by Kwei Quartey
“Why?”
“The story is too neat, too convenient.” Safo sucked her teeth, a gesture Darko had never seen her make. “Peter and the bishop were around Katherine’s house on the same night; he saw the bishop walking away from the area, and all that. No. Peter is trying to frame him. I believe the part where he says he discovered the bishop’s involvement with Katherine. I think Peter became so jealous and full of rage that he wanted to kill them both.”
“My wife feels the same way,” Darko said, reflecting. “Is this a male-female thing?”
Safo giggled. “I don’t know, sir. Maybe.”
“Or is it because you and my wife love the bishop so much that you can’t believe he would kill anyone?”
“Oh, sir!” Safo protested, laughing.
“Don’t ‘oh sir’ me,” Darko said. “I know the way you women stare at him and his light brown skin and wavy hair. Isn’t that true? Confess.”
Safo was in hysterics.
Finally, she’s loosening up, Darko thought. “You’re laughing because it’s true, and you’re too embarrassed to admit it,” he said coolly.
While Safo recovered from her laughter, Darko called Chief Superintendent Oppong. “We’d like to speak with you, sir.”
“I can see you in an hour, but you will have to make it quick. I’m taking my wife to a function this evening, and she doesn’t like me to be late.”
Neither does mine, Darko thought. “Very good, sir. We’ll be up.”
Oppong shook his head after Darko had presented his case against Bishop Howard-Mills. “It’s not enough evidence to bring the bishop in,” he said. “This man Peter Amalba is an unreliable witness, and frankly, I don’t trust him. And I don’t find the psychiatrist’s diagnosis of paranoid personality, or whatever, to be an exoneration, as you seem to believe. Amalba is not right in the head. We can’t hang a prosecution on his testimony.”
“Sir, John says Mr. Howard-Mills attempted to rape Katherine.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean the bishop later murdered Mrs. Vanderpuye. We can’t make the so-called attempted rape the basis of a murder charge, especially now the would-be victim is no longer alive to back up the rape accusation. And John’s account is only one version of what happened. We don’t have the other side.”
“Then let’s make the bishop come in and give the other side,” Darko said, exasperated. “I don’t understand why we can’t have him here for questioning.”
“I do. Get more evidence.”
“Isn’t it sometimes a process of elimination?” Darko questioned. “Out of the people we have considered as suspects, the three most plausible are the bishop, Solomon, and James, in that order of importance. I say we start with number one.”
“You left out Peter Amalba,” Oppong said. “You have more work to do, Dawson. Get to it.”
Darko was annoyed as he left Oppong’s office. At times like these, he hated being under the thumb of his superiors. Did they lose all their sense when they passed rank of chief inspector?
Darko called it a day for himself, but asked Safo to go through Katherine’s belongings in the exhibit room one more time. He explained they were looking for a diary or journal, as Aunty Nana had suggested. Had the malarial attack not set him back two days, Darko would have done this last week.
He rode out to Christian Village. Jacob was sitting on the veranda of Cairo’s house with Franklin, who was watching a video on his tablet. Cairo and Audrey were still at work.
“How are you, Papa?” Darko said to Jacob.
“I’m fine.” He squinted at Darko. “Who are you?”
He’s getting worse by the day, Darko thought.
“Have you seen Beatrice?” Jacob asked. “She said she would be back soon from Ketanu.”
“I expect she’ll return any day now,” Darko said.
Jacob seemed satisfied for the moment.
Turning to Franklin, Darko said, “Is he eating a little better?”
“He cleaned his plate today at lunch,” Franklin said.
“Good. Thank you for what you’re doing, my man.”
He and Franklin slapped palms and finished with a finger snap. Darko sat and chatted for an hour or so, every once in a while trying to engage Jacob, but the man simply wasn’t there.
“Papa was quiet,” Darko told Christine as he washed dishes, and she cleaned off the kitchen table. The kids had gone to bed. “When he’s like that, it’s sad. When he’s agitated, it’s distressing.”
“Yes.” Christine sighed. “Lately I’ve been worrying, what if Mama becomes like your father at some point? I never used to think that.”
“It’s frightening sometimes when you try to look into the future,” Darko said. “Although I must say there’s absolutely no sign of any dementia in your mother right now.”
Christine smiled. “She told me that the two of you had a good talk the other night and that she appreciates your apologizing for the pushing episode while you were sick.”
“Oh, cool,” Darko said without much feeling.
“And the investigation?” Christine said, leaning against the sideboard. “How is it going?”
“We might have some DNA under Kate’s fingernails,” Darko said, “so that will be helpful if we find something other than her own DNA. Then we can test the bishop, Solomon, Peter Amalba and James Bentsi-Enchill. Those are really the only suspects we have left.”
“The DNA takes time, right?”
“Yes,” Darko admitted. “They have a backlog at the Accra lab, so I believe they’re still sending samples out to South Africa.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, and we still have to send DNA samples to another country,” Christine said. “It’s embarrassing. And it’s not as if South Africa doesn’t have its crime plate full already. So is that all you have pending? The DNA?”
Darko didn’t like her tone much. “My prime suspect is the bishop, but Oppong doesn’t agree.”
“Neither do I,” Christine said. “Because it’s Peter Amalba who did it. For some reason you refuse to believe it. It’s frustrating.”
“I’m not refusing to do anything,” Darko said. “I just suspect the bishop more than I suspect Amalba.”
“Why?” Christine said. “Because for some reason, you’re obsessed with the bishop. You’re determined to nail him at any cost.”
“And you are determined to defend him. I have nothing personal against the bishop. Look, I know Kate was your cousin, I know you want to see someone go to prison for her murder, but you have to stop trying to tell me how to do what I was trained for. Let me do this, okay? I’m as committed to solving this as anyone else—you, your mother, anyone.”
“I’m not so sure,” she muttered, turning away to go to the sitting room. He followed. She sat down and picked up the day’s Ghanaian Times.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
She put the paper down. “Usually you come home, and you’re excited about a case. You have all sorts of questions, and we discuss it. But on this one, you’re like an old car that won’t start.”
Darko stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“This is all about your feelings toward my family,” Christine said. “You can’t seem to get close, just like you pushed Mama away from you when she was trying to take care of you. You know my mother, Uncle Ransford, and Aunty Nana, but apart from them, you know almost nothing about my extended family.”
“Because you never talk about them.”
“And you never ask,” she shot back, her voice cracking.
“But you don’t even have get-togethers with your family,” Darko said. “That would be a good way for me to get to know them. Why don’t you invite some of them over? Don’t try to put your family issues on me. I have no objection to getting together with your family.”
“You are al
ways busy. When am I going to have family over?”
“Oh, come on,” Darko said.
“Okay,” she said, tossing the paper away. “I’m not going to trouble you anymore about the case. Go ahead and solve it all on your own. And by the way? Don’t expect me to help you. You need to know anything about my cousin Kate, you ask someone else.” She got up. “I’m going to bed.”
“Why are you behaving like this?” he called after her. She didn’t answer. Darko watched her leave. What was wrong with her?
He needed to escape from all this stress. He’d had enough. Christine was hounding him, and Oppong was on his neck. The case was in shambles; he didn’t know where to go next. Too many loose ends were fluttering around in his mind like strings. Maybe Christine was right—he didn’t know what he was doing. That irritated him—that she actually could be right. Darko’s thoughts skipped to his father’s chaotic dementia. For a moment, Darko became teary and pressed his palms into his eyes. He felt suffocated. He had to get out.
He got up and went outside to make a call.
The district of Nima bustles with activity until late at night. It seems neither traders nor customers care to sleep. Music blared. Unreliable street lamps and a patchwork of florescent, LED, and candlelight from the vendors’ kiosks helped guide the way of pedestrians zigzagging at their peril between cars winding their way along the streets.
If Darko had wanted to buy a TV, microwave, live sheep or chicken, stovetop, kitchen sink, prostitute, or an iPhone or engine block, he could have, but his mission at the moment didn’t involve any of those.
He hadn’t seen his friend Daramani Gushegu in seven or eight years. He was an ex-con whom Darko had busted for wee possession back then. Unable to keep his hands off the stash he had found in Daramani’s room, Darko had taken some of it and smoked it. It was good stuff.
Daramani had served his time, and as far as Darko knew, he had stayed out of trouble since then and now had an honest job. The reason he hadn’t seen Darko in so long was that Darko had been trying to stop smoking—albeit with dubious success—and Daramani was clearly detrimental to the efort.
But now, Darko needed relief. He still had Daramani’s telephone number—what did that say about his decision to give up the habit—and he called him. Daramani was overjoyed to hear from Darko again and invited him over.
“But not to smoke, oh,” Darko warned him.
Daramani guffawed. “You are funny.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Darko had arranged to meet Daramani at the Nima lorry park, so Darko wouldn’t get lost trying to find the place.
“Ei!” Daramani exclaimed when he saw Darko. “Big boss, how be?”
They embraced, laughing.
“Chaley, what is this?” Darko teased, pinching Daramani’s paunch. He had filled out.
Daramani giggled. “Too much beer, oh. Make we ride to my place?”
“Sure, let’s go.”
Darko got on the motorcycle and Daramani sat behind him and gave directions to his lodgings. Darko parked outside the door. The alley was dark, and foul water was trickling along the ground. When they went into Daramani’s home, Darko was pleasantly surprised by how much of a step up it was from before. It was tiny, but not a mess the way Daramani had once lived. He now had a small kitchen area, a stove, a microwave, a refrigerator, and of course, a flat screen TV. With his network of wily contacts, Daramani would have picked up every item dirt-cheap, and he was probably stealing electricity from the main lines along the street the way many Nima residents did.
“Chaley,” he said to Darko, “make you sit down, relax small. I dey get some Malta for you.”
Darko laughed. “Na gode,” he thanked him in Hausa.
The drink wasn’t as cold as he would have liked, but Malta was Malta.
Air-conditioning was what lacked in the room, which was steamy hot. Daramani and Darko took their shirts off and drank some cold water out of a sachet. Daramani took out his wee and rolling papers from a spot under the bed, which Darko reflected was not an effective hiding place.
Daramani created a substantial joint, lit up and took a couple of deep drags. Darko began to salivate. He got up and sat next to Daramani, who passed the joint to him. Darko drew on it like a thirsty man finding water in a parched wilderness. He had forgotten how good it was. He became mellow and found Daramani’s bad jokes hilarious.
“So how be?” he asked Darko again. “And your woman?”
“Fine,” Darko said. “Everything cool.”
“Your boy?”
“Oh, yeah.” He passed the joint to Daramani. “Cool. But I get two boys now, oh.”
“Wow!” Daramani exclaimed laughing. “Ei, my boss Dawson! I’m happy to see you.”
They slapped hands and snapped fingers again.
“Where your wife dey?” Darko asked.
“Navrongo. With the chil’ren. They go come back next two weeks.”
“Oh, nice,” Darko said, stretching his legs out. Fluid images and thoughts came into his mind, bounced around and swayed back and forth like water sloshing in a bathtub. For a moment, Darko thought about how he’d warned Sly against hanging around wee-smoking boys, and here Darko was carrying out the same act.
Gifty. Meddling Gifty. What was Darko going to do with her? Kill her, he thought. No, not really. That was a joke. Pray for her, instead. But she might be beyond repair by now. God might have given up on her.
Peter Amalba. Maybe he did kill Kate. No. Darko still didn’t think so, no matter his wife’s opinion.
Solomon. And his mother. And Georgina. The Three Devils. They all could have plotted it and Solomon executed it because what Kate was about to do to him through the courts could have ruined him.
What about James Bentsi-Enchill? Darko was undecided where he stood with him. He was one of those fifty-fifty suspects. The same went for John Papafio—well, probably less than fifty percent in favor. Reverend Atiemo—less than ten.
And now. The Bishop. The Big Fish. Peter’s story about how Howard-Mills had made indecent advances toward Kate agreed with John’s. If Peter’s claim was true that he witnessed the bishop lurking around her house at three that Saturday morning, then Darko was certain the bishop was his man. But how to tie Howard-Mills to the murder directly? Through a pleasant haze, Darko imagined a bloodstained machete with the bishop’s prints all over it. A detective’s dream.
Darko leaned over to get the joint back from Daramani, who smiled crookedly at him, heavy-lidded eyes now bloodshot. The irony, Darko thought with the clarity of an eagle’s vision, was that all these suspects were pious to varying degrees. So much for the virtues of religion.
It struck Darko that if Kate had kept a diary or journal, her killer might have it now. Although that meant the killer would have known about it and known where to find it. Even if it were just lying around, he would need to have known its significance.
He opened his eyes. Solomon. Maybe between January and April he had discovered her writing in her journal. He read it and saw what she was saying against him, or what she was doing with James. He killed her for it and took the diary. He might have destroyed it, or he might have hidden it somewhere.
Darko closed his eyes, floating. Being high filled him with confidence he would solve this mystery in the next forty-eight hours. He didn’t know how, but he knew he would.
He was beginning to feel hungry. Sexual too. Lots of ashawo outside in N-Town, he pointed out to himself. But then they probably all had gono and AIDS. Forget about that.
Darko woke with a start, panicking. What time was it? My God. It was almost two-thirty in the morning. His partner-in-weed had slumped against his shoulder fast asleep. Darko pushed him roughly away and scrambled up, looking around for his T-shirt.
“Hey, chaley,” Darko yelled at Daramani, when he found it on the floor, “I’m leaving. Lock the do
or.”
Daramani half sat up, looking like a dead man revived. “Okay, boss,” he muttered. “Bye.”
Darko left, angrily banging the door behind him. He felt foolish, riding home fast and taking corners at impossibly sharp angles. Whoever said marijuana slowed one’s reflexes didn’t know what they were talking about.
At home, Darko felt famished and looked in the refrigerator for something to eat. He grabbed a mango and sliced it up, stuffing the juicy pieces into his mouth and licking his lips and fingers afterward. Then he hunted for banku, but none was left from the day before. He kept poking around in the refrigerator for more food.
“What are you looking for?”
Darko jumped and turned. “Oh, it’s you.”
Christine was up and had just walked in. “Yes, it’s me,” she said. “Any objection?”
“None at all.”
“Why are you so hungry?”
He shrugged. “I’m like that sometimes.”
“There’s omo tuo and groundnut soup. I’ll warm it up for you.” She spooned some of the soup into a small pot to heat it up. “Where were you?”
“I went to think. Expand my mind.”
“With natural herbs?” she asked with a smile.
Darko didn’t respond to that. “You couldn’t sleep?”
“No,” she said. “I was worried about you, that’s all. It’s been a long time since you left the house without a word.”
“Yes.” He leaned against the counter near her. “I owe you an apology.”
“I think I owe you one even more.”
“All right, then let’s call it even and forget about it.”
Darko sat and ate like a starving person as they talked, strenuously avoiding the subject of Katherine’s murder.
In the morning, when Darko had arrived at work early, Safo had texted him.
No diary n the boxes pls, I chck all
He called the IT people to see if they’d found anything on Kate’s PC. They hadn’t even gotten to it yet. Darko closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands.
Two knocks on the door and Safo came in.
