by Kwei Quartey
Darko nodded. “Thank you, Blankson. I might need to get in touch with you later.”
They traded phone numbers, Darko said good night and walked to his motorcycle. Scores of buses were still parked, but many had departed. Darko navigated out of the parking lot and turned right onto La Road, which encircled the Black Star Square Monument. Traffic was moderately heavy only because of the prayer vigil. Typically, this part of town was deserted late at night.
Darko passed the entrance to the VIP lot and pulled off onto the shoulder, bumping over dirt and patches of dry grass. He turned and stopped where he had a good view of the car park and Howard-Mills’s Mercedes.
Darko sat there more than thirty minutes feeling sleepy and progressively weary—a heaviness and profound exhaustion he wasn’t used to. He thought he might be having chills. He dozed slightly and started awake in time to see Bishop Howard-Mills’s vehicle emerging from the VIP exit. Darko started up the motorcycle and pulled out. He had to step on the gas to make ground because the Mercedes had gone in the opposite direction around the Black Star Monument.
Darko followed the SUV to 37 Circle, where several thousand tree-dwelling bats left every evening at dusk and returned the following dawn. Then the SUV took Achimota Road toward the forest of the same name.
Traffic thinned out to almost nothing. Building was limited in this protected area, and the night was pitch black. Howard-Mills made a left onto a small unpaved road. Darko rode past to avoid raising suspicion, then made a U-turn a few meters on. He switched off the motorcycle and wheeled it onto the dirt road. Howard-Mills had parked next to a sprawling, low profile bungalow nestled among trees and enclosed by a high chain-link fence. Darko parked and moved forward, stopping at a safe distance. By a light on the outside of the house, Darko could see the bishop walk up to the door and knock. Another light went on, this time inside, and the door opened. The person behind it stepped out just enough for Darko to see it was a young woman of fair complexion. A romantic tryst? That was Darko’s educated guess.
Most important, the bishop had just demonstrated he could leave the premises of one of his prayer vigils. As such, he did have an alibi for last Friday night, but it was only partial. Just as Howard-Mills was visiting this young woman, he could have visited Katherine Vanderpuye to murder her.
Chapter Thirty-one
By the time Darko got into bed around three in the morning, he was ill. His muscles and joints had begun to ache, his head was pounding, and intermittent chills shook his body like a bola truck juddering over a potholed street. He went into a troubled sleep but woke up soon afterward soaked in sweat. His throat felt like asphalt and tasted like an Agbogbloshie sewer. He got up, swaying for a moment like a drunkard. He changed his T-shirt and drank a glass of water. He could tell he had a raging fever. He took two paracetamol tablets and went back to bed, pulling the sheets over him. He felt as if he was freezing, even though he knew he was burning up. Beside him, Christine slept peacefully.
He sensed his temperature reducing, and he drifted to sleep once more. When he awoke again, he was shivering with a vengeance, and Christine was sitting at the bedside sponging his face and torso with a moist towel. It was intolerable.
“Stop, Christine,” he muttered. “Stop! I’m cold.”
“You think you’re cold,” she said. “We have to bring your fever down.”
“Malaria,” he tried to say between the clattering of his teeth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had an attack this bad.”
“I know. Don’t talk, just rest. You’ve been talking in your sleep enough as it is. Hallucinating too.”
“Are you a hallucination?” he asked wryly, trying to laugh—until a red-hot shaft of pain blasted the space between his eyes.
She gave him ibuprofen with sips of water. “I’ll go to the pharmacy for some antimalarial medicine in a little while. Mama is coming down to watch you while I’m gone.”
Darko groaned but didn’t have enough strength to object. Thirty minutes later, he was wet with perspiration again as the fever broke. He slept a little and then became aware of Christine talking to someone outside in the sitting room. Oh—Gifty, most likely.
His eyes closed and he thought he might be dozing off again until he woke with a start. Gifty’s face was in view, but she appeared distorted and seemed to change shape every few seconds.
“Christine told me you went to Bishop Howard-Mills’s prayer meeting last night,” she said, mopping his forehead gently with a tepid washcloth. “I watched it on TV. It was beautiful.”
Darko moaned. Gifty’s voice made his headache worse.
“Did the words of the bishop reach you?” she murmured. “Did Jesus touch you?”
“Leave me alone.” His lips were moving, but he wasn’t sure he was producing any sound.
“Did you hear our great Bishop Howard-Mills?” she persisted. “He was telling us to accept the Lord and remove all spitefulness from our hearts. But you resisted the bishop’s admonition, didn’t you, Darko? I know you did. That’s why, after you had left the rally, you fell ill. It’s a sign from God. Repent, now. Erase the malice you hold in your heart against me, and God will guide your ship safely into port. Why do you continue to hold a grudge against me, hm?”
He opened his eyes and sat up with the little strength he had. The room was spinning. “Go away,” he muttered. “Get away from me!” He gave her a shove, and she stumbled back.
“You are wicked even when you are sick, Darko Dawson,” she whispered furiously. “Wicked!”
“Get out,” he mouthed, falling back to his pillow with a groan. Sitting up had made the room spin. He turned, put his head over the side of the bed and threw up.
He became somewhat aware of Christine holding him up and giving him his anti-malarial medicine, forcing him to drink fluids. He had shaking chills and drenching sweats as he slept on and off. Sometimes he thought Sly and Hosiah came in to look at him and then leave. Or Darko might have dreamt it.
When he woke up fully again, soft light was coming from the window. Was it dawn or dusk?
Hosiah was at the bedside peering at him. “Daddy, are you better?”
Darko nodded. His body pains, headaches, and fever had left as if thunderclouds had gone and a crushing weight had been lifted off his body. He felt light and weak and better all at the same time. “Come,” he said to Hosiah.
The boy clambered on the bed to hug his dad.
“How are you?” Darko asked him, holding him close. “I love you, little man.”
“I’m fine, and I love you too, Daddy. Wait, I want to tell Mama you’re awake.”
He catapulted off the bed and ran outside yelling, “Mama! Daddy woke up.”
Darko gingerly sat up at the side of the bed as Christine came in with the boys.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Just thirsty.”
“Bring Daddy some water, Hosiah,” Christine said.
Sly sat beside Darko and tucked his hand on the inside of his father’s arm.
“Is it Thursday?” Darko asked.
Christine chuckled and stood in front of him, cradling his head against her body. “No, it’s five forty-five on Friday evening.”
“What!” he exclaimed, aghast.
“You’ve been sleeping off and on for more than twenty-four hours,” she told him.
Darko shook his head in disbelief and sucked down the cold water Hosiah had brought him. Water had never tasted so good.
“Lance Corporal Safo has been checking up on you,” Christine said.
Darko nodded. “Okay, I’ll call her.”
“Tomorrow, not tonight,” Christine said sharply. “First you have to eat and get back your strength.”
“No, first I have to shower,” Darko said, sniffing an armpit and pulling a face. “I stink.”
Sly and Hosiah
looked at each other and began to giggle.
“Oh, funny, eh?” Darko said with mock indignation.
The boys laughed even harder.
“I can’t believe you could laugh at your dear, sick father,” Darko said, getting up to the bathroom.
“Daddy?” Sly said, grinning. “Do you need help taking your bath?”
“No!” he yelled back. “Don’t disrespect, eh?”
Darko’s sons fell on the floor in stitches.
“You boys are just silly,” Christine commented, stepping over them. “When you’re finished laughing, please set the table for dinner.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Early Saturday morning, Darko called Cairo to say he would be able to help move their father’s remaining belongings to Cairo’s house.
“Are you sure?” Cairo said. “Shouldn’t you rest?”
“I’m tired of resting,” Darko said. “I’ve been doing that for two days. I feel fine. I’ll see you at Papa’s place in about an hour.”
Next, Darko received a call from Chief Superintendent Oppong.
“I’m glad you’re doing better,” he said to Darko.
“Yes, thank you, sir. I’ll be back at work on Monday.”
Darko briefed his boss about what had happened Wednesday night. “Do you know who lives in that house in Achimota Forest, sir?” he asked.
“That’s the home of Sandra Simpson. You know the guy who designed those three high-rise buildings near the Accra Mall?”
“Yes, sir.”
Simpson had designed the million-dollar high-rise complexes in the colors of the Ghanaian flag: red, yellow, and green.
“That’s his daughter,” Oppong said.
“Is she married, sir?”
“Yes. Simpson is her married name. Her husband owns National Freight Incorporated, an import-export company. He’s rich, and he travels a lot.”
“Which gives her a chance to have an affair all alone in that secluded house.”
“I don’t see what else the bishop would be doing at Sandra’s house at two in the morning,” Oppong agreed.
“I think we should bring him in for questioning,” Darko said. “He’s just shown us that he could leave the premises of his prayer vigil.”
“Talk to Simpson first. If she admits to Howard-Mills spending a couple hours with her on the night of Kate Vanderpuye’s murder, then he has an alibi.”
Good point, Darko thought. “Okay, sir.”
“Just be careful with Howard-Mills,” Oppong warned. “He’s politically connected.”
“I think I’ve been careful enough with him, sir.”
Oppong was silent for a moment. “We’ll discuss it more on Monday,” he said in a clipped voice.
Next, Darko called Safo, who sounded relieved Darko was on the mend.
“Sir,” she continued, “today I went through the texts and call logs in Madam Katherine’s mobile phones.”
Darko was pleased by this show of initiative. “Well done. What did you find?”
“She had three different sim cards. On the first one, I found that beginning February, about ninety percent of her texts were back and forth between Solomon and herself. Kind of like arguments. You said this, I said that, and so on. They became even more frequent from the beginning of April until her death.”
“Did he ever threaten to hurt her?”
“Never.”
“What about the other texts?”
“A few were to and from James Bentsi-Enchill, setting up appointments and so on, but in one, Mr. Bentsi-Enchill said, ‘I can’t wait to see you on Friday, my lovely flower.’”
Darko snorted mentally. How banal. “And her response?”
“She said, ‘Let’s keep it professional.’”
“So Bentsi-Enchill’s prior passions for Katherine might have resurfaced. She turned to James as someone she knew and trusted, regardless of a failed romance in the past. But he might have taken advantage of her needs and demanded sex in return.”
“So unethical, sir.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Darko said. “Did you find any other flirtations from him?”
“Not in his texts. But calls went back and forth between them, some up to twenty-five minutes long, and we don’t know what was said.”
“Right. James and Kate could have been discussing the case, or he might have been trying to romance her. Maybe she refused him multiple times and that enraged him. What else? Texts between the bishop and Katherine?”
“There are many, sir. Most of them are some kind of encouragement. For example, on twenty-third March, he wrote, ‘Your heart is heavy these days, dear Katherine. Read your Bible and take strength from it. Psalm 28:7 says, ‘The LORD is my strength and my shield; in him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to him.’
“The following day, Katherine asks if she can meet him later on, and he tells her, ‘You can come to me, or I can come to you. Let us know each other.’”
Darko frowned. “Odd, the use of the word ‘know.’ Somewhere in Genesis—I don’t remember where—it says something about Adam knowing his wife.”
Safo said nothing. For a moment, Darko thought he had lost the connection. “Safo?”
“Yes, sir. Genesis four: ‘Now Adam knew Eve his wife, and she conceived and bore Cain.’ Please, I don’t think that’s what the bishop meant.”
“Maybe not,” Darko said, moving on. “What about the other two sims? Did you check them as well?”
“Yes, sir. One has almost nothing, but the other has texts and calls to and from Kate’s mother, and, please, also your wife, just asking how she’s doing and is everything okay.”
“Did Kate communicate with her mother or my wife that she felt her life was in danger or someone was threatening her?”
“No, sir. Everything is positive.”
“Anything else? What about texts to or from Peter or Michael Amalba—or calls?”
“Not that I can find, sir.”
“Okay, then. Nice job, Safo. I will see you on Monday.”
As Darko put his phone down at the bedside, he had a flashback from his illness.
“Christine?” he called out.
She was cleaning the bathroom and came out to find him sitting on the bed in contemplation. “What’s up?”
“Your mother was here while I was sick, right?”
She hesitated. “Yes, why?”
“I don’t know if I dreamt it, but I seem to recall her telling me something about how she had watched Wednesday night’s prayer vigil on TV.”
Christine leaned the mop against the wall. “Yeah, we have to talk about that. She said you got violent and shoved her away.”
“What?” he said, trying to recall. “I might have pushed her, but I wasn’t violent.”
“Em, I think pushing is kind of violent,” Christine observed.
“You know what she was doing while supposedly watching over me?” Darko said indignantly. “She was talking about redemption and my accepting Jesus blah, blah, and getting rid of my grudges and malice against her and I don’t know what else.”
Christine was doubtful. “Are you sure she was saying those things? You were quite delirious, you know.”
“Delirious or not, I remember that specifically.”
“I don’t think she meant any harm, Dark,” Christine said, looking pained.
“Preaching to me while I’m burning up with fever?” Darko said. “What person in his or her right mind would do that? Would Jesus do that? I don’t think so. Talk about malicious.”
“But Dark,” Christine protested, “you can’t push an old lady like that. It’s grossly disrespectful. And very un-Ghanaian, by the way.”
“I wouldn’t have done it if I weren’t ill,” Darko said. “There I am prostrate
and dying, and she’s giving me a self-righteous tongue-lashing.”
“Ah!” Christine exclaimed with a dry laugh. “You weren’t dying.”
“Yes, I was,” he insisted. “I was on death’s bed.”
Christine snorted. “But seriously,” she said, “you have to apologize to her.”
Darko groaned and dropped his forehead into his palm. “You’re killing me, oh.”
“You have to, Dark.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll go to her place this evening after I help Cairo with Papa. Do you want to come with me?”
“Actually, I was going to pick her up tonight to come to dinner. Why don’t you go instead so you can sit down with her and talk beforehand?”
Darko couldn’t think of anything more awkward. “If you say so,” he said with a heavy sigh. “But I’m doing it only because I like you, not because I want to.”
“Like!” she exclaimed, looking insulted. “Just ‘like?’ After my bringing you back from the brink of death?”
“Come, on,” he said, getting up to grab her around the waist. “You know what I mean.” He kissed her full on the mouth. “Bye. I’m going to Papa’s house.”
When Darko arrived, Cairo and Franklin were packing up Jacob’s things in the bedroom. The old man stood in the doorway protesting. “What are you doing with my clothes? Where are you taking them?”
“You’re coming to live with me, Papa,” Cairo said. He looked at Darko. “Must be I’ve answered that question thirty or forty times this morning. Maybe you can try.”
Franklin was emptying drawers and the wardrobe of clothes, which he put on the bed for Cairo in his wheelchair to fold and drop in boxes at the bedside.
“Papa,” Darko said, “how are you doing?”
“Who are you?” Jacob demanded.
“Darko. Your son.”
Jacob gazed at him, a glimmer coming to his eyes and a smile creeping across his face as he seemed to retrieve the memory.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“He’s bad today,” Cairo said. “Doesn’t remember anyone.”
Darko looked around. The place was at the messy, half-packed stage. “How can I help?” he asked.
