by Kwei Quartey
“Your expression says otherwise,” Darko said. “I’ll put it to you that you became bitter and angry. Perhaps enough to kill Kate.”
Solomon shook his head, closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. “Please, Inspector. I’m very tired. I don’t want this kind of stress, especially after the Yeboahs this morning. I’ve been hospitable to you because of our connection through Christine, but you have now become hostile. With all due respect, please leave.”
“As you wish, sir.” Darko stood up. “We’ll talk again soon.”
Solomon looked away in annoyance.
“Just one more thing,” Darko said, as he and Safo started to leave. “To which bank do you pay your mortgage?”
“Standard Chartered Bank,” Solomon replied. “Central Branch.”
“And the name of the loan officer, please?”
“Michael Amalba.”
Darko started. “Michael Amalba?”
“Yes. Why do you seem so surprised?”
“Because,” Darko said, “it changes the entire picture.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Michael wasn’t at the bank—off until the next day, the receptionist said.
“Can I help you with something?” she offered.
“No, it’s fine,” Darko said. “Thank you.”
He and Safo left the bank and went outside into the vicious heat.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “Let’s go to Aunty Jane’s, and we can talk about the case.”
Aunty Jane welcomed them, happy to see Darko again. He wanted red-red, but Safo said she wasn’t hungry.
Jane brought them two bottled waters on the house, and Darko guzzled down half of his in one shot. Safo sipped hers.
“So,” he said, “what do you think so far?”
“About Michael Amalba?” she asked tentatively.
“About everything. Start from what we know.”
“We know someone killed Katherine Vanderpuye last Friday night,” she said.
“Speak up a little, please,” Darko said. “I can’t hear you because of the traffic.”
She repeated herself, louder, this time.
“Yes,” Darko agreed. “What time do we know this murder to have taken place?”
“Maybe about one in the morning,” she suggested. “Or two.”
“We don’t know that. You’re speculating. If you were on the witness stand, you would already be in trouble. Between what time and what time are we certain the killing occurred?”
“Between the time your wife and Katherine’s mother left her on Friday night at around eleven o’clock and Saturday morning around five, when Esi came to work.”
“Good. What do we know about how the murderer gained access to the home?”
“No forced entry.”
“Which means what?”
“She might have known the murderer.”
“Or if she didn’t, perhaps he pushed his way in as soon as she opened the door a bit. What do we know about the cause of death?”
“She was mortally wounded by a sharp instrument like a large knife or machete.”
“Probably so. But also consider for example if the assailant strangled her to death first and then used the weapon? So we have to wait for the autopsy results to get a better idea. That will take some time, though.”
Darko’s red-red arrived, and he asked for an extra plate, which he slid in front of Safo. He spooned half of his plate onto hers. “Eat,” he commanded. “You can’t solve murders if your brain is not working, and your brain can’t work without fuel.”
“Honestly, I wasn’t hungry, sir.”
“You’re lying,” he said, rinsing his hands off in the bowl of water one of the servers had brought. “You have to learn to lie better.”
“How do you know I’m lying?” she asked, her face lighting up with curiosity.
“Don’t ask me to explain. Eat.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”
Darko closed his eyes for a moment and savored the succulence of the soft, juicy fried plantain dripping with creamy palm oil that exploded in his mouth. He got up and helped himself to Malta Guinness from the assortment of drinks in the glass-fronted refrigerator. The attendants would add it to the bill.
Darko took a healthy swig of the sweet, non-alcoholic drink that had been his favorite since childhood. “Solomon had a motive for murdering his wife,” he said to Safo. “In fact, he has more than one. Give me one.”
She looked like a student called on by the teacher. “Em, I think . . . well, Solomon hated her for not giving him a child, sir.”
“Yes, and another possibility: Solomon could have become jealous when she turned to his old rival James Bentsi-Enchill.”
“That’s true,” Safo said, scooping up more beans with her plantain. “Add to that her suing him over the house.”
Darko agreed. “That’s where Michael Amalba might come in because he could be complicit in helping Solomon remove his mother’s name.”
“So maybe the two men conspired to kill her?”
“Yes. That’s the importance of what Solomon has just told us.”
They ate in silence for a while.
“Are your parents alive?” Darko asked.
“My mother is.” Safo’s eyes saddened. “My father is dead.”
“My condolences,” Darko said. “What happened?”
“Stomach ulcer. It was about eight years ago. He was having severe abdominal pains. We took him to the hospital, where we waited more than fourteen hours for them to admit him, and all that time he was complaining the pain was getting worse.” Safo winced. “All of a sudden he doubled over and started throwing up blood, and then he collapsed and died right there.”
“I’m sorry,” Darko said. “What did he do for a living?”
“Police officer. Superintendent.”
“Oh!” Darko exclaimed. “I didn’t know.”
She nodded, the pain clearing from her face now. “When I was a little girl, he always took my brother and me to his office on the weekends and we played around while he was doing his work. All the officers there knew us.”
“So, it was your father who inspired you to become a police officer.”
“Yes, please.” She smiled. “I have a picture of my father.”
Safo scrolled through her phone, found it, and showed it to Darko. She must have been about fifteen or sixteen then, standing outside a police station next to her father, who appeared to be fiftyish. He was solemn and a little stiff, angular and lean.
“Was he strict?” Darko asked.
“Yes, please. Very.”
He noticed a change in her voice. It had always been soft, but now it took on a girlish quality. Darko became uncomfortable.
His phone rang. Cairo was on the line. “Daddy’s room is ready. I wanted to start moving his things today and then bring him to the house on Saturday. Are you free tonight?”
Darko was about to answer yes, but then he remembered the vigil. “Sorry, no, Cairo,” he said. “But I can help on Saturday. Will you be okay?”
“Sure, I can manage with Audrey and Franklin. We’ll leave the heavy stuff for the weekend.”
Darko checked his messages, one from Christine asking him to call her.
“What’s up?” he asked when she answered.
“I reached Mary—the manager I said I knew at StanChart.”
“Yes?”
“She’s still there, but she’s leaving because she’s just had an offer from Zenith Bank she can’t refuse. Besides, she and Michael Amalba don’t get along. Apparently, Michael created a cushy position for one of the tellers he’s seeing, and Mary didn’t like that.”
“Okay. So?”
“I got Mary gossiping,” Christine continued, “and she told me Michael went for a traini
ng course in Takoradi this last weekend on Friday and Saturday.”
Darko frowned. “Wait, Michael said he was here in Accra with Peter in their apartment Friday night through to Saturday. Maybe he didn’t go to Takoradi after all?”
“Oh, yes he did,” Christine said. “He has pictures of the party Saturday night in Takoradi right there on his Facebook page. I’ll show it to you when I get home. So you see, Michael was deliberately giving his brother a false alibi. I’m convinced Michael knows Peter murdered Kate.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Early Wednesday evening, Christine and Darko paid respects to the Yeboahs at home. Ransford was dressed plainly in comparison to Nana, who was magnificent in a deep red and black outfit of mourning. She looked lovely but sad. Friends and extended family came in and out and had a little to eat and drink. Funerals in Ghana could be financially ruinous, so Darko and Christine gave what they felt was a generous donation.
Uncommonly subdued, Gifty sat next to her brother. By about 8 p.m., the atmosphere was more relaxed, with pockets of conversation between and among guests.
Darko was due at the prayer vigil in another hour, so he shared his final condolences with the bereaved parents as he prepared to depart.
“Do you have a minute?” Nana asked him. “I wanted to share something with you in private.”
“Sure,” Darko said.
He accompanied her out to the mosquito-netted veranda and the two sat down.
“It will be a long time before I go back to Katherine’s house, if ever,” Nana said, her voice wavering. “Ransford and I have been wondering if you’ve come across anything she left behind in the home like a diary or journal.”
“How do you mean, Aunty?”
“When she was going through all her troubles,” Nana explained, “I suggested she keep a journal of everything that was happening. I felt if she did it even once, twice, three times a week, she would be able to work through some of her stress, her sadness, her pain. She was suffering.” Nana’s eyes welled up. “When I was a girl, I enjoyed having a journal. I didn’t always write anything earth-shaking. Sometimes I just drew flowers, but I always felt better, regardless.”
“Did she begin the journal or diary to your knowledge?”
“That’s what we don’t know,” Nana replied. “The reason I’m telling you is if she did, she might have written down sensitive information, like maybe she was afraid of Solomon, or that he had threatened her—anything like that. Maybe you can get some clues.”
“Thank you for letting me know, Aunty Nana,” Darko said. “Her boxes are in the evidence room now, so I’ll have my partner go through them one more time. Do I have your permission to read her diary if there is one?”
She smiled and pinched his cheek. “Of course. It means so much to us that you’re investigating the case. God bless you in all your efforts.”
“Thank you very much, Aunty.”
One chartered bus after another other pulled up to park and unload passengers at the perimeter of Independence Square. In this vast asphalt-paved space where military parades were held, the faithful were gathering for A Night of Redemption and Deliverance with Bishop Howard-Mills and the Power Ministry of God.
Powerful, generator-run floodlights shone through the swirling dust and smoke. The air was sticky with the salty breeze off the Atlantic a quarter mile behind the Independence Arch at the far end of the square. Darko could feel the excitement and anticipation in the milling crowd, which he skirted to the southernmost side where the stage stood. Two jumbo screens faced the gathering mass so even those who were far back could see the bishop preach and perform miracles. At the moment, a woman on the stage with a choir and band behind her was singing praises to Jesus. She was off key, and the sound over the stacks of giant speakers was distorted, but no one seemed concerned.
Darko got to the VIP entrance, which was overrun by people trying to get in. Some were dressed to kill while others appeared shabby. Tropical sweat could defeat even the best deodorant, so there was plenty of body odor to go around.
Darko noticed a secured area about two hundred meters away to the left where gleaming BMW and Mercedes vehicles were parked next to three Toyotas with Power of God Ministry decals.
Darko began forcing his way to the front, firmly moving people out of the way. At the head of the line, policemen and chaperones in orange reflective jackets checked the credentials of guests, rejecting the posers and yelling at hustlers. Everyone knew a friend of a friend of the bishop, or variations thereof. One of the largest policemen Darko had ever seen examined his ticket.
“Who gave you these?” the policeman demanded.
“John Papafio,” Darko replied, leaning in so he could be heard above the din.
“You know him?” the officer snapped.
Of course, I know him, Darko thought. “Yes,” he said, prepared to pull rank if the giant gave him any problems. The officer nodded and waved Darko through to the other side of the cordon where the chaff had been weeded out. Around a large, white tent from which loud hip-life blasted, scores of well-turned-out people hung around chatting and drinking. Darko realized he was underdressed.
He peeped into the tent to find it full of people eating, drinking, and laughing. Apart from the bar and a DJ, there was a full buffet. Darko stepped back to give way to guests moving in and out.
“Inspector!”
Darko looked right and left before spotting John Papafio in a dark suit and a black-and-white kente vest.
“Welcome, welcome!” he said, laughing and pumping Darko’s hand. “Come in, come in! You don’t have to stand there. Please, help yourself to food and drink. If you can excuse me for one moment—I have to check on something outside. Enjoy!”
John left as quickly as he had appeared. Looking around, Darko recognized a couple of ministers of parliament, some military brass, and then with a jolt, the Inspector General of Police—the highest police officer in the land, appointed by the president. What was he doing here? Darko had crossed from one reality—his ordinary life—to another to which he didn’t belong. The way he had imagined this so-called vigil as a sincere and prayerful gathering had been far off the mark. He had forgotten that charismatic evangelists like Bishop Howard-Mills espoused material wealth as bestowed by God. Praying for riches was quite all right.
Darko’s attention was drawn to a tall woman wearing a stunning teal headdress. She was chatting with a group of guests. She had a gap in her front teeth when she smiled. Not beautiful in any conventional way, but her carriage, physical presence, and authoritative air fixed Darko’s gaze. Thinking back to a photograph he’d seen in the papers or online, he was sure the woman was Mrs. Howard-Mills.
He scanned the crowded space under the tent further. Bodies shifted and moved around like a fast-forwarded video. In a space that opened up for a few seconds, Darko spotted the face of the man he and Safo had sought earlier that day: Michael Amalba.
Darko made his way through the tent’s dense crowd. The music was loud, the drink plentiful, and everyone was happy. The tent was air-conditioned under the power of the mega-generators outside. The women inside were beautiful, perfumed, festooned with jewelry, and impeccably coiffed.
Michael had clearly had quite a bit to drink. His face lit up. “Ei, Inspector!” he slurred as Darko got to him. “What a surprise! How are you?”
He was dressed in a navy suit with a pink shirt, the top two undone buttons revealing a few strands of hair on his chest. Darko sidled up close to him and smiled frostily down at his outstretched hand. “Let’s go outside,” he said into Michael’s ear. “Take the lead; I’m right behind you.”
They emerged from the tent. “This way,” Darko said, guiding him around the corner to the rear, where it was relatively secluded.
Michael was sweating and nervous. “Is something wrong, Inspector?”
“Let’s start with
why you lied to my partner and me,” Darko said. “You said you were with your brother all night Friday, but we know you were in Takoradi at that time. I’ve seen your Facebook photos. Why did you say you were with your brother here in Accra?”
Michael’s brow knotted up. “I’m very sorry, Inspector. I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me.”
“Whether I forgive you is neither here nor there. Answer the question. Why did you do it?”
“I was trying to protect him,” he said.
“Because you know he killed Katherine Vanderpuye?”
“No, please,” Michael stammered. “Inspector Dawson, I beg you for your understanding. Please, let me explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve been struggling with Peter ever since he moved in with me,” Michael began. “He has been getting worse with delusions, paranoia, and erratic behavior. I can barely persuade him to go for treatment at the psychiatric hospital, and I can’t blame him because over there, you sit and wait and wait for hours. It’s as if your turn will never come.
“I didn’t know what to do, but since I’m a man of faith, I turned to God in prayer, and He let me know that I must bring Peter to accept the Lord as his personal savior. If only Peter could do that, all would be well. I attend Bishop Howard-Mills’s church regularly, so I began to take Peter with me to the Qedesh every Sunday for worship.”
“When was that?”
“Just after the new year. Three months ago or so.”
“Go on.”
“For a while, Peter seemed to be getting better and better. He even began to go to the Qedesh on Tuesdays. Then, one evening he came home looking as if he had been to the moon and back. He told me he had met a beautiful woman and had fallen in love. I asked him who it was, but he said he wanted to keep it a secret until he was ready to reveal her. When Peter finally showed me the picture of her on his phone, I thought he was joking. It was a photograph of Katherine Vanderpuye coming out of a Qedesh prayer meeting.
“I said, ‘Peter, don’t you know who that is? That’s Solomon Vanderpuye’s wife.’ I was laughing, but the way he looked at me made me stop at once. He said, ‘She is leaving Solomon to marry me.’ I was baffled, but because he didn’t say anything more about it in the next few days, I decided it was only Peter being himself—you know, his fabrications.”
