by Kwei Quartey
“Who told you he molested a child?”
“He did,” Amalba said, gazing steadily at Oppong. “He confessed it to me last night.”
“What do you mean, he confessed it to you?”
“I preached to him, and he came to repent of his sins. ‘Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.’ The words of the apostle Peter, my namesake.”
“Who gave you the authority to preach?” Oppong demanded.
“It comes naturally to me.”
“You convinced him of what you were saying, and then you stabbed him?” Oppong said in disbelief. “What kind of evil man are you?”
“I obeyed what the Lord told me.”
“You’re saying God talks to you?”
Amalba nodded, a smile hovering on his lips. “Yes, please.”
Darko studied him, trying to discern perhaps a wild look in Amalba’s eyes—anything to substantiate that he was crazy, but Darko found nothing except a calmness—even a confidence—in the prisoner’s demeanor.
Darko, Oppong, and Safo withdrew to another corner of the room.
“He’s a madman,” Oppong said.
Darko was doubtful. “I’m not sure, sir. I believe he’s pretending to be.”
“I think it’s difficult to feign madness,” Oppong disagreed. “In any case, the point is moot. In the end, it’s not for us to decide. We’ll ask the judge tomorrow at the arraignment if we can admit Amalba to the psychiatric unit at the police hospital under armed guard for an evaluation.”
The ambulance finally arrived with two technicians and a stretcher between them. They seemed unfazed by Chinery’s condition, and in fact it seemed to Darko that they were taking their time over something that required due haste. At last they were gone, carting the suspect away with an armed officer. The spectators dissipated in turn.
“What about Amalba and his whereabouts Friday night?” Oppong asked Darko.
“His brother, Michael, says both of them slept at home overnight, in which case Peter could not have been at the murder scene before about six-thirty. But we still need to check the accuracy of Michael’s statement. We’re working on that.”
“Come on, Dawson,” Oppong urged. “Tie up these loose ends. Maybe someone is mixing up times, or Michael could be lying for his brother, and so on. Have you spoken to Bishop Howard-Mills yet?”
“No, sir,” Darko said. “We’re about to do that right now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time Darko and Safo got to Korle Bu Hospital, where Howard-Mills had been a patient on Sunday, the bishop had signed himself out. Darko and Safo proceeded to the bishop’s church on Kotei Robertson Street in North Kaneshie.
The buildings comprising his Qedesh compound resembled three enormous immovable ships at port, all white and spotless in the scorching sun. The windows were circular with dark, robust latticework that invited one to peep in. Perhaps that’s what Howard-Mills wanted.
Darko got directions to the bishop’s office from a passerby, and he and Safo walked across a grassy area with burgundy bougainvillea bushes. Several people sat on benches underneath trees that provided welcome shade. It was the best approximation of a park Darko had seen, and Accra needed more like it.
They approached the smallest of the three buildings. It was open on all sides, unlike the other two. At earsplitting levels, a loudspeaker blasted as a pastor—not Howard-Mills—stood on the stage and chanted a prayer. The pews were less than half full; after all, it was a Tuesday afternoon. In the evening, and even more so that weekend, the space would be packed.
“Jee-sus-uh,” the pastor was growling with ponderous breath that made Darko’s eardrums flutter, “Son of God-uh, teach us the way-uh, banish Sa-tan-uh, take away tempt-ation-uh—”
“Have you ever been to this church?” Darko asked Safo.
“Only once, sir.”
“Have you met Bishop Howard-Mills?”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen him preach, but never met him. You can’t go to him unless you can afford his consultation fees.”
“How much is that roughly?”
“It can be up to eight hundred cedis.”
Darko whistled. Pricey. He paused to take a good look inside the church. Shrubbery and vines festooned the top rafters, while a massive bouquet decorated the rear of the stage, where, behind the growling pastor stood a man in a dark robe speaking rapidly and quietly into another microphone. It sounded like gibberish.
“What is he saying?” Darko asked Safo.
“He’s speaking in tongues,” she explained.
In the pews, members of the congregation walked back and forth, talking rapidly and gesticulating to themselves as if conversing with unseen beings in some private world.
“Them too?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” she said. “‘And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost, and began to speak with other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance.’ Acts two, verse three.”
Darko was impressed. “You know your Bible. Can you also speak in tongues?”
“At times. When the Holy Spirit enables me to do so.”
“I see,” Darko said, studying Safo for a moment. Christine was a believer in God and Christ, but she wasn’t in Safo’s league—not even close.
They continued beyond the building and found the bishop’s office behind it. Safo knocked on a door the same color as the latticework in the windows, and they entered. John Papafio was at the desk in the room and rose when he saw them.
“Inspector Dawson,” he said with a broad smile. “You are welcome.”
“Good afternoon, John,” Darko said. “This is my partner, Detective Lance Corporal Safo.”
“Afternoon, madam. You seem familiar. Have I seen you here before?”
“You might have,” Safo said. “I’ve attended one of Bishop Howard-Mills’s services before.”
“That’s great,” John said. “Welcome to both of you.”
“We went to the hospital looking for Bishop Howard-Mills,” Darko said, “but we learned he had already left the hospital.”
“Yes, sir,” John said. “He has already returned to work, praise God.”
“He’s okay?” Darko asked, surprised at the rapid recovery.
“He is blessed, thank you, Inspector. Please have a seat. I’ll check if he can see you now.”
The office was compact and air-conditioned. John’s small, busy desk sat against the wall. He opened the door next to a file cabinet and disappeared into the adjacent room.
Safo sat, but Darko remained on his feet to look up at the large, framed photographs of Bishop Howard-Mills looking down with a smile or in action preaching. In one picture, the bishop was shaking hands with the current president, and in another, he was presenting a giant check to a Christian charity.
John came back into the room. “Please, Bishop is available to speak with you now.”
“Thank you,” Darko said, beckoning to Safo, who rose and followed him. John held the door open for them and left discreetly.
Howard-Mills’s office was even colder than the anteroom. His polished desk was broad and long. He had more large photos hanging on the wall, and Darko was startled to see one of him shaking hands with Barack Obama when the American president had visited Ghana. Apparently, Howard-Mills had been one of a long line of dignitaries who had met him. It indicated the bishop’s political connections.
Howard-Mills got up from his chair behind the desk with a wince as he did so. He had a large bandage on the left side of his neck.
“Bishop?” Darko said, meeting him halfway to shake hands. “Are you okay?”
“I’m well, Chief Inspector,” he
said with a smile, albeit anemic. “Thank you for asking.”
Darko introduced Safo and was certain he saw her curtsey slightly. Howard-Mills offered them two comfortable chairs to the side of the room and pulled up a third.
“I’m surprised you’re back at work so soon, Bishop,” Darko said.
“The doctors wanted to keep me longer,” Howard-Mills said, “but I have a flock of congregants to attend. God has called me to do this work, and I cannot shirk it just because of an unfortunate incident.”
Darko smiled. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, I think it was more than an unfortunate incident. Anyway, I’m happy to see you are recovering.”
“Physically,” the bishop said. “Emotionally I’m still feeling the pain of dear Katherine’s death.”
“Understandably,” Darko said.
“And Mr. Amalba?” Howard-Mills asked. “How is he?”
“We questioned him today,” Darko said. “I’m not sure how sane he is.” He didn’t go on to mention the attack at the police station Amalba had unleashed.
“I have been praying for him,” the bishop said. “May God have mercy upon him. I forgive him for what he did.”
“Did you know him before the attack, Bishop?”
“Never met him in my life,” Howard-Mills said, shaking his head decisively.
“He claims to have seen you on the morning of Kate’s murder.”
“Where? When?”
“Around three in the morning, coming from the direction of Kate’s house.”
Howard-Mills at first appeared startled, and then grave. “I’m sorry, but he’s mistaken. If he saw someone, it wasn’t me. At that time, I had finished my all-night prayer vigil at Baden Powell Memorial Hall on High Street.” He got up and went to his desk, returning with a glossy pamphlet, which he handed to Darko. “Here’s the evidence.”
Next to a dramatic photograph of Howard-Mills was wording in bright red:
A NIGHT OF PROPHECY, PRAYER & PRAISE
Friday 28 April
At the Baden Powell Memorial Hall, High Street
The Night GOD declares “NO” To The Enemy
BANISH INIQUITY
BANISH WICKEDNESS
BANISH SORCERY
“I think you will have more than enough witnesses to say I was there the whole night long,” the bishop.
“May I keep this?” Darko asked.
“By all means, Inspector.”
“And I will need one or two names of people who can confirm your presence at the vigil all night.”
“But of course. You can even start with John, my assistant—he always accompanies me to the events. You can also ask Reverend Patrick Atiemo, the one you saw preaching as you were coming. He was with the salvation team as well.”
“What happens exactly during an all-night vigil?” Darko asked.
Howard-Mills laced his fingers. “It depends. If it is a prayer vigil, then it’s all about salvation and coming to know the Lord. If you already know Him, then you will be brought closer. If it is a deliverance vigil, we concentrate on casting out evil spirits and demons from members who come forward.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“I usually work with two or three pastors,” Howard-Mills explained. “Reverend Atiemo, for instance. We take turns in leading the congregation through the vigil. It’s exhausting, so one person cannot take the whole night—at least, I certainly can’t. I normally take a break between about one and three, and then we finish up at around four, four-fifteen.”
“You still have a congregation at that hour?”
“Yes. Surprising, isn’t it? But they come. God has no time limit for redemption.”
“I suppose not,” Darko said. “Where do you take your break, Bishop?”
“The hosting venue typically provides us with a room or lounge where we can relax, have something to eat or drink, and so on,” Howard-Mills explained. “Especially Baden Powell Hall, where we were Friday night. They are very accommodating. I will be holding another vigil tomorrow night at Independence Square. Would you like to come?”
Darko had seen videos of priests “casting out demons,” but never witnessed it in person. It should be interesting. “I would, yes,” he said.
“I believe John has one last pass to the VIP area near the stage.”
“Thank you very much, Bishop. I appreciate that.”
“Always welcome.”
“Bishop, what time did Gifty call you on Saturday morning, please?”
Howard-Mills smiled slightly. “She has revealed herself as the mystery caller?”
“You could say that.”
“Gifty is one of my most active congregants and a lovely lady. She called me at around eight or so. I said I would go to Kate’s house immediately.”
In the periphery of his vision, Darko saw Safo’s head slightly bowed as she unconsciously rubbed the palm of her left hand with the thumb of her right. He would prefer she watch a witness or suspect closely, but he suspected she felt awed by the bishop.
“I’ve known Kate’s family for many years,” Howard-Mills continued. “I felt a special connection to her.”
“I understand she and her husband, Solomon, sought your counseling during their marital turmoil.”
Howard-Mills put his palms flat on his thighs. “That’s true, but more Kate than her husband. He was not as comfortable sharing his feelings as Kate was. After a while, he stopped coming for the sessions, and Kate made appointments with me on her own.”
“Several times a week, a month?”
“Probably no more than twice in a month,” Howard-Mills said, getting up again to his desk. “I can tell you exactly how often.” He looked at his laptop screen, which was the latest MacBook. Darko would have liked to have owned one himself, but the price of Apple products in Ghana was far beyond his reach.
“In April, I saw her twice,” the bishop said. In March, three times. February, twice; January, just once.” He returned to sit with the two detectives.
“And you always saw her here in your office?” Darko asked.
“Yes—or in the church itself sometimes if there wasn’t a service or other activity.”
“Which could not have been very often,” Darko observed. “You have a packed schedule of services.”
“You’re right, Inspector.”
“But you never met with Kate outside of the church setting?”
The bishop shook his head. “No, not at all.”
“This is in confidence, of course, Bishop,” Darko said, leaning forward, “but since you knew the couple well, is it possible Solomon might have—”
“Murdered Katherine?” Howard-Mills finished. “It’s okay; I’m not afraid of the question, Inspector. Anything is possible, but honestly, Inspector, as bad as things became between Kate and Solomon, I can’t see it in his heart to commit such an act. He was stressed, but not murderous.”
“Anyone else come to mind?”
“Not as such, Mr. Dawson.”
Darko stood up. “Thank you, Bishop.”
“You’re very welcome, Inspector,” Howard-Mills said. He looked at Safo with a sparkle in his eyes. “Miss Safo, you are as quiet as a little mouse!”
She smiled, twisting and squirming like a fondled puppy.
Howard-Mills switched to Twi, joking with Safo as he told her she was attractive, but now it was time to get tough as a policewoman. Darko noted the bishop’s effect on Safo, who giggled shyly.
“You look somehow familiar,” Howard-Mills continued with her. “Have you attended my church?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
“Aha—I thought so! Are you happy with it?”
“I am,” she said, beaming.
“Well,” Howard-Mills said to Darko, “let’s go outside and I’ll ask John to give you
an invite.”
He held open the door, and Darko didn’t miss the bishop touching the small of Safo’s back lightly as she followed Darko through the doorway. He loves women and women want him, Darko thought with sudden clarity. Had Kate fallen in love with the bishop? Where had they been seeing each other, and when had it started?
Darko and Safo hadn’t gotten very far out of the bishop’s office when he stopped. “Wait here one second,” he said to her.
Darko trotted back, knocked on John’s door and went in. Howard-Mills had returned to his quarters.
“Yes, sir?” John said.
“I forgot to ask you,” Darko said, “when Mrs. Vanderpuye used to come to counseling with the bishop, did he shut the door or leave it open?”
“Yes, please.”
“Which one—open or closed?”
“Sorry, Inspector,” John said in some embarrassment. “Closed. The sessions are always private. They are none of my business, so unless I am not here, Bishop Howard-Mills keeps the door closed.”
If what John was telling him was true, anything could have been going on in the bishop’s office behind the closed door.
“Did you ever accidentally overhear any of their conversations?” Darko asked John bluntly.
“Oh, no—not at all,” John said with a reassuring smile.
A fine vibration, like an electrical thrill, spread over Darko’s left palm. John was lying, but it wasn’t particularly surprising. Why would he reveal anything confidential from within this office? Still, the lie pushed him up one rung on the ladder of suspicion.
“Did you attend the vigil at the Baden Powell Hall?” Darko asked.
“Yes, please. Always.”
“And you were there all night, John?”
He seemed puzzled. “Of course, Inspector. Me, Bishop Howard-Mills, Reverend Atiemo—we were all there.”
“No one left the venue at any time?” Darko persisted.
“No, sir,” John said, appearing uncomfortable. “How can any of us be absent during the vigil?”
“The bishop took a rest between one and three in the morning, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, but he was there all the time,” John asserted. “He normally stays in the lounge area and has some refreshments. He likes coffee.”
