Gold of Our Fathers

by Kwei Quartey

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  Dawson started from the beginning: the discovery of the body in the gravel at the mine site.

  “Do you think the killer was trying to hide the body or put it somewhere to be found?” Chikata asked. “It seems that if he was trying to hide it, then put it in the forest somewhere, or throw it in one of those pits. If he was trying to show it, then just leave it in the open.”

  Dawson nodded. “Or else burying him was the actual means of death.”

  “By suffocation?”

  “Yes. But all this speculation may change when we finally get the autopsy done. I’m waiting to hear from a Dr. Phyllis Kwapong, a new forensic pathologist in Accra who should be coming up to Kumasi as soon as possible.”

  “Let’s hope so. The results might even change the way we think about the case.”

  Dawson agreed. “So far,” he continued, “a guy called Yaw Okoh is the prime suspect.”

  “Who is he?”

  Dawson told Chikata about him.

  “This so-called inability of Yaw’s to talk,” Chikata said, “did it happen directly after Amos’s death?”

  “Not directly,” Dawson answered. “Yaw blamed his father partly for his brother’s death. They quarreled about it and then Mr. Okoh went to a fetish priest, who people now believe struck Yaw with a curse.”

  “Which would be very convenient for Yaw if he was the killer,” Chikata pointed out. “He could use that superstition to his advantage.”

  “Exactly,” Dawson agreed, “or maybe he really did go into some kind of shock after Amos’s death. Either way, he could be guilty.”

  “When I was a small boy,” Chikata said, “we knew one woman who went blind after her husband’s sudden death. People were saying she was possessed by evil spirits.”

  Dawson grunted. “So many tales like that in our society. I think it’s a kind of psychological derangement or something like that. Bottom line, we need to bring this man in and somehow get him to talk.” Something occurred to him. “Hey, you remember Allen Botswe, the criminal psychologist at the University of Ghana we consulted a couple of years back?”

  “Yes, I do,” Chikata said, nodding. “He would be the right person to ask. Meanwhile, though, when and how do we bring Yaw in? That’s the part I’m interested in.”

  Dawson smiled. Chikata liked action. “Commander Longdon says he can give us a couple men to hunt for him. I wanted that to happen by the weekend, and look—it’s already Thursday.” Dawson felt some frustration. “We should go upstairs to see the commander shortly to find out what is going on with that.”

  “Do we have other suspects, boss?”

  “Yaw’s father too had a strong motive to kill Bao,” Dawson said. “I can tell he loved Amos very much and his death has been very tough to take. If I were Mr. Okoh, I think I would want revenge for my son’s murder.”

  “Did Mr. Okoh have opportunity to commit the crime?”

  “Yes. He normally wakes up before dawn—let’s say at five—but on that day he could easily have woken up earlier to get to Bao Liu’s mining site on time. His ten-year-old nephew, who sometimes accompanies him to the farm, was suffering from a high fever, so he’s not able to say for sure what time his uncle left the house. Mrs. Okoh was with him trying to make the fever go down, and she probably wasn’t keeping exact track of time either, under those circumstances. We are talking about a difference of only an hour or so.”

  “Is it still worth questioning her?” Chikata asked.

  “It would not hurt, and it will be easier now that you’re here. You can engage the man while I talk to his wife.”

  Chikata nodded. “Okay, boss.”

  “Now,” Dawson continued, “there’s another person of interest—an American guy who has a mining site near Bao Liu’s property. He hated the way Liu and his crew used to come over to his concession to try to intimidate him. If you talk to the guy you’ll get the feeling he would have no compunction in getting rid of someone he doesn’t like. He acts like he couldn’t care less about the Chinese brothers near his mining concession, but I don’t believe him. We need to confirm his alibi. He says that he was in Accra Thursday to Friday visiting with Tommy Thompson, the head of PMMC.”

  Before Dawson could continue, the doorway was darkened by Longdon’s shadow as he walked in. Both the inspector and chief inspector stood up in acknowledgment.

  “Good morning, sir,” Dawson said. “Inspector Chikata has just arrived.”

  “Very good,” Longdon said, in a businesslike fashion. “Welcome.”

  The two shook hands, and Chikata offered him his chair.

  The commander waved it away. “I’m not staying long. Just an update, Dawson, I will have two constables available to accompany you and Inspector Chikata when you go looking for the suspect Yaw Okoh.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “When are you planning to do it?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Night?” Longdon asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yes, sir,” Dawson said, “because the suspect’s whereabouts during the day seems to vary, but it looks like he stays at one permanent location at night.”

  “All right, then.” Longdon handed him a sheet of paper. “Here is the information on the two officers.”

  The Dunkwa officer was Kobby, and Dawson was happy about that because he liked the constable. The other officer’s name was Asase.

  “Thank you, sir,” Dawson said.

  “You’re welcome. I won’t be in the office tomorrow, but you may call me if needed for any emergencies.”

  With that, Longdon left and Dawson stared after him in some surprise.

  “What’s wrong?” Chikata said.

  “He was more pleasant than I expected.”

  Chikata grinned slyly. “Because he knows he has to be if he doesn’t want a report to go up the chain.”

  Dawson made a rueful face. “My junior officer is treated with respect. Me? I’m a bad boy.”

  Chikata started to giggle.

  “Shut up,” Dawson snapped. “Not funny.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the inspector said, trying to straighten his face. It didn’t last. Within seconds, he began to laugh again.

  Dawson balled up a piece of paper and lobbed it at Chikata, who successfully dodged the missile. It was good to have him back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Dawson had called Kobby in Dunkwa to confirm the plan to apprehend Yaw Okoh, and the constable had sounded eager to go—almost thrilled. Now Dawson wanted to meet Asase, the other officer who would be joining the team. He was stationed at Manhyia Divisional Headquarters in Kumasi.

  Chikata had arrived in a shiny black jeep with gleaming chrome wheels. The driver was a constable who would leave the vehicle behind and return to Accra with one of the couriers who transport valuable and confidential documents between the police departments of various cities.

  On the way to Manhyia with Chikata, Dawson put in a call to Tommy Thompson, the director of PMMC, but he didn’t answer and he didn’t have voice mail. Dawson moved to the next item on his list.

  Allen Botswe was a professor of criminal psychology at the University of Ghana, specializing in crime in sub-Saharan countries. He answered almost immediately and recognized Dawson’s voice at once, which was good, considering that a year had passed since they had last spoken. Dawson told him about Yaw and his circumstances, and asked Dr. Botswe if it was conceivable that the death of Amos was so traumatic that Yaw could have become mute as a result.

  “Almost anything is possible, really,” Botswe said slowly. “This would be a kind of conversion disorder, that is a neurological symptom such as blindness or paralysis in response to a severely stressful event. It’s a defense mechanism to cope with psychological trauma. I confess that although I’ve seen cases of blindness and paralys
is, I haven’t come across the inability to speak, but for instance, Yaw’s muteness could be an attempt to neutralize the horrific thought of his brother’s loud screams for help.”

  “But for months after the event?” Dawson asked skeptically.

  “It could happen. There’s really no time limit to an individual’s response, but I agree with you that this gentleman could be using muteness as a subterfuge. I’ve never seen that. It’s very interesting. Keep me posted.”

  “I will,” Dawson said. He ended the call and gave Chikata an account of the conversation.

  “So it’s not juju, eh?” Chikata said as they pulled up to the station and parked. “It’s this conversion reaction or whatever it’s called?”

  “Conversion, diversion, perversion,” Dawson said as they alighted. “I don’t care. I just want the guy to talk to us and tell us if he killed Bao Liu or not.”

  Manhyia Divisional HQ, painted an attractive pale peach with dark blue trim and comprising two separate buildings, was several times larger than Obuasi’s division. Dawson and Chikata walked into the right-hand section station, and Dawson was startled by what he saw. Behind the counter doing paperwork was Sergeant Obeng in uniform. Back at work already?

  Obeng saw him and jumped to his feet with a salute. “Morning, sir,” he said crisply.

  “Morning, Obeng,” Dawson said, and he realized he must have betrayed his surprise in his voice. “I didn’t know you were here now.”

  “Yes, sir. On desk duty, sir.”

  “I see. I’m looking for Constable Asase.”

  “Yes, massa,” said the man at the far end of the counter, standing up straight. “Morning, sir.” He was in his midtwenties, smallish in stature and impeccably dressed in shirt and tie and dark slacks. Dawson couldn’t remember the last time he had worn a tie.

  “Good morning,” Dawson said. “I’m Chief Inspector Dawson, and this is Inspector Chikata. You’ll be assisting us tomorrow in a police operation at Dunkwa. You’re aware?”

  “Yes, sir,” Asase said coming forward. “Commander Longdon has informed me.”

  “Okay. Please be at the Obuasi Divisional Headquarters by four tomorrow afternoon, and we will proceed to Dunkwa from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Outside, Dawson was so lost in thought that at first he did not hear Chikata speaking.

  “Boss?”

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Something wrong?”

  “It’s Obeng,” Dawson said, as they got back into the vehicle. “How is he back at work so soon? I expected this to go before the disciplinary board, but it seems Commander Longdon decided to deal with the matter himself.”

  “Maybe he’s on official probation,” Chikata suggested, “and that’s why they want him at one of the main divisions so they can watch him better.”

  “Could be,” Dawson said doubtfully. It still seemed odd, however. He pushed the matter aside for the moment. He wanted to stop over at the guesthouse to see how work was progressing. Its state of readiness—or lack thereof—was a looming issue. In two days, Christine, Sly, and Hosiah were to arrive in Kumasi.

  The door to the guesthouse was open, and Dawson and Chikata were greeted by the sounds of hammer and chisel. A heavily perspiring foreman Nyarko was at work installing the toilet, one worker was in the kitchen, and a third was working on the electric switches.

  “Good morning, Mr. Nyarko,” Dawson said, as Chikata wandered off to watch the electrician.

  He looked up. “Oh, morning, sah!”

  He rose with a bit of a grunt and offered his right wrist to Dawson rather than his dusty hand.

  “So, how is it going?” Dawson asked.

  “Everything is fine,” the foreman said. “Only the plumbing is not good at all. We have to lay some new pipes. The ones here are the old style and they are also too narrow.”

  “That sounds like a lot to get done,” Dawson said, even though he didn’t want to be the perennial pessimist.

  “Oh, it will be okay,” Nyarko said reassuringly, in such a way that Dawson wasn’t in the least bit reassured. “Please, what time will your family be coming?”

  “Saturday morning,” Dawson said keenly.

  “Ah, okay. No problem.”

  “No problem?” Dawson echoed.

  “No problem, sah.”

  “Okay, then I will call them to let them know that everything will be ready. Has Madame Gifty been here this morning?”

  “No, please. She told me she will come at ten o’clock.”

  No matter that it’s past that now. “All right,” Dawson said. “Do you need anything? You have enough water to drink? You are sweating so much it looks like you have been in the shower.”

  Nyarko laughed. “Thank you, sah. We have plenty water to drink. Thank you very much.”

  As Dawson walked away with Chikata, he called Christine. “Nyarko says the place will be ready, but I don’t see how.”

  “But Mama said—”

  “I don’t care what she said. I’m not taking the risk of you and the boys arriving here on Saturday with no place to stay. We’ll just get our own temporary place in Kumasi somewhere.”

  “Like where?”

  “I don’t know, Christine,” he said as he got back in the jeep, loathing the irritation in his own voice. “I have to think about it.”

  “Okay, then call me back.”

  “What’s up?” Chikata asked as Dawson ended the call.

  “You know anywhere my family can stay in Kumasi for a few days, in case this place isn’t fixed up by Saturday?”

  “Not exactly, but the friend I’m with should know. I’ll ask him.”

  “Thanks,” Dawson said, as he pulled into traffic. A funny thought struck him. “Maybe we should have asked some Chinese to fix up the house. They would have finished by now.”

  He and Chikata began to laugh, even though it was a bad joke, but after quieting down, the inspector sucked on his teeth. “The Chinese, they will finish the work quickly, but they’ll give you some fucking shit equipment that will break in two weeks.”

  Dawson looked back at him. “What do you think of Chinese people?”

  “I just don’t trust them.”

  Dawson’s phone rang. Akua was calling.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector. Are you in Kumasi by any chance?”

  “As a matter of fact, on the way out.”

  “Could you possibly meet me at the hotel?”

  “Sure. What’s going on?”

  “I have some information that might interest you.”

  They joined Akua Helmsley beyond the pool by the tennis courts, which were empty of players for the moment. Dawson introduced Chikata to her, and then they got down to business. She appeared to Dawson more preoccupied than usual, and he noticed she glanced around a couple of times as though checking that no one was in the vicinity to eavesdrop. A light breeze was blowing, and the sky was a brilliant blue. Somehow Akua enhanced it.

  “I’ve been in Accra the past four days looking into something,” she said. “You know of the PMMC?”

  Dawson nodded. “Precious Minerals Marketing Company. What’s up with them?”

  “A whistle-blower within the company got in touch with me last week,” she said. “I went to Accra to see if there was any truth in the claim the person was making.”

  Dawson was interested. “A whistle-blower?”

  “Yes. Let’s call him or her ‘X-Factor,’” Helmsley said. “X-Factor is high up in PMMC and has integrity, so I’m inclined to believe the tip.”

  “And X-Factor says what?”

  “That the PMMC knowingly buys gold from illegal Chinese and Ghanaian galamsey miners.”

  Dawson frowned. “What?”

  “The figures the PMMC renders to the Ministry of Lands, Forestry
and Mines for annual gold sales and revenue include illegally mined and traded gold.”

  “No way,” Dawson said. “The PMMC is a trading company whose only shareholder is the government. They can’t be sanctioning illegal gold.”

  “One would hope not,” she said, “but let me ask you something. Why are so many galamsey sites operating with impunity all over the Ashanti Region? How can an illegal mine right outside of Dunkwa-on-Ofin, for example, operate in full view of everyone?”

  “Because we can’t keep up with the sheer number of these Chinese illegals flowing into the country,” Dawson said. “They number in the tens of thousands. It’s the military and police special forces like SWAT, which Inspector Chikata has been involved with recently, that are needed to eject these thousands of people. That takes a lot of resources, and then how do you make sure they don’t come back?”

  “Resources so scarce that the authorities can’t even allocate contingency for effective, targeted raids?” Akua challenged.

  “But raids have been done,” Chikata put in.

  “They’re not genuine raids, Inspector Chikata,” Akua said earnestly. “They’re carried out just to prove to Ghanaians that the government is doing something. They catch a few Chinese scapegoats, photograph them for the papers, and then release them.”

  “So what are you saying?” Dawson asked.

  “I’m saying that there’s a consistent pattern of collusion with the police and other authorities and the Chinese illegals,” she replied.

  Dawson snorted. “Ghana Police Service is not even organized enough to get such an elaborate scheme going.”

  “But you admit that it’s something we need to investigate, right?”

  “We?” He smiled. “I don’t know about you, but I’m investigating a murder, not a corruption scheme.”

  “But the murder might be related to the scheme,” she pointed out.

  She had Dawson’s attention again. “Explain.”

  “To stay in business and not be harassed by the police and immigration officials, the miners have to sell their gold to the PMMC at below market price. It’s a quid pro quo. But not everyone agrees to that and Bao Liu was one. For that, they could have disposed of him and put his more amenable brother in charge.”