Wife of the Gods

by Kwei Quartey

  Reindorf Bannerman, Timothy Sowah’s lawyer, was supposed to arrive by nine o’clock in the morning but did not show until almost noon. While he was waiting, Dawson bought the Daily Graphic from a newspaper boy. On the second page he came across a small article that made him curse with disgust.

  Madina Traditional Healer Released

  ACCRA—Well-known herbalist and traditional healer Augustus Ayitey has been released from Madina police custody. Charges of assault on a child being treated for illness have been dropped. Chief Superintendent Theophilus Lartey of the Criminal Investigations Department, stated that an investigation would be carried out as to whether Mr. Ayitey was improperly detained.

  One of the Ho police constables came up to Dawson. “Please, sir, Mr. Bannerman has arrived and we are ready.”

  They went into the interrogation room. Timothy was seated at the table next to Bannerman. He was tense and did not look like he had had much sleep. Nervousness had replaced his self-assured air, but Bannerman, despite his resemblance to a squat bulldog, had a warm voice and a calming effect on his client.

  “You’ll be all right,” he said quietly to Timothy, touching his arm.

  He shook hands with Dawson and said, “Are you ready to proceed?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Bannerman. Good afternoon, Timothy.”

  Dawson wasn’t going to take any chances that the suspect might get off on a technicality, so he was careful to recite verbatim the police advisory statement, known to some as the Judge’s Rule, that cautioned Timothy that he didn’t have to say anything, but that what he did say could be used in evidence against him.

  “I’ve been looking through Gladys Mensah’s diary,” Dawson went on, “and in several places she talks about how she feels about you.

  “Here’s one from early this month: ‘I can’t stop thinking about Timmy. Can’t wait to see him when I go up to Ketanu.’ By ‘Timmy’ she means you, is that correct, Mr. Sowah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you having sexual relations with Gladys Mensah?”

  “Is that necessary, Detective Inspector?” Bannerman cut in.

  “The type of relationship is important in establishing motive.”

  Bannerman conceded and nodded permission to Timothy, who hesitated before he said, “We did have sex, yes.”

  “How often?”

  “Please, Mr. Dawson,” Bannerman said. “There’s no need for prurience.”

  “That wasn’t my intention. I’ll rephrase. Where and when, Mr. Sowah, did you rendezvous with Gladys?”

  “Sometimes I went to Accra and booked a hotel in town and Gladys would come to see me there.”

  “What about in Ketanu?”

  “I had access to the Ministry of Health guesthouse, and she would join me.”

  “The same one I’m staying at now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Did you ever meet in the forest around Ketanu and Bedome?”

  “Once or twice.”

  Dawson flipped through Gladys’s diary entries. One in particular caught his eye.

  I despise Togbe Adzima. I want to get the trokosi wives away from him, but there has to be a place for them to go, somewhere they can make a living.

  That was an important paragraph, but for the moment, Dawson was more concerned with what was going on directly between Gladys and Timothy.

  “On the fifteenth of March,” he continued, “Gladys wrote, ‘Timmy says he doesn’t think he can spend Easter Sunday with me. I can understand that he may not be able to take the whole day, but I don’t believe he can’t reserve a couple of hours for me. I feel he’s pulling away from me.’ What would make her say that, Mr. Sowah?”

  “I don’t know why she thought that.”

  “Tuesday, the eighteenth of March: ‘He won’t answer my calls.’ Was that true?”

  “I never deliberately tried to avoid her calls.”

  “But something was wrong, Mr. Sowah,” Dawson pressed, “because here’s what she said just the following day, the nineteenth: ‘Went to Ho to Timmy’s office since he won’t answer my phone calls. He was meeting with some VIP from Accra, and when I came in, Tim looked as if he would faint. Then he called me “Miss Mensah” as though he hardly knew me and said he couldn’t talk right now. That was a hateful and cowardly thing to do. You don’t abandon your loyalties just because you’re afraid of what people may think.’

  “Thursday the twentieth: ‘Love has to grow. It can be secretive at the beginning, but it can’t stay that way. I should not need to play hide-and-seek with the man I love. He doesn’t love his wife, he’s told me that. Then why can’t he leave her?’ So now Gladys was putting a lot of pressure on you, Mr. Sowah, not so?”

  Timothy took a deep breath. “I loved her, I loved being with her, but little by little it felt as if she had me by the throat.”

  “What did you decide to do about it?”

  “I knew I had to sit down and have a serious talk with her before it got beyond control. When I received her message on Thursday threatening me that she would go to my wife, I called her back and agreed we should meet in the forest the next day to talk.”

  “Why the forest and not the guesthouse?”

  “Because at the time it was occupied by an official visiting from Upper Region.”

  “How did you feel, Mr. Sowah, when Gladys threatened you with confronting your wife?”

  “I felt sick. I didn’t know whether she would really do it or not, but the thought that she should go to the length of making a threat like that made her seem a very different person from the one I’d known. It was very disturbing.”

  “Did you have an impulse, even if slight, to kill her?”

  “No.”

  “She’s becoming obsessed, maybe even dangerous to you. An affair can be exciting, but it’s the routine life with your spouse that gives stability, and stability is comforting even if dull. The prospect of losing it can be frightening.”

  “I know that, but I would never kill her.”

  “Did you set a time to meet on Friday, the twenty-first of March?”

  “We said no later than five because no one wants to be in the forest after dark, but I had a meeting that kept me, and I didn’t leave Ho till about quarter to five. I was running late.”

  “What time did you get to Ketanu?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Dawson frowned. “What do you mean you didn’t?”

  “Just as I was getting to Sokode, which is only about five kilometers from Ho, I had a flat tire, and I didn’t have a spare, so I had to limp into the town to see if someone could repair the puncture. It took me a little while to find someone.”

  Dawson felt momentarily derailed. This had come out of the blue.

  “Did you try to ring Gladys to let her know you were delayed?” he asked.

  Timothy nodded. “Yes, but I kept getting that ‘subscriber out of range’ message. By the time my tire had been repaired, it was dark and there was no point in going to the forest. Gladys would not have waited until then because it simply isn’t safe. So I had no choice but to come back to Ho.”

  “Weren’t you worried about her?”

  “But of course I was. I tried all night to reach her on her mobile.”

  “Why didn’t you go to her house in Ketanu to check if she was all right?”

  Timothy sighed. “Look, in retrospect I know I should have, but at the time I thought… I’m not sure what I thought. I think I thought she might be so angry with me, she might have decided she didn’t want to talk to me. Would I go to her house and risk creating some scene?” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “I feel like I’ve been such a coward. From the very beginning, everything I did in relation to Gladys was cowardly.”

  “I think we’ve established that my client could not have been responsible for the murder of Gladys Mensah,” Bannerman said. “She was found the following morning in the forest, and clearly that’s where the murder took place. We can’t be sure of the
exact hour, but obviously my client was not present at either the time or the place. You therefore have no grounds on which to hold him any longer.”

  “I don’t think we’ve established your client’s innocence at all,” Dawson said firmly. “And as for the murder taking place in the forest, that isn’t necessarily the case. Her body could have been brought from elsewhere and dumped.”

  Bannerman became exasperated. “You’re clutching at straws, Detective Inspector Dawson. Come now, this is preposterous. I demand that you confirm my client’s alibi immediately and release him forthwith. Is that understood?”

  Dawson refused to be rattled. “Timothy, are you able to show us the location of the repair shop in Sokode?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  INSPECTOR FITI WENT TO see Samuel and found him lying on the floor of the cell with his knees pulled up to his chest. His back was bruised where Bubo had whipped him, and there was one small telltale cut below his left eye.

  “Get him a shirt,” Fiti ordered Bubo, not wanting anyone else to see evidence of the thrashing.

  Bubo brought one from the storeroom where they had a pile of discarded clothes. He stood Samuel up and helped him put the shirt on.

  “Are you going to sign the confession?” Fiti asked Samuel.

  Samuel shook his head and went back to the floor to curl up.

  “Do you want us to beat you again?”

  Samuel shrugged.

  “I’m going to tell your father what you’ve done,” Fiti said.

  Samuel looked up as if about to say something, but he lowered his head again and closed his eyes.

  Boateng was sitting outside the house and jumped up eagerly as he saw Inspector Fiti and Constable Bubo walking up. He pulled over two stools for them.

  “Bring them some water,” Boateng told his wife.

  Fiti waited for her to return with two battered tin cups of water. She disappeared quickly to leave the men to their meeting.

  “How are you today, Inspector Fiti?” Boateng asked deferentially.

  “I’m fine, but your boy is not.”

  “Please, what is wrong, Inspector?”

  “He killed the girl. Gladys Mensah.”

  Boateng squirmed. “He killed her?”

  “Yes. Someone saw him go with her into the forest, and that was the last time she was ever seen.”

  “Who saw him?”

  “I can’t tell you that, but I believe what the person says. So your boy did it, but he won’t confess. If he confesses, he will get a light sentence from the judge. So talk to him. Tell him to confess and sign the paper. Okay?”

  Boateng’s shoulders slumped. He was devastated.

  Fiti stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “Go and see him now, understand?”

  One of the Ho police constables drove Dawson and Timothy the five kilometers to Sokode. They bumped over an unpaved, gravelly road full of potholes.

  “Turn at the next right,” Timothy instructed.

  They bounced along a little farther, and Timothy pointed. “There it is.”

  In God We Trust Motors was aptly named, being not much more than a wobbly shack amid scores of large and small engine parts scattered about the yard. A wiry man in his forties was tinkering with a chunk of equipment on a table and looked up as the car approached and stopped about fifty meters away.

  “Is that the man who did your repair?” Dawson asked Timothy.

  Timothy was squinting out the window. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t look familiar.”

  “Wait here,” Dawson said, getting out.

  He walked over to the man. “Ndo na wo.”

  “Ndo. Any problem?”

  “I’m Dawson, from Accra police.” He showed his ID.

  “I’m Quaye.”

  They shook hands. Quaye’s palm was rough as sandpaper.

  “Am I in trouble, sir?” he asked.

  “Not as far as I know,” Dawson said. “Are you the owner here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need your help. Do you see that man sitting in the back of the car? Do you recognize him?”

  Quaye took a look for a few seconds and then shook his head. “No, sir. Why?”

  “He says he was here last week Friday.”

  “I wasn’t here at that time. Only my cousin.”

  “Is your cousin here now?”

  “No, sir. He went back to Cape Coast.”

  “You work here alone?”

  “My son helps me, and he was working last week. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Quaye turned his head and yelled, “Ato! Ato!”

  A skinny, bare-chested boy of about ten years old came around from behind the shack wearing threadbare oversize Nikes.

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “This is Inspector Dawson from Accra. He’s a detective.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “How are you, Ato?” Dawson said.

  Ato’s attention was momentarily drawn to the police car, and he suddenly smiled and waved.

  “You know that man?” Dawson asked Ato in surprise.

  “Yah, I remember him,” he said. “He came last week with a tire puncture.”

  Dawson’s stomach lurched. “What day last week?”

  “Friday, sir.”

  “How are you so sure it was Friday?”

  “Because it was my birthday and I was conversing with him and when I told him it was my birthday he gave me some extra dash.” Ato grinned.

  Dawson’s mouth had gone dry. “What time of day was he here?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but it was getting to evening time.”

  “And he left when?”

  “He was our last customer and it was already dark. After him, we closed, so I think maybe about almost seven.”

  “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “Audi Eighty.”

  “Color?”

  “Like a silver or gray color.”

  That was what Timothy drove. A silver Audi 80.

  “And you remember that was his car for sure?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ato’s eyes went wistful. “I love that Audi Eighty toooo much.”

  Dawson was shattered. His heart was pounding as he went back to the car.

  “Do you remember that boy over there?” he asked Timothy.

  He nodded. “I do. I gave him a couple cedis for his birthday—as he claimed it was.”

  “What kind of car were you driving?”

  “My Audi, of course. What else would I be driving?”

  Dawson was asking these questions in the futile hope that he could somehow stitch his case back together, but he knew he couldn’t. The brutal fact was that Timothy’s alibi was now established beyond a reasonable doubt.

  “What’s going to happen now?” Timothy asked.

  Dawson stared at him, feeling chilly even in the hot afternoon sun. “You’re free to go,” he said.

  “Oh, super. Um, if it’s not too much of a bother, can I have a ride back to Ho?”

  SAMUEL DREAMT HE WAS trying to get away from his father, but he seemed to be running in place and Papa got closer and closer to him, reaching with grasping fingers as he called out his name.

  “Samuel. Samuel!”

  He started awake and realized it was Papa calling him in real life. He got up and went to the bars. This time, Mama had come too. Samuel ached to be on the other side with her.

  Constable Bubo leaned against the wall and watched them with folded arms.

  “Mama, Papa,” Samuel said, “I’m so glad to see you.”

  He could tell his mother had been crying, and it made tears prick the corners of his own eyes. Papa looked sad, but it wasn’t like anything Samuel had seen before. This was deep, and there was pain and anger.

  “Papa. What’s wrong?”

  “Why have you brought us this shame, why have you disgraced us?”

  “Papa, I’m not trying to—”

  “Quiet! Do you he
ar me? Keep quiet. You have always been a troublemaker and a liar. Tell the truth just for once, eh? Tell the inspector what you did to that girl. They already know you did it, eh? Someone saw you going into the forest with the girl, so why are you trying to deny it?”

  “Papa, it’s not true,” Samuel said desperately.

  “Confess, Samuel, please. If you confess, they will give you a lighter punishment and the gods of Ketanu will forgive you.”

  “But Papa, I didn’t do it.” His voice broke and rose to a high pitch that bounced off the cell walls.

  “Samuel, stop,” Mama said. “You can’t hide it anymore.”

  Samuel hit the jail bars with his open hand and turned away in fury and despair. He put his forehead against the dank wall and wept.

  “Take me out of here, please, Papa, take me out. They’re going to kill me, I swear, they’re going to beat me to death.”

  “Then tell them the truth!” Papa shouted. “Tell them!”

  Samuel stopped crying and sank to his knees with his head bowed. Mama was weeping now.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  Bubo said, “Time to go.”

  They left, and the cell became ghostly quiet again.

  Timothy was released and cleared of all charges. Dawson drove despondently back from Ho to Ketanu. For the first time since beginning the case, he was starting to doubt himself. What if it was Samuel who did it? Maybe Dawson didn’t want to believe it because Samuel was Fiti’s suspect and not his. Was he perhaps prejudiced against Fiti because the man was just a “bush policeman”? Wouldn’t it be ironic if it really was Fiti doing the solid detective work and not Dawson?

  Now that he had no case against Timothy, Dawson wanted to find out more about what Auntie Osewa had told Inspector Fiti—or what he said she had told him.

  All of a sudden, Dawson felt a powerful need to talk to Christine. He pulled over and got his phone out.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, even before he had the chance to tell her how miserable he was.