by Kwei Quartey
“We’ve just finished speaking to your mother,” Darko said. “She said you weren’t around, so I came looking.”
“So you’ve found me,” Georgina snapped. “Now what do you want?”
“Any idea who killed Kate?”
“Why would I have any idea about that?” she said, taking a seat in the executive chair.
Darko made sure he didn’t steal a glance at her legs as she crossed them. “Where were you the night of Friday the twenty-eighth?” he asked.
“I was here at the club,” she said after a momentary pause. “I hosted some friends until four in the morning.”
“Who can confirm that?”
She shrugged. “Hamlet or the bartender; they both saw me here. You can ask either one—or both.”
“Who was making anonymous calls to Kate, telling her she was a witch?” Darko asked. “Was it you?”
Georgina rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. “Please, Inspector—what did you say your name was?”
“Dawson.”
“Inspector Dawson, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” Darko said, walking over to the desk where Georgina sat. He leaned close to her. “I’ll make a deal. You tell me who made those anonymous calls, and we won’t reveal to your mother that you and Hamlet have been fucking in the office.”
Georgina narrowed her eyes. “You’re not serious.”
Darko exchanged a look with Safo.
“He’s serious,” she said to Georgina.
Georgina folded her arms. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”
Darko nodded. “Okay, Safo. Go ahead and tell Mrs. Vanderpuye all about it. Give her all the details.”
Safo was about to leave the room when Georgina caved. “Wait,” she called out. “Okay, yes. I was the one who made those calls. It was me. Are you happy now, Mr. Detective?”
“Why did you do that?” Darko asked. “Did you believe she was a witch?”
“All I know is that there was something wrong with Katherine, and she was ruining my brother’s life, okay? She was never right for him.”
“Did you plot with your brother to kill her, then?” Darko asked.
“Don’t waste my time.”
Darko stood in front of her with his hands on the armrests and drove the chair back against the wall.
“Stop!” Georgina yelled. “Are you crazy?”
“Answer my question,” Dawson said, his face inches away from hers.
“No, no, no!” Georgina cried. Her voice cracked. “I didn’t plot anything. Please, it wasn’t me, and I know Solomon would never kill anyone.”
He released her. Georgina pressed her palms against her eyes and took heaving breaths.
“Your mother says you know one of Mr. Bentsi-Enchill’s clerks has some information,” Darko said, leaning against the desk. “Is that correct?”
Georgina, subdued now, nodded. “Her name is Victoria Hammond. I can give you her phone number if you like.”
“Yes, please.”
When Georgina had found the number in her phone, Darko had her text it to him.
“Thank you, Georgina,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
Outside, Darko questioned Hamlet while Safo tackled the bartender separately. Their statements matched: Georgina had partied all night on Friday, finally packing it up at four a.m. Theoretically, Darko thought, if you drove like a madman, you could cover the fifty kilometers from Prampram to Accra in time to murder Kate before Esi showed up for work. But it was too unlikely for him to seriously consider. Or was it?
Chapter Thirty-five
On the way back to Accra, Darko called Victoria Hammond, who said at first she didn’t want to talk about her boss’s dealings with Katherine Vanderpuye.
“I can have a police vehicle come for you if you prefer,” Darko said pleasantly. “We can question you at CID Headquarters just as easily.”
Darko wasn’t being truthful. In fact he wouldn’t have any access to such a vehicle, and certainly not for that purpose. But Victoria bought it, uttering a small gasp. “Okay, no, em, what about if I meet you in front of Nkrumah Memorial Park in about one hour?”
“Thank you.”
Darko turned to Safo. “I’m texting you the numbers of two of John Papafio’s contacts, who he says can swear he was at Baden Powell all night and never left the premises. Please give them a call and ask about the whereabouts and movements of John and Howard-Mills. Oh, and Atiemo too. We know he was there at one a.m. to take over from the bishop, but what about between eleven p.m. and one? Could he have slipped away then to kill Katherine?”
“Yes, I see what you mean. Okay, sir.”
On school outings, Sly and Hosiah had visited the park and mausoleum dedicated to Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president, but Darko never had. As he pulled up with Safo alongside the park’s perimeter wall, he muttered, “I must see this place one day before I die.” Then again, he had made the same promise to himself several times before.
Victoria Hammond was late, but after twenty minutes, she came running up to them from the courthouse, which was on the other side of High Street. “I’m sorry, Inspector Dawson,” she apologized, out of breath. She appeared older than she had sounded on the phone.
“Mr. Bentsi-Enchill and Mrs. Vanderpuye went to lunch a few times,” Victoria said in response to Darko’s questions.
“That could be a legitimate business meeting,” Darko said, “could it not?”
“Of course, Inspector,” she agreed.
“What about dinners at the Polo Club? Did those take place to your knowledge?”
“I don’t know about that,” Victoria said.
“To your knowledge, did Mr. Bentsi-Enchill ever pressure Mrs. Vanderpuye for sex in return for his services or for any other reason?”
Victoria looked shocked, but Darko was past politeness now. “No, sir. Not to my knowledge.”
“Knowing him, would that be his style?”
Victoria shook her head. “The only people who level that kind of accusation against Mr. Bentsi-Enchill are those with an ax to grind.”
“Who, for example? Maude and Georgina Vanderpuye?”
Victoria pulled a face. “Exactly, Inspector. I don’t have direct evidence, but I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Is Mr. Bentsi-Enchill in court today?”
“Yes. He has a case this morning.”
Darko and Safo found a seat along the wooden benches in the packed, stuffy courtroom on High Street to watch Attorney James Bentsi-Enchill perform. Ghanaian lawyers still wore the long black robes and clownish white wigs dating from the British colonial era and addressed the bench as “m’Lord.” Bentsi-Enchill was engaged in a back-and-forth with a female lawyer. It was a divorce case, and at times, humor ensued in the battle, and the lay audience burst into laughter.
Bentsi-Enchill was short, with a paunch and a retreating hairline. He was verbose, dramatic, and quick to pounce on the slightest misplaced word or misquote from the other side. In Darko’s judgment, he had more skill and experience than the opposing counsel. By the end of the morning’s session, he seemed to have left the other attorney in the dust.
The judge banged the gavel, and the court broke for lunch. From the rear where they had sat, Darko and Safo made their way down to the bar against the grain of people filing out. The lawyers and their clerks were packing up their binders and fat folders.
“Mr. Bentsi-Enchill?” Darko said.
He turned. “Yes?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Dawson with CID; and my partner Lance Corporal Safo. Can we talk for a moment?”
He was unruffled. “Of course. Let’s go to my office where we can speak in private.”
Bentsi-Enchill left his voluminous files for his clerks to handle. Darko and Safo f
ollowed him to the back of the court and up a staircase that led to a row of offices along an outdoor veranda. With an antique-looking desk occupying much of the space, Bentsi-Enchill’s office was small but comfortable. He hung his robe on a hook on the door and propped his wig on a mannequin head. “Please have a seat,” he said. “Would you like some water?”
After the stifling courtroom, Darko and Safo gratefully accepted. Bentsi-Enchill fetched three bottles out of a small fridge on the floor, gave out two, and took one. He got half of it down in a few gulps and then sat down in his office chair opposite the detectives. “Now, how can I help?”
“We’re investigating the death of Katherine Vanderpuye,” Darko said.
“Ah,” Bentsi-Enchill said, shaking his head. “An unimaginable tragedy. I can still hardly believe it. Shall I tell you what I know, Chief Inspector, or do you have specific questions you would like me to address first?”
“If you could start with what you know, sir.”
“Very well. Kate came to me two and a half weeks ago stating that she intended to sue Solomon for fraudulently removing her name from the documents of the house the two of them jointly and legally owned—”
“Two and a half weeks ago?” Darko questioned. “What about in February? Did you have dinner with Katherine at the Polo Club?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, not particularly bothered, “but it was about legal matters, and it wasn’t a date, if that’s what you mean. I invited some couples for dinner, and I included Katherine and Solomon. Look, we all know about our old rivalry, but I don’t bear any grudges and have no problems extending an olive branch. They both came to the party.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Absolutely,” Bentsi-Enchill said, reaching for his phone. It took him a few minutes to retrieve the photo. “Here we are.”
He showed it to Darko. Indeed, both Solomon and Katherine were in the group picture around a restaurant table. Bentsi-Enchill hit MENU and then DETAILS, which revealed the February date.
Darko had been unaware of that little trick. “So,” he said, “you never went to the restaurant—or any restaurant—with Kate alone?”
“No,” Bentsi-Enchill said.
“Do you mind sharing the photo with me?” Darko asked.
“Of course not,” the lawyer said. “Give me your number.” As he texted the image, he said, “I have a pretty good idea you’ve been speaking to Maude Vanderpuye or her equally odious daughter, Georgina. They run a well-oiled rumor mill, determined to shift any culpability for the murder away from themselves.”
“Do you have any evidence that one or both of them is responsible for Kate’s death?”
The lawyer leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Maude and Solomon mounted a vicious and sustained attack on Kate. Maude, in particular, wanted to destroy her daughter-in-law in the most venomous manner possible. She recruited her son to the campaign and brainwashed him into believing his wife was a witch and was killing their baby in her womb and trying to kill Solomon as well. When Kate decided to strike back by coming to me to launch a lawsuit, Solomon was ripe for revenge, and he and Maude conspired to kill her. I doubt they included Georgina because she can’t keep her mouth shut.”
“You’re a man of the law, sir,” Darko said, “so you know it’s all about evidence. Do you have any to back up your accusations?”
“Look,” Bentsi-Enchill said, turning up a palm, “Solomon had the keys to the gate and the front door of the house. He let himself in, killed the watchman, and then butchered Kate. Or other way round, perhaps.”
“But other people could have had motives,” Darko pointed out. “Bishop Howard-Mills, for example. Did Kate talk about him?”
“I know she was going to him for solace and guidance. Personally, I wouldn’t have gone to a religious fraud for any advice, but who was I to interfere?”
“Religious fraud?” Darko asked.
“All that healing and casting out of demons?” Bentsi-Enchill laughed. “A moneymaking con with thousands of victims—poor people making the man rich. He has four houses and owns a radio station. Did you know that? He flies his wife to London for shopping sprees. The bishop should be arrested, but then so should many others of his ilk.”
“May I ask you where you were on the night of Friday the twenty-eighth of April, sir?”
“Ghana Bar Association annual dinner,” Bentsi-Enchill answered.
“Until what time?”
“About eleven.”
“And after that?”
“Home. I was exhausted.”
“Can anyone confirm you were home?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m divorced now, and the kids were with their mother.” The lawyer sounded wistful. “No one at home but myself these days. Ah, well.” He slid his chair back a few inches. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“I think that’s all,” Darko said, preparing to leave. “Actually, just one more thing, Mr. Bentsi-Enchill. Are you willing to swear you didn’t request any sexual favors from Katherine Vanderpuye in exchange for your services?”
“Yes, I am,” he replied. “There was no quid pro quo. And now, if you would excuse me, lady and gentleman, I must prepare for this afternoon’s session.”
Chapter Thirty-six
After Safo and Darko had returned to CID, he went through Katherine’s mobile texts and phone logs. She had already done that, and he trusted her, but a second pair of eyes was always a good idea.
Darko’s fingers stopped scrolling. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Did you see this?”
He flipped the phone around so Safo could take a look at the screen.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Please, I missed it. I’m sorry.”
The text to Kate was dated 17th April, about three weeks before.
We have a reservation at 7, will pick u up 630
“A reservation where?” Darko said.
His phone buzzed with a text from Christine. She couldn’t fetch Sly from school detention that afternoon, so Darko would have to do it. He only had about an hour.
“I want you to pay a visit to the Polo Club restaurant tomorrow,” he said to Safo. “Ask the manager and staff if they remember seeing Katherine Vanderpuye with James Bentsi-Enchill on seventeenth April—or if there’s a record of the two of them being there together on that date. If they were there, it means Bentsi-Enchill lied about his taking her to the restaurant only once, back in February.”
“Yes, sir.”
Darko stood. “I’m going to pick up my son from school.”
He walked into St. Theresa’s concrete yard. Four boys were playing basketball around the hoop at one end of the playground. Two floors of classrooms surrounded the courtyard. As far as schools went in Accra, this was one of the best kept. Darko and Christine were glad Sly was here, and they hoped to get Hosiah in the next year. The difficult part was the hefty fees.
Darko turned onto the hallway leading to the staff office. Just outside of that was a nook where Sly and a couple of other students sat doing their homework. He looked up when he saw his father, smiled, and jumped up to start packing up his books. He didn’t need any prompting to leave.
“Did you finish your work?” Darko asked him.
“Almost,” Sly said. “I can do the rest at home.”
Before they left, Darko put his head in Sister Aboagye’s office. She wore a starched blue habit and had a motherly air. “Sly is doing better,” she said. “He’s a little bit of a daydreamer, and he loses focus, but I think he can work on that. Eh, Sly?”
Sly smiled bashfully and squirmed. Darko thought he pulled that off quite well.
“Thank you very much, Sister,” he said. “We appreciate it.”
Outside, Darko and Sly put on their helmets, and they took off on the motorcycle, the son with his arms wrapped around
his father’s waist.
“Where are we going, Daddy?” he asked against the wind.
“Achimota Forest.”
Once they had cleared the jams at the Nkrumah overpass and George W. Bush Highway, the rest of the way was easier. Some stretches of the Achimota Road were open enough for Darko to open the throttle. He heard Sly laughing with glee behind him. They turned into the entrance to Sandra Simpson’s lodge. A watchman let them into the compound within the chain link fence and went to notify her.
Sly’s face shone with the thrill of the ride. “That was fun Daddy,” he said, removing his helmet. “Who are we coming to see?”
“A lady called Sandra Simpson,” Darko replied.
The watchman emerged from the house. “Please, you can come.”
Sly waited outside while Darko went in. Sandra was on the back veranda stretched out on a chaise longue with a novel. Her skin was pale, and her prominent dark eyes seemed to fill her face more than their share. She was too thin for Darko’s tastes, but he could see why some men might find her attractive.
“Please,” she said, gesturing to a chair after introductions.
Darko sat, telling her why he was there. “Mrs. Simpson,” he continued, “I’m not interested in passing moral judgments. Your affairs are your business alone. Except where they could have a bearing on a murder investigation. I know you’ve been seeing Bishop Howard-Mills.”
Simpson stiffened and blinked several times. “Who told you that, Mr. Dawson?” she asked. Her voice had iced over.
“I followed him here last Wednesday.”
She chewed on her top lip, probably wondering if she had an out.
“I saw you open the door to him,” Darko added to help her decide.
That did it. “All right, then,” Simpson said. “Yes, it’s true. I see him when my husband is out of town. Does he have to know? It will ruin me, Inspector. And the bishop, for that matter.”
“No one else needs to know,” Darko said, “but it’s crucial I find out if he spent time with you early in the morning of Saturday, twenty-ninth April—around say, one o’clock.”
