Gold of Our Fathers

by Kwei Quartey

  Eyes wide, Dawson opened the passenger front door and got into the seat next to his wife. Not more than a few weeks old, the SUV’s tan leather was still fragrant. When she turned on the ignition, the dashboard lit up with blue and amber lights, and the TV/GPS screen welcomed them aboard.

  “Oh, my God,” Dawson whispered.

  “Nice, huh?” Christine said, smiling blissfully.

  “Yes,” he replied, “but if you’ve stolen it, you know I’m going to have to arrest you, right?”

  She laughed as she pulled her seat belt across her chest. “Okay, I’ll tell the truth. It actually belongs to Uncle Joe. When I told him I was going down to see you, he said he was expecting company, so he couldn’t take me, but he said I could borrow it.”

  “Wow,” Dawson said, somewhat awed as she pulled out into traffic. Who would have thought coming to Kumasi would have his wife driving the vehicle of choice for ministers of Parliament?

  “I think I’d like to get one of these,” Christine said. “I feel so powerful in it.”

  “Feeling powerful isn’t enough,” Dawson said dryly. “You have to be rich too.”

  She giggled and gave the monster some gas.

  “Er, Christine, take it easy,” Dawson said nervously. “You’re not used to driving anything this big.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said happily.

  A little taste of luxury, Dawson thought ruefully. That’s all it takes to spark the craving for more.

  “What’s on your agenda tomorrow?” she asked him.

  “I have to write a full report of the incident to present it to the commander on Monday morning.”

  “I’m assuming none of that will be fun,” Christine said, gunning the SUV and overtaking several vehicles.

  “No, it won’t,” Dawson said, fumbling for the grab handle near his window. Christine’s driving in a small sedan was ferocious. In an SUV, it was positively terrifying.

  Even so, Kumasi’s crawling evening traffic eventually got the better of Christine. As they sat trapped in a sea of vehicles, Dawson put his head back and closed his eyes for a moment as his mind roamed over the day’s events. He wondered who had tipped off Chuck Granger and Wei Liu that the police and military forces were about to stage a raid on his camp. The best person to ask was Wei himself. He tried calling Mr. Huang to ask if he could translate for Dawson while he questioned Liu, but Huang didn’t pick up. Dawson suspected that after the awkward questions he had asked Mr. Huang at his store, the poor man would never answer another call from Dawson.

  He looked at Christine. “Do you know any Chinese? I need a translator.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, swerving around a stalled taxi.

  “Thought so. I was just checking.”

  “What do you need a Chinese interpreter for?” she asked.

  “I’m going to interview Wei Liu.”

  “Right now? We’re not going home?”

  “Not yet,” Dawson said. “Take the next right. Mr. Liu is going to understand and speak English tonight whether he likes it or not.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  A little past eight, Christine and Dawson pulled up at Wei’s house. Power to most of Kwadaso Estates was out, and the streets were very dark. The monotonous chorus of generators up and down the block was now the soundscape of practically every Ghanaian town and city.

  At the sound of the horn, David, Wei’s watchman, came out to peer at the visitors by the reflected light of the SUV head lamps. Once he’d recognized Dawson from his first visit, he opened up the gate and Christine drove in.

  The lights in Wei’s house looked bright, a testament to the power of the generator droning from somewhere in the back. Wei’s pickup was parked in along one wall, but what caught Dawson’s attention was the black Kia SUV positioned close to the front door. It looked like Lian’s vehicle, and Dawson wondered if she was here—or perhaps Wei had simply borrowed the Kia.

  “I’ll wait here,” Christine said, whipping out her phone to call her mother.

  Dawson was glad she was in a secure area with David in attendance.

  Wei opened the door to Dawson’s knock and was clearly surprised.

  “Nǐ hǎo, Mr. Liu,” Dawson said, not quite sure if the greeting was right for late evening.

  “Nǐ hǎo,” Wei replied uncertainly.

  “May I come in?” Dawson asked, with a gesture that he hoped conveyed his meaning.

  Wei hesitated, and then opened the door wider and stepped aside to let his visitor into the air-conditioned sitting room, which smelled heavily of cigarettes. Looking around, Dawson felt like this was a downsized version of Lian’s home, with the same kind of taste. The outsize sofa and matching chairs were made with shiny golden imitation leather and bold, strikingly colored wood. The center table was chrome and black lacquer. The wall-mounted HDTV, sixty inches at least, was playing a Chinese video featuring a beautiful but anguished young singer who, Dawson assumed, had lost her lover. In Dawson’s estimation, some of the furniture was new. Reaping some of his dead brother’s money, he thought, and then checked himself. He was making a prejudicial judgment.

  Resting on one of the side tables next to an ashtray piled high with butts was Wei’s laptop. Lying around were two kinds of TV remotes, three different brands of mobile phones, a Samsung tablet, and an iPad. Evidently, Wei loved gadgets and electronic devices.

  “I need to talk to you,” Dawson said. “No Mr. Huang today.”

  “Mr. Huang?” Wei said, with a perplexed frown.

  “Did you go to the mine today?”

  “Eh?”

  “The mine—did you work there today?”

  Wei shook his head. “Not understand.”

  Dawson was tired of the charade. He grasped Wei’s shirt with both hands and pulled him so close that the Chinese man’s soft belly bumped up against Dawson’s taut one. Wei’s eyes widened and his cigarette breath came harshly.

  “Listen,” Dawson said quietly. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand English, because I know you do. If you don’t answer my questions, I will take you down to the station again and lock you up for two days. Am I clear?”

  Wei nodded apprehensively. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

  “Good,” Dawson said, releasing him. “Take a seat over there, please.”

  Wei obeyed, sitting down in one of the armchairs, and Dawson took his seat opposite him.

  “Is Lian here?”

  “Lian?” He was puzzled.

  “The Kia outside is not hers?” Dawson asked.

  “Ah,” Wei said with an uneasy laugh. “She give me the Kia; she say she like to drive Bao Mercedes.”

  “I see,” Dawson said. “I was at your mining site today. It was deserted. Where were you and your workers?”

  Wei looked bitter. “Those boys, they run away because my brother die there and they ’fraid juju. Anyway, now, no more gold there. Have to find other place.”

  So that’s the real reason Liu’s site was abandoned, Dawson thought. It still didn’t disprove his theory of the existence of police informants, though.

  “When Bao was still alive,” Dawson said, “and all the boys were working at your site, did the police or military ever come to ask questions or arrest you?”

  Wei turned the corners of his lips down and shook his head. “No.”

  “Did anyone ever come to tell you that the police were planning to raid your camp?”

  “Raid? No. Never raid me and Bao.”

  “What about other miners at other sites? Did they know when the police were coming because someone informed them in advance?”

  “I hear something like that before,” Wei said with a dispirited shrug, “but never happen to us.”

  Dawson could see that his line of questioning was fruitless. The Chinese man was listless and distracted, and Dawson watched
him as he seemed to slump further and further into his chair—a chubby, broken man who had lost so much. Not everything, though, Dawson reflected, looking at the HDTV.

  He got up to look at a picture on the wall of Bao and Wei together. They could not be more different.

  Dawson turned to look at Wei closely. “You miss your brother?”

  Wei didn’t answer. He stared at the wall photograph for several seconds, and his face began to crumple as his eyes moistened. “Why I don’t wake up that morning?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Why I no hear alarm?”

  He put his head in his hands and suppressed his weeping so that his body heaved as he wheezed and gasped.

  “I’m sorry,” Dawson said. He understood the man’s anguish. After a few minutes, there wasn’t much for Dawson to do but take his leave. The visit had been quite anticlimactic. As he got to the door, Dawson noticed a bunch of keys in a porcelain bowl on the sideboard to the left, including a car key with that famous logo. Seems like Wei has driving rights to the Benz, as well, Dawson observed. The death of Bao Liu was a mixed blessing for Wei: grief and financial gain both.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  In his chilled office Monday morning, Commander Longdon carefully read through Dawson’s account of the shooting incident at the illegal mine on Friday. Spectacles half down his nose, he flipped back and forth between the three printed pages, and Dawson waited tensely.

  The commander finally looked up over his glasses. “So you see the folly of your ways.”

  Dawson swallowed. “Yes, sir. And I apologize.”

  “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

  “All I can say is that I committed an error of judgment.”

  Longdon leaned back thoughtfully for a moment and rocked gently in his executive recliner for a few minutes. Finally, he sighed. “Chief Inspector Dawson, your excellent performance as a detective per se is not disputed.”

  But, Dawson thought. There’s always a but.

  “But what has happened in this situation,” Longdon continued, “is a demonstration of your persistent issue, which is your arrogance and disregard for authority. Many of your superiors have commented on this.”

  “It’s something I have to work on,” Dawson acknowledged.

  “A word to the wise,” Longdon said. “If we are to work well together, I expect you to heed my instructions, advice, and warnings. Is that understood?”

  “Of course, sir,” Dawson said. “And one other thing I wanted to mention is that I found out that Wei Liu’s mining site was deserted because he is relocating, not because of informants forewarning him about our raid.”

  Longdon nodded with satisfaction. “Just as I said.”

  Dawson dipped his head contritely. “You were right; I was wrong, sir.”

  “We must move on to other items,” the Commander said. “Now that you’ve had enough time to reorganize the office downstairs, I would like a detailed written report on the changes you have made. I go for the regional meeting next week, and I want to report the progress.”

  “Yes, sir, I can have that for you.” Dawson hesitated on his next point. “Sir, that reminds me. I found three cases in the office that were started by my predecessor and Sergeant Obeng and remain open. They are incompletely written, and I wonder if you know about them.”

  “Do you have the files?”

  “I’ll get them, sir.” Dawson excused himself, ran downstairs, and returned with the documents.

  “Two of the files concern armed robberies,” Dawson said, opening one of the three folders. “The first is a British national by name of Colin Wilshire who was allegedly attacked at gunpoint in Santase, Kumasi, and robbed of up to seven thousand dollars’ worth of gold when he was returning to his house after a buying deal. Do you recall that case, sir?”

  “No,” Longdon said, looking puzzled. “What is the date on the file?”

  “It happened in March of this year, sir.”

  “That’s when Chief Inspector Addae was very sick and work became disrupted,” Longdon said. “Some of the reports were not passed on. We have to look at reopening the investigation. What is the other one?”

  “It’s an American ex-basketball player called Beko Tanbry. He too had some dealings in gold. His SUV was ambushed between Obuasi and Kumasi around Pakyi. He made a report, but there is no follow-up.”

  Longdon looked regretful. “I put Sergeant Obeng temporarily in charge when DCI Addae was ill, but little did I know that the alcoholism was impairing his abilities.”

  He takes no responsibility whatsoever for any of these investigation lapses, Dawson thought. Pitiful. This man is not a leader; he’s a worthless figurehead. No wonder the morale of the place was in the toilet.

  “And the third case?” Longdon asked.

  “It concerns the death of Amos Okoh.”

  Longdon nodded. “An unfortunate accident.”

  “Please, there are two versions,” Dawson said gently. “One is that it was an accident, the other that it was deliberate, but no real attempt at closing the case was made. I would like to do that, sir.”

  Longdon nodded. “Good. I think we should get that completed.”

  “I can begin work on all of these,” Dawson said.

  The commander frowned. “That might make your plate too full.”

  “If you would spare Constable Asase to assist me,” Dawson said, “I can take it on, sir.

  “Because the cases are a lapse on our part, I want Regional to handle them,” the commander said abruptly.

  “I don’t quite understand, sir. Since it’s Obuasi’s lapse, shouldn’t we be the ones to fix it?”

  The veins in Longdon’s bulky neck swelled as he lost his temper. “Did you hear what I said?” he shouted. “The cases are going to Regional. Again you challenge me? Get out of my office! Get out!”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed. This man is crazy. As he rose from his seat, Dawson locked his gaze with Longdon’s. I am not afraid of you, Commander.

  That night, Dawson dreamt he had fallen into a mining pit full of blue water. Each time he tried to surface, Commander Longdon, standing above on a bridge crossing, shoved Dawson back into the water with a long bamboo pole sharpened at the tip. Akua Helmsley came running along the bridge to fight Longdon off, but as she got closer, he turned and drove the pointed end of the pole through her neck, almost decapitating her.

  Dawson sat up in bed with a gasp. Sweat had soaked his T-shirt. He looked at his phone. The time was 4:20. He also saw that Akua Helmsley had sent him a link the day before via Whatsapp. He tapped it and it took him to The Guardian’s website, where she had a new post. ghanaian authorities show force: but challenges still lie ahead.

  She had written about the raid and the shooting. She even had a picture of the deserted mining camp with the incinerating excavators. Without qualification, Dawson admired Helmsley for her work. She was on the ball, and now he dismissed any doubts he had entertained about the veracity of her story that she had confronted Tommy Thompson at PMMC. The question was now, why was he lying?

  He saw that she had texted him again about forty-five minutes later, asking him to call her. In the dark, Dawson admitted to himself that he had deliberately avoided contact with her ever since Christine had thrown out that hint of jealousy. He didn’t feel good about avoiding Akua, but he didn’t want marital problems either, especially over nothing. His personal and professional worlds had collided somewhat.

  Why was he now filled with a foreboding that something awful had happened? It must have been the nightmare. Dawson rose to remove his damp T-shirt. Trying to sleep anymore was fruitless, so he took his shower and got dressed quietly while Christine slept blissfully with a light snore. Overnight, she had gradually hogged most of the bed, as usual. Wish I could sleep like my wife, he thought, peeping into the boys’ bedroom, or my children, for that matter.
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br />   Dawson went outside to think in the cool of predawn, taking a seat on the cheap plastic chair under the avocado tree for a moment. But he felt restless and uncomfortable, so he rose and went outside the front gate to watch Kumasi stirring awake.

  His phone rang and his stomach dropped when he saw it was Commander Longdon. A call this early could only mean trouble.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Morning, Dawson. You need to travel to Pakyi as soon as possible. I’m on the way there myself. There has been a fatal shooting. This one is high profile.”

  Dawson swallowed and closed his eyes tight. He felt faint. “Who is it, sir?”

  “The journalist. Akua Helmsley.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Dawson needed a tougher vehicle than the Corolla to go out into the bush, so he called Uncle Joe, who sent one of his drivers over with a jeep that Dawson could have for the day. He drove fast, reaching the turnoff just before Pakyi in under forty-five minutes. The directions were simple: just keep going into the deep bush, and then keep going some more. The unpaved, dusty road was barely wide enough for two vehicles side by side. It was rough in some sections and waterlogged in others, but the jeep, which had four-wheel drive, handled all of it without a problem.

  After thirty minutes of travel, Dawson saw the vehicles in a cluster ahead: two black police Tatas off to the side, and a silver-gray Toyota Prado in the middle that Dawson recognized as Akua’s. He pulled over and jumped out, his heart beating hard and heavy at what he was about to see. Commander Longdon was with two uniformed low-ranked officers.

  Longdon turned as Dawson came up. “It must have been an ambush,” he said. “It looks like both of them were forced out of the vehicle at gunpoint and then shot.”

  The Prado was facing them. The door on the passenger side was ajar, and just below it, Akua lay on the ground crumpled like a broken doll. She had a single wound in front of her right ear, dried blood fanning out from it like a river delta. It was a professional job.

  Stunned, Dawson recoiled. Oh. God. He felt numb, with a sense of utter defeat.