by Kwei Quartey
Coffee, Darko thought. The latest craze among rich Ghanaians. “Thank you, John,” he said. “You have been very helpful. Have a nice day.”
Darko and Safo waited about forty-five minutes for Reverend Atiemo’s service to end, then watched as the reverend went up to the stage, took off his jacket, and chatted with the choir, shaking hands and hugging a few of the female members.
“Let’s go,” Darko said to Safo.
They mounted the stage and Atiemo turned to them. “Can I help you?” He was quite young, athletic, and lean with dark skin, lively eyes and an artfully trimmed beard. His clerical shirt was still wet with perspiration from his energetic sermon.
“Reverend Atiemo?” Darko said. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Dawson. My partner, Lance Corporal Safo. We’re investigating the death of Katherine Vanderpuye.”
Atiemo’s expression saddened at once. “What a terrible crime,” he said, shaking his head. “Impossible to fathom.”
“Can we talk with you about it for a moment?” Darko asked.
“Let’s have a seat over there,” Atiemo said, gesturing to the now empty choir chairs. He pulled three of them out to form a triangle.
“We believe Katherine was murdered sometime between eleven last Friday night and five Saturday morning,” Darko said.
“I see,” Atiemo said, his brow furrowed. “And the watchman as well, I understand?”
Darko nodded. “Yes. Katherine hosted a bussell last Wednesday night, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes. She was obviously still carrying the burden stemming from her discord with her husband, but I sensed she was healing, leaving some of the pain behind.”
“You felt deeply for her,” Darko said.
“We all did,” the reverend said.
“Any idea who might have wanted her dead?”
Atiemo sighed. “I can’t even imagine that, Inspector.”
“Can you try, please?” Darko pressed him. “Someone who might have hated her enough to kill her?”
The reverend shook his head. “Only the Lord knows who has committed this heinous act. I pray that He leads you to the culprit.”
Convenient answer, Darko thought. “What about anyone in the congregation, Reverend? Did you ever witness a negative interaction between Katherine and a fellow church attendee?”
“Never,” Atiemo said firmly. “Not Madam Katherine. She was a goodhearted Christian woman. Always kind to others.”
“Peter Amalba, the man who attacked the bishop—have you ever met him or seen him in the congregation, Reverend?”
“Not that I recall, sir. I have a good memory for faces, so I think I would remember.”
“Thank you, Reverend.” Darko stood up to leave. “Oh, one other thing. Did you attend the vigil last Friday at the Baden Powell Hall?”
“Yes, please. I always accompany the bishop. I took over from him at one a.m. for about three hours, and then we finished up together.”
“In that three-hour interval, then,” Darko said, “you didn’t see either Mr. Howard-Mills or Mr. Papafio?”
Atiemo shrugged. “No, sir, but they are always there backstage—they may be resting, but they are vigilant. Why do you ask, please?”
“Just routine inquiries, Reverend. Thank you for your time.”
“What do you think?” Darko asked Safo once they were out of earshot and on the way back to the car park.
“Seems like they all have an alibi,” she said.
“But it’s a shared alibi,” Darko said. “If it’s good for one, it’s good for all. Remember the bishop, John Papafio, and Reverend Atiemo are in a way a family, and family members stick up for each other. They will lie to your face as easily as breathing oxygen. What I’ve learned in this business, Safo, is that it’s best to assume everyone is lying until proven otherwise. John Papafio has already lied to me at least once.”
Safo raised her eyebrows. “Please, how do you know? What did he say?”
Darko related his conversation with John, but didn’t elaborate on how exactly he had detected John’s lie. Except with close family, Darko did not talk about his synesthesia. No would understand, anyway.
“So,” Darko continued, “we have to find someone neutral to all parties who can confirm their whereabouts.”
“Yes, sir.” Safo hesitated. “But maybe none of them killed Katherine, sir.”
“That is true,” Darko agreed. “That’s why we have to talk the person closest to Katherine. Her husband.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
After the boys were in bed, Darko and Christine shared a large bowl of banku and steaming okro stew.
“How is the investigation going?” she asked.
“Mr. Amalba stabbed a fellow prisoner this morning,” Darko said.
“Awurade,” Christine said.
“Oppong thinks Amalba is crazy. I’m not so sure.”
“What difference does it make if he’s a murderer?” she said.
Darko grunted. “It might at trial.” He pinched off a chunk of banku and dipped it in stew. “Let me ask you something. Solomon’s parents opposed his marriage to Kate, right?”
“His father, Ezekiel, was in favor of it, but Maude and her daughter, Georgina, did not like Kate one bit. They felt she wasn’t good enough for Solo.”
“Why?”
“On the face of it, it was social class and ethnic group. You know, Kate’s family didn’t have the social status of the Vanderpuyes. Kate didn’t go to a prestigious boarding school the way Solomon did, and so on. And then Kate wasn’t a Ga like Solomon, and Maude appears to think the only people that matter in this world are the Ga. Those are the outward, conscious rationalizations, but I believe that inside the small minds of the likes of Maude and Georgina, the issue boiled down to cheap, gutter jealousy.”
“Really? Jealous of Kate’s looks?”
“Her looks, her charm. Kate was the evil, beguiling woman who stole Solomon from his mother.”
Darko was slurping stew off his fingers with relish. “So,” he said, in between smacking his lips, “could Maude and Georgina have killed Kate? Or had her killed?”
Christine, who had finished, was rinsing off her hands in a bowl of clean water on the table. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You see, rather than kill Kate physically, Maude and her disciple child, Georgina, would have much preferred to steadily destroy Kate’s soul and watch her slowly die emotionally.” Christine smiled grimly. “It’s the Ghanaian woman’s way.”
Darko considered that for a moment. Could be, he supposed. “I went to see Bishop Howard-Mills today at the Qedesh,” he said, devouring what his wife had left in the bowl. She had about one-quarter his appetite. “He’s out of the hospital.”
“Praise God,” Christine said. “How is the bishop doing?”
“He seemed a little weak, but I would expect that.”
“What did you discuss with him?”
“His alibi. And John’s and Reverend Atiemo’s too.”
“And what conclusion did you reach?”
“Too early to reach a conclusion.”
“I don’t think the solution lies with those three,” Christine said.
“Because they are so-called men of God?”
“No, Darko. Because there’s Peter Amalba. That’s where you should be focusing your attention—certainly not on Bishop Howard-Mills. What motive could he possibly have?”
“Howard-Mills was seeing Kate over several weeks for so-called counseling, most of that time alone with her in his office. I can see him making indecent proposals to her and getting turned down. That might have lead to rage and murder.”
Christine frowned and sat back. “Why do you have such a poor impression of the bishop?”
“It has n
othing to do with impressions,” Darko said, shaking his head and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “We look at those who were close or became close to the victim. The bishop must have shared some intimate moments with Katherine. He could easily have fallen in love with her. A man who is used to getting what he wants through power and wealth can turn bitter when a woman rejects his advances.”
“You don’t know him that well,” Christine said. “He’s not that kind of man. I’ve known him a long time. He’s a caring person and a friend.”
“But you don’t go to his church usually, do you?”
“Rarely. I prefer Ascendancy Gospel. Smaller and more personal.”
“So how do you know the bishop so well, then?”
Christine hesitated. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you the truth. Maybe I should have a long time ago. You remember when Mama took Hosiah to the traditional healer and Hosiah slipped in the wash pan and cut his scalp?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, you had an issue with Mama over it, and she and I started to bear our grudges against each other as well. We had some quarrels. I was getting depressed. You were working on the Ketanu murder, so I couldn’t really talk it over with you, and in any case I thought it might just complicate things even more. So Kate suggested Mama and I get some counseling from Bishop Howard-Mills. Kate had been to him before over some problems, and he had been very helpful. I took her advice.”
This was all news to Darko. “You and Mama actually went for counseling from the bishop?” he asked in surprise.
“Not exactly counseling. It’s hard to explain. He prays with you and advises love and understanding. And forgiveness.”
“And the sessions helped you?”
“Very much so. It was like therapy.”
Darko suddenly felt excluded, which was unusual between him and his wife. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was going to,” Christine said. “But . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry. The more time passed, the less important it seemed. All that mattered to me was that I felt better and had more energy and love for you and Hosiah.”
Darko felt both hot and cold around his neck. “These sessions with him—you never went to him by yourself, did you?”
“Of course not. Come on.”
“Okay, forget it,” Darko said abruptly, feeling peeved and oddly unbalanced. “Let’s turn to Solo now. If he thought—or knew—Kate was having an affair, could he have taken revenge and murdered her?”
“You’re back to the affair idea again?” Christine said irritably. “It didn’t even have to be that scenario. Solo was crazed over her inability to bear a child, and then he began accusing her of being a witch and bringing evil to the home. In fact, Kate began receiving anonymous calls to that effect. I don’t know if it was Solo making the calls, but the point is, people sometimes kill what they fear.”
“True,” Darko agreed. “What other possible motives?”
“Kate was filing a lawsuit against him.”
“So he might have wanted to stop her. Filing for divorce?”
“No, it was over the house in Dzorwulu. Both their names had been on the loan document, but the arrangement was Kate paid Solo her share in cash, and then he paid a check to the bank for the full mortgage amount. At some point when the marriage was going down the drain, Solo went to the bank and somehow got a new loan, this time with his name and his mother’s instead of Kate’s.”
Darko frowned. “Really? Was that legal?”
“I don’t know,” Christine said. “I’m no real estate attorney, but it sounds shady to me. You know, Solo has connections. He can swing anything the way he wants to.”
“Who was Christine’s lawyer?”
“James Bentsi-Enchill.”
“Ah, I know him,” Darko said. “I see him at the courthouse from time to time. Big shot in town. He must have been costing Kate a pretty penny.”
“She and James were family friends.” After a brief pause she added, “To be more precise, James and Kate had a thing going in senior high.”
“Is that so?” Darko said with interest. “Could there be something in that? Like a rekindling of an old flame between them that made Solomon jealous?”
“It’s possible.”
“I’ll need to talk to Bentsi-Enchill in any case. Thank you for the information. What about your bank manager friend? Did you reach her?”
“Sorry,” Christine said. “Not yet, but I’ll keep trying. Her number could have changed.”
Darko remembered something. “Bishop Howard-Mills has invited me to a vigil tomorrow night, and I’ve accepted. I won’t be staying all night, but I wanted to see what goes on.”
“Do you get a ringside seat?”
“Apparently so.”
“Impressive,” Christine said. “I’ve never seen him in action. Are you taking your trainee with you?”
“The bishop provided me with only one pass.”
“I would have loved to go.”
“Next time.”
“Right,” she said. “You know very well this will probably the first and last time you ever go to a prayer vigil.”
He winked at her. “You never know. I might be born again and turn to the ministry.”
She laughed. “That will be the day.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Solomon Vanderpuye was staying at his parents’ residence, a sprawling olive-green house on walled-off, spacious surroundings in the posh neighborhood of Roman Ridge. Darko and Safo waited in the sitting room while the houseboy went to fetch Solomon from somewhere inside. Darko checked his phone for calls.
Safo was gazing around at the leather furniture, glass center table, fancy floor lamps, LED lights on the ceiling, expensive rugs on the floor, African paintings and masks on the wall. Darko counted six framed photographs of Solomon, his parents Maude and Ezekiel, and his sister Georgina in different permutations.
“Nice place,” Safo whispered.
“It is,” Darko agreed.
The houseboy came back. “Please, Mr. Vanderpuye is coming.”
Solomon came out dressed in black shorts and a collarless indigo shirt embroidered with a Ghanaian pattern. Darko had met him at the wedding, and he remembered him as a smallish man—certainly shorter than Kate. But he had put on weight and grown a beard since. Most of all, Solomon’s eyes had lost the life and vibrancy they had had on that occasion.
“Good morning, Solomon,” Darko said, standing up to shake hands. “I don’t know if you remember me. I met you at your wedding—”
Solomon lifted a finger at him. “Christine Dawson’s husband, right?”
“Yes, my name is Darko. I’m a chief inspector with CID.”
“I remember now, yes. Welcome.”
“Thank you. This is Lance Corporal Safo.”
“Please have a seat.”
“My condolences for your loss,” Darko said. “How are you doing?”
“Well, I’m managing through God’s mercy,” Solomon said, turning the corners of his lips down. “Is that why you’re here? About Kate’s murder?”
“Yes, I’m in charge of the investigation.”
“I see,” Solomon said. “This morning, Nana and Ransford came here creating a ruckus, accusing me of killing Kate. It was horrible.”
“Any reason to accuse you?”
Solomon scowled. “None except they need a scapegoat and I’m the easiest target. It’s true Kate and I separated in duress, but it doesn’t mean I would butcher her with a machete like it said in the papers.”
“We can’t say for sure whether it was a machete,” Darko commented. “The weapon wasn’t recovered at the site.”
“Could it have been a burglar who turned on Kate when she caught him?”
“I doubt it,” Darko said. “It looks like she opened the do
or to someone she knew.”
“Someone she knew,” Solomon repeated. “Well, ask me anything you want.” He raised his tired eyes to the detectives. “Maybe everyone thinks I killed Kate, but I’m innocent, that much I can tell you.”
“Where were you late Friday night to Saturday morning?”
“I was here at home.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“Well, up to around ten, when my father and mother go to bed. But not later than that.”
“What about a watchman who can verify you didn’t leave home at some point overnight.”
“We had one,” Solomon said, “but we sacked him last week after we found him sleeping on the job. We’re looking for a new one.”
“Before her death, Kate alleged she was receiving phone calls accusing her of being a witch. What do you know about that?”
“I seriously doubt that story. More likely, Kate made it up. Over the two months leading up to her death, she became increasingly paranoid.”
“Did you ever call her a witch? Either to her face or behind her back?”
“No, of course I didn’t, Inspector.”
Darko’s palm stung like the bite of a fire ant. Another liar, he thought. “You were aware Kate was going to sue you for ownership of the house?”
“Yes, I know.”
“How did you feel about that?”
Solomon sucked his teeth in dismissal. “It made no difference to me whatsoever.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” Darko asked. “Kate was threatening the legality of your replacing her name with your mother’s.”
“Perfectly legal,” Solomon said bluntly. “James Bentsi-Enchill took the case out of revenge. This man wanted Kate as far back as when we were all in secondary school. He tried to woo her and failed. Then I came along and swept Kate off her feet. And so, to spite me, she turns to him.” Solomon’s lip curled as if he had just tasted bitter sap.
“You hated that,” Darko said. “And you still do.”
Solomon shook it off like a dog ridding itself of fleas. “I didn’t care that much.”
