by Kwei Quartey
“The man’s body is here,” Longdon said, moving to the driver’s side of the Prado. But Dawson barely heard him, and he stayed where he was, staring at Akua’s body.
“Dawson?” Longdon was looking at him with the expression that said, Are you okay?
“Yes,” Dawson said, coming around the left-hand side, feeling as if he were floating in an unreal world. He couldn’t feel his feet touching the ground.
“His identification says he’s Joshua Samuels,” Longdon said.
Two biblical names, Dawson thought irrelevantly. “That’s Helmsley’s cameraman.”
“Oh, you know him?” Longdon asked in some surprise.
“I met him and Helmsley at Bao Liu’s mining area the day he was found dead. They were trespassing and I warned them off. She asked me if she could keep in touch in order to get updates on the investigation.”
“Ah, I see,” the commander said. He introduced Dawson to the two officers, a corporal and lance corporal and from the Pakyi station.
For the moment, Dawson put away any antipathy he had felt for Longdon. There was time for that, and it wasn’t now. “Who found them, sir?” he asked.
“Some hunters,” Longdon said. “Around three o’clock this morning. But they weren’t able to report it until about six, when they reached Pakyi. It’s a long walk back. ” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly. “Cold-blooded brutality. It’s a terrible shame.”
“But what could be the motive for such an attack?” Dawson asked, bewildered.
“If I had to guess,” the commander said, “I would say it was a robbery gone bad.”
But why had Akua and Samuels been in such a remote area in the first place? Dawson frowned as he noticed something that had not struck him till now, and he turned to the commander. “This is the direction the Prado was facing when it was found?”
“Yes, of course,” London replied. “Why?”
“It’s pointed toward the main road,” Dawson said. “So she was coming back from somewhere.”
“I should say so, yes,” Longdon agreed.
Dawson thought of something and took out his phone, going straight to Whatsapp. “Akua Helmsley texted me at three seventeen yesterday afternoon,” he said.
“Oh,” the commander said with interest. “Texted you about what?”
“She wanted me to call her back,” Dawson said, “but she didn’t say more than that. I didn’t call.”
“Ah,” Longdon said. “That’s useful information. So, we know she was killed sometime between yesterday midafternoon and early this morning.”
Dawson was imagining the worst. What if Akua had wanted advice about what she was investigating, or to let Dawson know where she was going next? Perhaps she had waited for his return call as long as possible, and then started out on her mission. If Dawson had phoned her, could he have stopped her from going on a dangerous expedition and getting killed?
What have I done? Dawson felt sick. “Do you have CSU coming, sir?” The more businesslike he was, the less emotional he felt.
“Yes,” the commander said. “I want the entire unit here so this is handled correctly.”
CSU arrived near ten. The sky was gray, and thick clouds were moving in, promising rain in the afternoon. It was mercifully rainy-season cool, which would help retard decomposition of the dead bodies, but certainly wouldn’t stop it.
The technicians took photos, got some serviceable fingerprints, and searched the vehicle and surrounding areas. They found nothing more of importance, and neither had Dawson. No laptop, briefcase, purse, handbag, backpack, or any other personal belongings, so once the bodies had been collected and the SUV driven away to the Motor Traffic Unit at Kumasi Regional HQ, there was nothing left but the task of solving a new murder.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
From Pakyi, Dawson headed immediately to the Golden Tulip Hotel in Kumasi. He was functioning, but life seemed surreal, slow, and thick, as if he were moving through soup. How can Akua be dead? He repeatedly saw her in his mind, collapsed and lifeless beside the Prado, and the blood on her face—so much blood.
He realized as he arrived in Kumasi that he had been navigating large portions of his journey without being aware of his surroundings—like sleep driving. He shook his head and blinked several times to wake himself up, refocus, and bring back reality to its baseline.
He turned off Victoria Opoku-Ware Road, onto Rain Tree Road near the Royal Golf Course, and into the Tulip’s car park. Inside the hotel lobby, he went to reception and asked to see the manager.
“Please have a seat,” the desk attendant said. “I’ll call him.”
But Dawson didn’t take a seat in any of the comfortable chairs in the gleaming lobby with its twinkling recessed lights. He stared at their reflection in the polished tile floor, lost in thought. He jumped when he heard a voice to his side saying, “Good afternoon, sir.”
He looked up and found the manager in front of him. His badge said sarpong. He was small in stature and dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and Adinkra tie.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sarpong. My name is Dawson—chief inspector with CID. May I speak to you in private?”
“But of course. This way, please.”
Dawson followed him to his office at the side of reception, which Sarpong unlocked with a swipe card. It shut behind them with a solid click. It was a quiet room with a thick carpet.
Before Sarpong offered him a seat, Dawson spoke. “I have some bad news. One of your guests, Akua Helmsley, was found murdered this morning.”
“Oh!” Sarpong took a step back—staggered really—and held on to the back of one of the armchairs as if he might otherwise fall. “Oh, no.”
His eyes were wide, his mouth open.
“I’m sorry,” Dawson said, and instantly he felt himself return to normal, because now it was Sarpong in shock and Dawson who had to take charge.
Sarpong sat down weakly. “So that’s why,” he murmured.
“That’s why what?”
“That’s why the policemen were here yesterday.”
“What policemen?” Dawson asked sharply.
“This morning when I came on shift,” Sarpong said, “Mr. Brooks, the night manager, told me that around nine o’clock, two detectives from CID came to the hotel saying that Miss Helmsley had been reported missing and that they needed to search her room.”
“Did the manager give you a description of the two men?”
“No, sir.”
“Did they take items away?”
“Yes. They asked him to open the safe, and they removed documents from it.”
What documents? Dawson frowned. None of this made sense. Commander Longdon had not mentioned this. He would have been aware, wouldn’t he? Dawson thought about it for a moment. It was possible someone reported Akua missing to one of the larger Kumasi police stations like Manhyia Divisional Headquarters. They might have forwarded the report to Regional, which might have then sent two detectives down to investigate. Sometimes the left didn’t know what the right was doing.
Something was still wrong, though. By nine at night, it would have been barely twelve hours or so since Akua had been seen last. That didn’t constitute a disappearance. Unless . . . Unless whoever came to look through Akua’s room already knew she was dead. Dawson’s blood chilled. “May I see her room?”
“Of course you may.”
They took the lift to her room on the third floor. The Guardian treats its reporters well, Dawson reflected, unless it’s Akua’s own money that paid for this. It was an executive room with a king bed, minibar, a sprawling bathroom, two armchairs with matching footrests, and a polished rosewood floor.
The desk was clear except the lamp on top of it—nothing in the drawers. The wardrobe had Akua’s clothing both in drawer space and on hangers, with shoes on the floor of the wardrob
e. The safe was indeed wide open and empty.
Neither of her two suitcases contained any items. Obviously she had not been planning on any travel. Dawson looked around. In fact, except for her clothing, this room had been emptied out, and anything else that Akua might have had in her possession on her excursion into the hinterland was now in someone else’s hands.
“Thank you, Mr. Sarpong,” Dawson said finally.
The manager cleared his throat. “Please, do you know whom I should contact regarding her belongings?”
“The Regional Headquarters will take care of it. I think they will inform the British High Commission as well as the family. I’m sure someone will be in touch with you very soon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Dawson said. “Please give me the number of the manager who was here last night—Mr. Brooks, you said? I’d like to get a description of the men who were here.”
When Dawson got back to the jeep, he perched on the side of the driver’s seat with the door open and one leg out as he called manager Brooks. He tried the number twice before getting through. He introduced himself to Brooks, who confirmed the story of the visit by the so-called CID detectives.
“They were both dressed in black suits and black ties,” Brooks said, “and they were wearing sunglasses.”
Dawson almost laughed. It sounded more like that movie Men in Black than anything CID detectives would wear in real life. But it certainly appeared to have impressed Brooks.
“What else?” Dawson asked. “Age, height, body type?”
“They were both average height, one a little fatter than the other, with the belly sticking out. One had a mustache; the other did not. I would say they were in their thirties.”
“What names did they give you?”
“Only one of them, the fatter one, showed his ID, and he said his name was Hammond.”
“Did you stay with them while they searched the room?”
“Yes, sir. They were there for about ten minutes—that’s all. They took some papers from the safe.”
Dawson thanked Brooks and put in a call to Commander Longdon. He didn’t pick up, so Dawson began heading back to the Obuasi office. His phone rang about thirty minutes later.
“Yes, Dawson?” Longdon said. “You called me.”
“Good afternoon, sir. Please, were you made aware of any search of Akua Helmsley’s hotel room conducted by two detectives from CID?”
After a pause, Longdon said, “I don’t get you. You say what about Miss Helmsley?”
“Two men claiming to be from CID went to the Golden Tulip last night and ransacked her room. They took some documents from her safe.”
“Impossible,” the commander said at once. “No one in CID was authorized or asked to do that.”
“Perhaps from Regional?”
“No, no,” Longdon said firmly. “Someone else is behind this. I don’t know who, but it is not CID.”
“Then the only entity that comes to mind is the BNI,” Dawson said.
“The BNI are the last people on earth to impersonate the CID,” Longdon pointed out.
He’s right, Dawson thought. He didn’t have a high opinion of the Bureau of National Investigations, and had indirectly tangled with it before. If he had to write anything about it, he would describe the BNI as Ghana’s controversial internal intelligence agency whose authority overlaps with and sometimes unlawfully exceeds that of the police service. Not an auspicious designation.
“What do you suggest, sir?” he asked Longdon.
The commander didn’t speak for several seconds. “I will be meeting with DCOP Manu first thing in the morning, and we will come up with a plan, because this could potentially spark a political row between Ghana and the UK.”
What he was saying in essence was that this had to be kicked to a higher level, and in fact, it might end up, ironically, in the hands of the BNI in the end. In the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours, Dawson might well be officially removed from any investigation into Akua’s death. But Dawson didn’t care. He was going ahead with it regardless. Whether it was fair or not, he felt culpable for Akua’s death. He would not let the matter rest.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Emotionally wrecked and tired after waking up so early, Dawson had no interest in returning to Obuasi Headquarters. He simply wanted to go home. So early was it in the afternoon, the house was empty on his arrival, a rare experience for him. Sly and Hosiah had football practice until about five thirty, and it was Christine’s turn to pick them up.
First, Dawson called Armah.
“Oh, my Lord,” he said, when Dawson had told him the news of Akua’s murder. “I’m so sorry.”
Dawson described the precision of the execution-style shootings, and then the mysterious men who went to her hotel room.
“The whole scenario is sinister,” Armah said. “It sounds like she had a secret that someone didn’t want to get out. She has such a wide Internet audience.”
“Who is that someone? is the question.”
“Yes, that is it,” Armah agreed. “During your conversations with her, did she hint at anything sensitive?”
“The one thing I know she was working on was the story that the PMMC fabricates mining statistics and buys illegal gold, but days ago when I met her at The View restaurant, she started to tell me about what she believed were armed robbery scams in the Kumasi-Obuasi area—well, anywhere that gold is mined and/or traded. She talked about investigating corruption surrounding gold dealings at the highest levels of authority.”
“I see,” Armah said. “Not good. People don’t like that.”
“I know. Which means they won’t like me either, because I intend to continue on the path Akua was headed down.”
“Be careful, Darko.”
Commander Longdon had kept the dockets on the armed robberies, but as was Dawson’s habit, he had taken a snapshot of the important pages with his smartphone. He had not done a transfer of pictures from his phone to a flash drive in a while, so he spent time doing that before deleting the images from the phone. No, he wasn’t supposed to do any of this, but yes, he did it anyway because of the way records tended to disappear in the impenetrable recesses of police exhibit rooms.
He turned to the docket of the American ex-basketball player, Beko Tanbry. The events had transpired about six months before. The first image was the front of the docket.
DOCKET
GHANA POLICE FORCE
Date of offense: 12 March
Complainant: Tanbry, Beko
Principal Witness(es): Beko Tanbry; Kwadwo Yeboah (driver)
Accused: Unknown
Offense: Armed robbery
Victim(s): Beko Tanbry; Kwadwo Yeboah
Next was the report itself.
Police Report
Obuasi Divisional Headquarters Police Station
Date of Report: 12 March
Time of Report: 1823h
Date of Incident: 12 March
Time of Incident: 1500 (approx.)
Reporting Officer: Detective Sergeant Augustus Obeng
At 1815h on Friday 12 March, complainant and victim Mr. Beko Tanbry reported that he and his driver Mr. Kwadwo Yeboah went to a certain place several miles off the main road at the turnoff before Pakyi to purchase gold in the amount of 100,000.00 (one hundred thousand) US dollars from a certain man whose name was given as Mr. Michael. The purchase was executed and Mr. Tanbry and Mr. Yeboah were returning to the main road when they were forced to stop by a Mitsubishi SUV that was on the road across their path.
At that point, two gunmen with their faces completely covered by masks jumped out of the Mitsubishi and approached Mr. Tanbry’s vehicle, demanding that Mr. Tanbry and Mr. Yeboah alight with hands raised. They demanded the gold that had been purchased, and when Mr. Tanbry stated
that he was not in possession of said gold, he was assaulted by one of the robbers and threatened with death by the other. Mr. Tanbry then showed them where the gold was hidden in a compartment in the ceiling of the vehicle, and the robbers removed all the gold. They tied the two victims up and then escaped in the Mitsubishi. Neither Mr. Tanbry nor Mr. Yeboah was able to see a license plate on the vehicle.
Mr. Tanbry is a retired American professional basketball player in the US, age 42. He resides in Atlanta.
Were Mr. Tanbry’s route and destination the same as Akua’s? As far as Dawson knew, there was only one turnoff road just before Pakyi.
He went to the next page. It was a short entry from May 6:
Mr. Beko Tanbry stated his wish to return to the USA. He is available by phone and email. Mr. Kwadwo Yeboah is also available by phone.
Dawson saw the phone number and hoped it was both correct and still valid. He dialed it. It was around noon in Atlanta, so the timing was right. He got voice mail and left a message, wondering if people in the US checked their voice mail. In Ghana, one seldom did.
Meanwhile, Dawson tried to do a search on this Beko Tanbry, but the URL got stuck and would not budge because of the all too common network congestion. Dawson sighed. It was so tiresome.
He thought he might as well take a look at the other armed robbery case—that of the Englishman, Charles Wilshire—but just as he was about to start, his phone rang and he saw it was a US number.
“Hello,” Dawson said. “Please, are you Mr. Tanbry?”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding wary. “Who’s this?”
Dawson introduced himself and told Tanbry he was investigating a series of armed robberies in the Ashanti Region in which gold or its proceeds were stolen.
“Yeah, well if you think you’re going to investigate me, mister,” Tanbry said, “you’re dead wrong.”
“No, not that at all, sir,” Dawson said evenly. “I’m making this call because I’m the new crime officer in Obuasi and I need to close some cases. I’m just asking for your help.”
