughtering several fowls, a white dove, pigeons, and goats and then spilling the blood on his god.

  Abby turned up the volume as Xabi spoke. “I’m a fetish priest; a powerful one of course, and I use my powers to heal the sick, help p
eople who want to travel abroad, help traders get better sales, protect people from fraudsters. I disempower witches and wizards and help people who have one problem or the other. I am well known for the wonders I perform in this country, so I receive people from all parts of the country, and even people from other countries.” He waved his arms towards the camera.

  “Look at that,” Scott interrupted as he tapped the monitor.

  Xabi gave the reporter a brief look around his shrine. The inner shrine housed statues of several gods. He showed many shelves containing boxes of talcum powder and Holy Bibles. The room had a sinister, dark feel to it as several razor-sharp machetes hung from the walls alongside a rifle. A table to one corner of his shrine held over a dozen gold rings, wads of money, numerous padlocks, and calabashes. Xabi grabbed one machete and waved it around.

  “Profitable line of business,” Scott noted.

  Abby drew in air through her teeth. “He’s either a brilliant con artist, crazed religious lunatic or complete psychopath…and he’s on our patch.”

  “You can see why he instils fear in those he meets. It makes sense now why Musa appeared terrified at the mention of his name.”

  “The fact he’s disappeared off the radar for six weeks worries me, Guv. Do you think someone’s sheltering him?”

  Scott was about to reply when Raj hollered from across the floor.

  “Guv, there’s a Darren Bartlett from the Home Office on the line. Says he wants to speak to you.”

  Abby and Scott exchanged a look of surprise as he grabbed the nearest extension. Scott introduced himself and then listened with interest. Midway through the call, his face contorted as he shook his head. “This is a murder investigation, not bait for you,” he shouted.