Death by His Grace

by Kwei Quartey

  “But in Romans twelve, verse nineteen,” Safo objected, making Darko turn in surprise, “Peter tells us that we should not harm are enemies. God is telling us it is for Him to take vengeance, not you.”

  Amalba stared at her for a moment, grunted softly and then looked away as if he couldn’t be bothered.

  “How do you respond to that, Mr. Amalba?” Darko prodded.

  He stared blankly at Darko for a moment. “She is not correct,” he said finally.

  Darko could feel resentment coming from Safo for Amalba’s dismissal of her comment, but she said nothing.

  “Mr. Amalba,” Darko said, “I put it to you that it’s you who killed Katherine Vanderpuye because of her so-called affair with Bishop Howard-Mills, and that you also tried to murder the bishop for the same reason—fornication with Katherine. Isn’t that true?”

  “No, please.” Amalba slumped like a loose sack of cocoyams. “This is what I said would happen. You don’t believe me.”

  “No, sir,” Darko said. “I don’t.”

  Amalba appeared as dejected as an athlete who placed last. “Sorry, sir.”

  Darko wasn’t sure where to go from there. “You said you live with your brother, Michael. Where?”

  “Abelenkpe, sir.”

  Abelenkpe was not that far away from Dzorwulu, Kate’s part of town.

  “What work does Michael do?” Darko asked.

  “He’s a manager at the Ring Road Central branch of Standard Chartered Bank.”

  Christine had had a savings account for years at that branch.

  Darko looked at Safo. “Anything to add? Questions?”

  “No, sir,” she said, her emotion gone again.

  Darko handcuffed Amalba. The suspect had stated he had intended to kill Bishop Howard-Mills. He would be charged accordingly.

  But the puzzle remained, who had killed Kate? Could it have been Bishop Howard-Mills? Was he having an affair with her as Amalba had suggested? Or was it in fact Amalba, who was now fabricating the story of witnessing the clergyman leaving Kate’s home? Lastly, could it be true that Amalba and Kate were planning to get married after she divorced Solomon? Christine had never mentioned anything like that to Darko, and she would have known. But as peculiar as it sounded, Darko didn’t dismiss it outright. He had seen stranger things happen.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Let’s go over the interview with the suspect this morning,” Darko said to Safo in the detectives’ room. He had found a couple of empty chairs at a corner table. As always, the place was noisy, and Darko preferred the quiet of his office, but to forestall even the remotest possibility of gossip developing about him and the new female officer, he had decided he would not spend time alone with her in his office unless necessary. He was not attracted to her, but gossip doesn’t listen to the truth.

  “We start with Mr. Amalba’s appearance,” Darko said. “Please describe him.”

  “Well,” she began, “his cheek was swollen.”

  “No—you start with the words, ‘the suspect is a,’ and if possible give the age, gender, height, estimated weight. Didn’t they teach you that at the Academy?”

  “Sorry, sir. I forgot.”

  “Continue.”

  “The suspect is a thirty-six-year-old male . . . dark in complexion, about two meters in height and ninety kilos.”

  “Good. Physique?”

  “You mean—”

  “Fat, thin, average?”

  “I think, average. Yes, average.”

  “Yes. Did you notice any distinguishing marks?”

  “No, please.”

  “What about the tribal mark on his face?”

  Safo looked mortified. “I didn’t see any—”

  “Correct. He didn’t have one. Hairstyle?”

  “Shaved close to the scalp.”

  “Yes. Teeth?”

  “Em, one was broken.”

  “Which one?”

  “The . . . upper left front tooth.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “His cheek was swollen.”

  “Which cheek?” Darko asked.

  “The right.”

  “Whose right? Amalba’s right?”

  “Yes. No, I mean, left.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  Safo put her hand on her forehead and wiped the sweat that had broken out.

  Darko saw she was trembling. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I mean, sir.”

  Darko smiled. “Not your father, okay? Why are you shaking?”

  She gulped, gripping the fingers of her left hand with her right.

  “Am I scaring you?” Darko asked her, glancing around in some embarrassment. No one seemed to be paying attention.

  Safo shook her head.

  “Then stop shaking,” Darko said. “I’m not bullying you. When you’re in court, the defense lawyer will try to make you crack under pressure by challenging your description of his client. I want you to learn very early on to look at someone and get his or her image stuck in your head. Do you get me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Relax, okay? Now, let’s discuss what Amalba had to say and how he answered my questions. One of the first things I noticed about him was the lack of emotion. For example, when he stated he and Kate had been in love, there was nothing in his face to reflect that. When he said the bishop was a fornicator, he didn’t show obvious disgust or anger. What could account for this?”

  Safo chewed on her upper lip as she considered her response. “He could be lying.”

  “Yes,” Darko said, writing that down on a piece of scrap paper. “What else? Let’s imagine he has a mental problem. In fact, he could believe the bishop is a fornicator even though he has no evidence for it.”

  “Delusional,” she said.

  “Good word. Well done.”

  Pleased, she smiled.

  “Or maybe he’s just a sociopath,” Darko continued. “He doesn’t feel emotion the way you and I do. He doesn’t play by the usual social rules. Whatever the case, Mr. Amalba is dangerous. He tried to harm Bishop Howard-Mills, possibly kill him.”

  “I don’t believe Amalba ever saw the bishop around Mrs. Vanderpuye’s house,” Safo said. “He made it all up to frame Mr. Howard-Mills.”

  “Yes,” Darko said, lost in thought for a moment. “Because there’s the question of the machete Amalba says he saw the bishop carrying. If I were the murderer, wouldn’t I hide my weapon in a bag, or under my clothes?”

  “Yes, sir,” Safo agreed. “I think the reason why Amalba knows about the machete is that he used one to kill Kate.”

  An idea came to Darko. “One moment,” he said, springing out of his chair. He trotted to his office, grabbed the copy of the Daily Graphic and opened it to the second page.

  “Ah,” he muttered, scanning the article.

  Darko returned to the detectives’ room and dropped the newspaper in front of Safo. “Read,” he said.

  She did, maybe even twice, then looked up. “Yes, sir?”

  “Does the article describe the probable manner of death?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Read it,” Darko said.

  “Well, it says here, ‘According to a police spokesman, a machete was probably used to inflict the wounds sustained by the two victims, Katherine Vanderpuye and Gabriel Saleh.’”

  “There it is in black and white,” Darko said with a mixture of annoyance and resignation.

  Safo’s eyes lit up. “So Amalba could have read this.”

  “Correct,” Darko said. “This is why I keep telling officers not to talk to the press—especially to this guy.” With his index finger, Darko jabbed the name of the reporter with his finger. “Wisdom Nortey. He wants to pack as many facts, theories, and speculations into his arti
cles as he can get. And this is how he can taint an investigation. He just doesn’t care.”

  “I see,” Safo said. “So you try never to talk to him?”

  “I avoid him like Ebola.”

  “So shall we go back to Mr. Amalba now and confront him?”

  Darko shook his head. “Not yet. He will deny seeing the article. Let him roast in jail a little; then we’ll return to him when we have more ammunition. Right now, we must go to see the top three people Amalba mentioned: his brother, Michael, Solomon Vanderpuye; and Bishop Howard-Mills.”

  Standard Chartered Bank, or “StanChart,” stood along the one-way street that ran for a short distance along Ring Road Central and terminated at its western end at the new multi-level Ring Road Interchange that had once been the simple Kwame Nkrumah Circle. StanChart was in good company with Stanbic, EcoBank, and Prudential along the same street. After drawing money from one of them, one could go next door to Samsung or duck into Aunty Jane’s restaurant, which had some of the best red-red Darko had ever tasted. Not the cheapest, though. Jane’s was a lunchtime haunt for wealthy financial types who squeezed their eight-cylinder SUVs into tight parking spaces in front of the restaurant under the guidance of a flag-waving watchman. Any business of worth in a high-traffic area of town had a traffic-guiding watchman.

  Ring Road was only a four-lane highway when it needed to be at least eight to handle present traffic levels. Pedestrians often hopped over the large open drain on each side and ran across. It was surprising more people didn’t get struck. Even the dusty, naked madman who frequented the area and sometimes dug around in the filthy gutter looking for scraps of food knew how to dash across Ring Road.

  Since Darko was on his motorcycle and no department vehicle was available, he had given Safo some cash for the relatively short taxi ride from Headquarters to the bank. Transportation for Ghana’s under-resourced police officers was a devil of a problem. Small police stations had no official vehicles at all, and even CID Headquarters had few to go around. In most cases, the police expected victims or their families to chip in for transportation costs or provide a vehicle. Darko and everyone else knew the system was being abused, however. What officers requested for “transportation” had become grossly inflated. The repercussions to a civilian not paying up were simple: foot-dragging on the case. Although Darko accepted offers of cash for transportation, he never demanded it, which was a source of annoyance to colleagues who considered him a saboteur of sorts.

  He arrived before her and chatted for a few minutes with the aging watchman who had been at StanChart for as long as Darko could recall. The heat drew sweat off Darko’s brow like a river delta. The cooling rains would arrive in another month, but for now, the temperatures were ferocious. He left the watchman for the cool of the bank’s interior.

  The baby-faced receptionist looked almost too young to work.

  “Do you have a Michael Amalba?” Darko asked.

  “Yes, please. Mr. Amalba is upstairs,” the receptionist said. “Have a seat and I will call him. Your name, please?”

  Darko told him, adding that he was waiting for someone else before talking to Michael.

  Safo arrived perspiring. “Sorry, sir. The taxi broke down, so I ran the rest of the way.”

  “Sit down and catch your breath,” Darko told her, signaling to the receptionist that he was ready to meet Michael.

  The receptionist called, and Michael came down after about five minutes. He wore dark slacks, a white shirt, and plain black tie. He was shorter and fairer than his brother. His shaved scalp did little to hide the bald runway at the top of his head. Maybe he was Peter’s half-brother or a close cousin whom Peter called “brother,” which was common in Ghana. Darko introduced himself and Safo.

  “You are here regarding what, please?” Michael asked warily, once he’d learned they were police officers.

  “Can we talk in private, sir?” Darko said.

  “Yes. Please come upstairs.”

  Michael’s office was as sparse as the Sahara Desert. He sat behind his desk. Darko and Safo took seats on the other side.

  “Your brother is Peter Amalba?” Darko asked.

  “Yes, sir. Well, he’s my half-brother. Is something wrong?”

  “You haven’t heard about his arrest?”

  “Oh, no.” Michael pulled back. “What has he done?”

  “He assaulted a bishop yesterday at a Power of God Ministry Church service in La Paz.”

  “Bishop Clem Howard-Mills?”

  “Yes. You know the bishop?”

  “Not personally, but I know of him. Was he hurt? The bishop, I mean.”

  “He sustained a wound to the neck, but I understand he’s recovering.”

  “Awurade,” Peter said. “Who arrested Peter, please?”

  “I did,” Darko said. “I happened to be at the church.”

  Michael rested his brow in his palm as he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve been afraid of something like this happening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Michael looked up. “For the past two months, Peter has been acting erratically, losing his temper often, getting angry about even the smallest things. He even got sacked from his job last week because people couldn’t work with him anymore.”

  “He was working at a Max Mart, correct?”

  “Yes, please.” Michael shot a glum glance at Darko. “I don’t think I can even tell my parents in the village back home that Peter has done this. It’s a disgrace.”

  Darko waited a moment. “That doesn’t make it any easier to bring up another matter,” he went on. “Does the name Katherine Vanderpuye mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, please,” Michael said, fidgeting. “I read she was a victim of a terrible murder over the weekend.”

  “Yes,” Darko said, squinting at Michael. “Are you okay? You’re sweating.”

  “I’m all right,” Michael said with a nervous laugh. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I think I might be coming down with a fever.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But returning to what I was saying, Peter was spotted around the scene of Katherine’s murder—at her house, that is.”

  Michael looked startled and confused. “Meaning? Please, I don’t understand.”

  “Katherine was killed between the hours of eleven on Friday night and five in the morning, Saturday. Peter was witnessed standing in the vicinity of her home around six-thirty Saturday morning.”

  “He was?” Michael said, surprised.

  “Yes. Furthermore, Peter claims he went to Katherine’s house at approximately three in the morning.”

  Michael appeared mystified. “But that isn’t possible, Inspector. Peter was at home with me the whole night.”

  “Wait a minute,” Darko said. “I want to be sure we’re talking about the same night. I’m referring to the Friday and Saturday that have just passed—the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth. Only two and three days ago.”

  Michael nodded. “Yes, that’s what I mean too. Peter went to sleep on Friday night before I did. Saturday morning I left at five-thirty to get to the bank early because now we open half days on Saturdays, and he was still in bed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Michael laughed. “Yes, Inspector, I’m positive. We sleep in the same room, not in a mansion where we can come and go without each other knowing. I can’t afford a big house. Not in Accra.”

  Yes, Peter could have made it to Kate’s house by the time Christine arrived, Darko thought, but he couldn’t have been there at three when he claimed to have seen Bishop Howard-Mills. As Darko had suspected, Peter must have made up the story, borrowing the details of the machete and Esi’s arrival from news reports.

  But Darko needed to be sure. “Michael,” he said, “is there someone else who can confirm you and your brother were home Friday night?”<
br />
  Michael turned down the corners of his mouth with regret. “No, please. I’m very sorry for all this. Sometimes my brother fabricates.”

  “Any idea why he does that?”

  Michael made a gesture of resignation. “Seems like all his life he’s battled with his self-image and tried to make himself the center of attention whenever he can, and at times he does that by making up stories.”

  “Are you aware of his having an affair with Katherine Vanderpuye?”

  Michael shook his head. “Peter never mentioned her to me. Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes. He said they were in love with each other.”

  Michael sighed. “I’m embarrassed to keep apologizing, but that’s another story he’s telling you.”

  Darko’s attention had strayed to the pictures on Michael’s desk, about the only personalized item in the room. “Who are the other people in the photo with you?”

  “My ex-wife and our daughter.”

  Darko saw a look of sadness pass across Michael’s face. A messy divorce, no doubt. Darko thought of Katherine and Solomon.

  “Your daughter is pretty,” Darko said.

  A smile lit up Michael’s face. “She’s the apple of my eye.”

  “Do you get to see her?”

  “Two weekends in a month,” Michael said.

  Darko couldn’t imagine seeing his boys so infrequently. He would wither and die. “You didn’t see your daughter this weekend?”

  “No, sir,” Michael said. “So, please, what will happen to Peter now?”

  “He’ll be arraigned tomorrow morning for his attack on Bishop Howard-Mills,” Darko said.

  Michael’s eyes beseeched Darko. “Please, I know Peter has done wrong, but he’s not well. Please take care of him.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can. But you should understand that once Peter is in prison custody, I’ll have nothing to do with his case until it comes up for trial—which could take months or even years.”

  Michael became even more dejected. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry to bring you such bad news, Mr. Amalba.” Darko stood up, and Safo followed. Michael saw them to the top of the stairs. As Darko was about to descend, he turned to Michael. “Do you go to church, Mr. Amalba?”