privately given up hope of finding her alive. Then a night watchman on a building site found her. She’d made a den in a pile of pipes and insisted she wasn’t going home until her mother threw out the latest boyfriend, who was sticking his hands down her knickers.
A lost child became a child abuse case. Bill thought about making it a double murder. The stupid mother and her arse of a boyfriend.
‘Sir . . .’ DC MacLaren handed him a photograph. ‘This was in a drawer in the mum’s bedroom.’
Carole Devlin stood in a formal pose beside a black man. Both were wearing brightly patterned national dress and smiling broadly. A wedding photograph, perhaps? If it was, the chap beside her wasn’t the one who claimed to be her husband and walked out of the mortuary after taking photos of her mutilation.
Bill turned the picture over. A faint stamp read:
Ronald Ugwu, Photographer, Sabon Gari, Kano
.
‘Kano?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Northern Nigeria, sir.’
Bill was impressed.
‘My brother-in-law’s a civil engineer. Spent some time in Northern Nigeria working on an irrigation project.’ MacLaren looked pleased to know something the boss didn’t. ‘Language is Hausa. Religion, predominantly Islam, with a bit of everything else thrown in, including the witch doctor stuff . . . juju.’
Bill didn’t like hearing the juju word again. ‘Is your brother-in-law still out there?’
MacLaren shook his head. ‘Nigeria turfed out most of the expats. He’s in Indonesia now.’
It could have been useful to have someone on hand who knew a bit about the place.
‘Find out if there’s someone at one of the city universities who’s an expert on Nigeria, particularly the practice of juju.’
DC MacLaren appeared delighted to be given a task that didn’t involve house-to-house and searching undergrowth.
The autopsy on the torso was scheduled for four o’clock. Bill contemplated a quick call to Margaret, then decided against it. If she thought he was ‘on her case’ she would give him grief. Better to do what she said and wait for her to tell him any news about an appointment. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. He didn’t like to admit to himself that he might be more worried about his wife than the missing kid. If it was cancer, he was a bystander, dependent on medical people doing their job. And that stuck in his gut.Margaret was right. He had to concentrate on finding the boy, as long as he wasn’t already lying on a slab in the mortuary.
Twice in two days. Bill was beginning to feel as though he lived in the mortuary. Dr Sissons looked up at the clock as Bill entered and gave him a brief welcoming nod. It was protocol for the investigating officer and the Procurator Fiscal to be present at an autopsy. Few Procurator Fiscals came. Too smelly and bloody for them.
Police officers, mortuary assistants and lawyers, in fact anyone who might have to give evidence in a criminal court, were encouraged to take Glasgow University’s three-term course in Forensic Medical Science. It prepared you for the worst, covering everything from Forensic Psychiatry to Forensic Anthropology, with Blood Splatter Analysis, Arson and DNA Technology on the way. You needed the knowledge to face the top criminal defence lawyers currently practising in Scotland. Otherwise they would make mincemeat of your evidence.
You also had to have a strong stomach to cope with some of the images they showed on the big screen of the lecture theatre. Wounds from every type of sharp implement Glaswegians could get their hands on. Knives, samurai swords and, in one instance, a whirligig.
One thing the course didn’t illustrate was an autopsy.
Sandra, the mortuary technician from earlier withDevlin, was helping. Bill didn’t recognise the small slim figure in her overalls until she said a friendly hello.
A second pathologist, Dr Brown, was also present, a requirement of Scottish law. Sissons began his description of what was left of the body, his
A lost child became a child abuse case. Bill thought about making it a double murder. The stupid mother and her arse of a boyfriend.
‘Sir . . .’ DC MacLaren handed him a photograph. ‘This was in a drawer in the mum’s bedroom.’
Carole Devlin stood in a formal pose beside a black man. Both were wearing brightly patterned national dress and smiling broadly. A wedding photograph, perhaps? If it was, the chap beside her wasn’t the one who claimed to be her husband and walked out of the mortuary after taking photos of her mutilation.
Bill turned the picture over. A faint stamp read:
Ronald Ugwu, Photographer, Sabon Gari, Kano
.
‘Kano?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Northern Nigeria, sir.’
Bill was impressed.
‘My brother-in-law’s a civil engineer. Spent some time in Northern Nigeria working on an irrigation project.’ MacLaren looked pleased to know something the boss didn’t. ‘Language is Hausa. Religion, predominantly Islam, with a bit of everything else thrown in, including the witch doctor stuff . . . juju.’
Bill didn’t like hearing the juju word again. ‘Is your brother-in-law still out there?’
MacLaren shook his head. ‘Nigeria turfed out most of the expats. He’s in Indonesia now.’
It could have been useful to have someone on hand who knew a bit about the place.
‘Find out if there’s someone at one of the city universities who’s an expert on Nigeria, particularly the practice of juju.’
DC MacLaren appeared delighted to be given a task that didn’t involve house-to-house and searching undergrowth.
The autopsy on the torso was scheduled for four o’clock. Bill contemplated a quick call to Margaret, then decided against it. If she thought he was ‘on her case’ she would give him grief. Better to do what she said and wait for her to tell him any news about an appointment. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. He didn’t like to admit to himself that he might be more worried about his wife than the missing kid. If it was cancer, he was a bystander, dependent on medical people doing their job. And that stuck in his gut.Margaret was right. He had to concentrate on finding the boy, as long as he wasn’t already lying on a slab in the mortuary.
Twice in two days. Bill was beginning to feel as though he lived in the mortuary. Dr Sissons looked up at the clock as Bill entered and gave him a brief welcoming nod. It was protocol for the investigating officer and the Procurator Fiscal to be present at an autopsy. Few Procurator Fiscals came. Too smelly and bloody for them.
Police officers, mortuary assistants and lawyers, in fact anyone who might have to give evidence in a criminal court, were encouraged to take Glasgow University’s three-term course in Forensic Medical Science. It prepared you for the worst, covering everything from Forensic Psychiatry to Forensic Anthropology, with Blood Splatter Analysis, Arson and DNA Technology on the way. You needed the knowledge to face the top criminal defence lawyers currently practising in Scotland. Otherwise they would make mincemeat of your evidence.
You also had to have a strong stomach to cope with some of the images they showed on the big screen of the lecture theatre. Wounds from every type of sharp implement Glaswegians could get their hands on. Knives, samurai swords and, in one instance, a whirligig.
One thing the course didn’t illustrate was an autopsy.
Sandra, the mortuary technician from earlier withDevlin, was helping. Bill didn’t recognise the small slim figure in her overalls until she said a friendly hello.
A second pathologist, Dr Brown, was also present, a requirement of Scottish law. Sissons began his description of what was left of the body, his
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