by Kwei Quartey
“I agree,” Herbert said, gesturing his guests to sit. “What can I offer you?”
Marc wasn’t one to turn down some good brandy, and he’d shared several fine bottles with Herbert before. One might have guessed from Marc’s corpulent frame that he liked good food and drink, and one would be correct. Casper, a smoker and coffee addict, was Marc’s physical opposite. He was Marc’s designated driver tonight, so there would be no brandy for him.
The three men settled in to talk, Herbert steering the conversation to the Washington Observer, where digital subscriptions were on the rise and had surpassed the one-million mark—still well behind The New York Times, though.
“I was interested by Cas’s piece a couple of weeks ago about online scams,” Herbert said, pouring Marc a little more brandy.
“Oh yes?” Casper said. “What did you think of it?”
“Top quality, of course,” Herbert said. “Caused quite a stir on Ghanaweb.com, which posted excerpts of the piece and had a commentary.”
“What’s Ghanaweb?” Cas asked.
“It’s an all-media website,” Herbert explained. “Radio, TV, videos, social networks, and so on. But what makes it stand out are the no-holds-barred comments underneath the features. The Ghanaweb audience is like a bunch of gunmen firing their weapons indiscriminately and not caring who gets hurt.”
“Oh, really?” Marc said, interested. “What was the response to the Observer piece?”
“From what I could tell,” Herbert said, “it broke down into three categories. People who condemned these sakawa fraudsters, those who castigated and or mocked the victims, and finally those who blame the scandal entirely on the present ruling party. Everything is politics in Ghana. I should let you know that President Bannerman has called me about the article.”
“The president himself?” Cas said. “What did he say?”
“Well, he was concerned. You know, he has a comprehensive anti-corruption campaign in full swing. He asked if I had been aware this article was coming out in the paper. I told him, no. He went on further to say that, as an ambassador, I need to be reassuring potential American investors that the Ghanaian government is cracking down on corruption.”
“Corruption in Ghana has given the country a black eye internationally,” Marc said. “Would you agree?”
“Yes, I would,” Herbert said. “But back to the article—I’m curious why it’s penned by Casper, who is not even in Ghana. Shouldn’t it be someone who is actually there?”
Marc appeared uncomfortable. “We do have someone there—an American who was a victim of one of these scams. He’s agreed to carry out inquiries for us, and Cas is putting the two-part series together based on his experiences.”
“Who is this man?” Herbert asked.
“I can tell you once I have your assurance that you won’t pass on the information,” Marc said.
“Of course.”
“His name is Gordon Tilson,” Casper said. “He was fooled by a romance con out of Ghana and now he wants to tell his story in the Washington Observer. I’m writing it for him.”
“How long will Mr. Tilson be there?”
Casper and Marc exchanged uneasy glances.
“What’s going on?” Herbert asked, looking from one man to the other.
“Well,” Casper said, his craggy face creasing up, “the problem is we haven’t heard from Gordon in more than two weeks. We can’t reach him. He’s gone completely silent and we’ve no idea where he is.”
THIRTY
May 15, Accra, Ghana
Emma had successfully completed another background check. The client was going into business and wanted to be sure his intended partner was clean. He was. Her inquiries had taken her out of Accra to the Brong-Ahafo town of Sunyani.
She was happy in this job. She had a clearly defined role, encouraging colleagues, and a patient, supportive boss. She was free from long statement forms and reports in sextuplicate. With Sowah’s computerized system for filing data and reports, the agency was able to cut tedious work to a minimum. Sowah had been there for Emma every step of the way. He was committed to giving her work that would challenge her sufficiently while not exposing her to anything dangerous.
Emma found comfort in the daily routine. The Thursday morning that brought a case to Emma that she could never have predicted, she was trying to eject the memory of her date the night before. It hadn’t gone well. At best, the man had bored her. At worst, he had appeared interested mostly in sleeping with her, which was out of the question. Emma was a virgin and intended to stay that way until after marriage—whenever that would be.
Her love life, if she could even call it that, was something of a muddle. Sometimes she fretted over it, but for the most part she shrugged. She had fulfillment elsewhere in her world, for example, her volunteer work with children at the Autism Center in central Accra. Emma’s Sunday afternoons were generally free, and after church, she hurried to the AC to help with the children. A dedicated, loving, and courageous woman with an autistic son of her own, who was about eight years old, ran the center.
Emma was three hours into her work when she looked up to see a visitor who had just walked in and now stood at the door-frame. He was an oburoni, for sure. His greenish eyes got her attention. He was tall and very fair in color, with curly hair receding from the forehead just a bit. He had a rugged beard with rare streaks of gray. His waistline had expanded a little beyond bounds, but it looked good on him.
“Good morning,” the man said, his gaze settling on Emma. Beverly was out for the morning.
“Good morning, sir.” She stood up. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for”—he glanced at a scrap of paper in his hand—“Yemo Sowah. Is he here?”
He sounded American to Emma. “Yes please,” she said, approaching. “But he’s in a meeting at the moment. Is he expecting you?”
He smiled. “I don’t think so.”
The other investigators had looked up from their work with interest.
“Please have a seat.” Emma gestured at the chairs in the anteroom. “I will let him know you are here. Please, your name?”
“Sorry—I should have said. I’m Derek Tilson.”
Emma knocked on Sowah’s office door and opened it. He was meeting with a couple of clients. “Please, sir, sorry to bother you. A man called Derek Tilson is here to see you.”
Sowah raised his eyebrows. “Derek who?”
“Tilson. He doesn’t have an appointment.”
“Okay. I should be finished here in about twenty minutes.”
Emma went back to the anteroom, where the newcomer was glancing through the day’s newspapers on the side table. “Mr. Sowah will be with you shortly.”
He smiled briefly and nodded. “Thanks.”
“May I offer you some water?”
Derek declined.
From her desk, Emma stole a glance at Tilson as he waited. She wondered what the visit was about. Sowah came out with his two guests after about thirty minutes and escorted them out. Emma was waiting for him in the anteroom when he returned.
“Sir, this is Mr. Derek Tilson.”
The two men shook hands. “You can call me Derek.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Sowah said. “Please, come with me.”
He shepherded Tilson into his office and shut the door. A few minutes later, Sowah stuck his head outside the door. “Emma, please come. Bring your notepad.”
She hurried to join them, sitting in the second chair opposite Sowah and not knowing what to expect.
“Emma,” Sowah said, “Mr. Tilson is reporting his father missing. I want you to take notes.” He looked at Tilson. “So far, my understanding is that your father arrived in Accra three months ago supposedly to meet a woman called Helena, who we don’t know really exists or not, but strongly suspect she does not, correct?�
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“Yes,” Tilson said. “I was convinced that she was part of a scam and I told my dad that. We argued about it. He was convinced Helena was real and he was in love with her. He Skyped and called her over a period toward the end of November last year until early February fourteenth—Valentine’s Day, strangely appropriate—when he took off for Ghana without warning. After he got to Accra, he messaged me to say he had met Helena and was ‘having a good time,’ as he put it. But then a few days later he confessed there was no Helena at all. He was furious as well as despondent and embarrassed. I told him just get out and come on home. He seemed to agree at the time, but after he had thought about it for a couple of days, he changed his mind, decided to stay in Ghana and simply make it a vacation.”
“Did that surprise you?” Sowah said.
“Yes,” Derek said. “It seemed like an about face. After Dad realized he’d been a victim of a hoax, he seemed only to want to return to the States.”
“Yes, I see,” Sowah said. “On the other hand, would it seem so out of character for him to decide to make the best of it and take a vacation? After all, he’s paid for the whole thing—why not? And you mentioned he was in Ghana as a Peace Corps officer many years ago, so perhaps he wanted to experience the new Ghana?”
“That’s exactly the reason he gave me, and although I wasn’t in favor of his decision initially, I eventually made peace with it. Actually, for a moment I wondered if maybe my father had met yet another woman and didn’t want to tell me about her.”
“Ah,” Sowah said, a smile creeping to his lips. Something was farcical about that idea and once Derek began to laugh, Sowah and Emma joined in.
“Okay, maybe not,” Derek said, growing serious again. “Getting back to the story, the month of March passed and it seemed like the situation was settling down. Then, in the first week of April, I read an article by a family friend in which he describes my father’s experience with this scam and further reveals that my dad is staying in Ghana to investigate the crime against him.”
“Oh,” Sowah said. “Was that true?”
“Exactly my question,” Derek said. “So I called Mr. Guttenberg—the author of the piece—about it and he told me he and my dad had decided that he might as well stay in Ghana to find out who had perpetrated the fraud on him.”
“This was obviously news to you,” Sowah said.
“Out of the blue,” Derek agreed. “Casper Guttenberg is an old friend of my dad’s and for reasons beyond me, my father thinks the world of him. I firmly believe Mr. Guttenberg wants to get a story out of my dad’s ordeal and that he’s the guy who encouraged my father to stay longer in Ghana. That would explain Dad’s odd change of mind.”
“Very possibly,” Sowah said. “When was the very last day you heard from your father?”
“April second,” Derek answered. “I should backtrack a bit to fill you in. When Dad first arrived in Ghana on February fifteenth, he checked in at the Kempinski Hotel and stayed for two weeks.
“Then, around March first, he decided to move to a bed-and-breakfast in Accra called Flamingo Lodge. He said he wanted something more like a home and less like a hotel. I was in touch with him every couple of days until March twenty-ninth, when he told me he was taking a trip to Akosombo for a week’s stay at a place called Riverview Cottage on the Volta.
“He WhatsApped me on April second to say he would be going back to Accra the following day. That was the last I heard from him, but I kept trying to reach him.” Derek shook his head. “Nothing happened until April tenth, when the Flamingo owner called me to say Dad hadn’t returned as expected and she wondered if I knew where he was. He had given her my phone number as his emergency contact.”
“Are you getting all these dates, Emma?” Sowah asked. “Because I’m going to ask you to diagram the chronology.”
“Yes, sir,” she said nervously. Sowah was a stickler for dates and accuracy.
“What’s the homeowner’s name, please?” he asked Derek.
“Poem Van Landewyck. She’s a Dutch woman who’s lived in Ghana practically all her life.” Tilson pulled out his smartphone and scrolled. “I’ve spoken to her, but I haven’t met her in person yet. Here’s her contact info.” He stood up and showed the screen to Emma to jot down the name and phone number. She caught a whisper of the light fragrance Derek was wearing.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Going to Akosombo,” Sowah said to Derek, “is that the sort of thing your father would do?”
Derek smiled. “He loved it there for as long as I remember. When I was a kid and we visited Ghana from the States, Dad always took us up there for a few days. We’d go out on the lake, do some fishing, sometimes just anchor and relax on the water. So, yeah, it’s something he might do.”
“I see,” Sowah said. “So then, when he stopped responding to your texts and emails, you became concerned.”
Derek nodded, and Emma noticed how his curls caught and reflected the light from the window. “I managed to get through to the American Embassy in Accra,” Derek continued, “and believe me, it wasn’t easy. Anyway, they said they’d do what they could, but this kind of thing falls under the jurisdiction of the local authorities and so their hands were tied somewhat. I felt I had no choice, then. I had to come look for Dad myself.”
“When did you arrive?”
“May second,” Derek said. “First, I went to Kempinski Hotel and they confirmed Dad had checked out March second, and they said they weren’t aware of any issues during his stay. Then, I went up to the Riverview place in Akosombo to talk to the manager, who said Dad had notified him he would be checking out April third. But he was nowhere to be found that morning when the driver came to pick him up, and his luggage was gone as well. That suggested to me a home invasion—a robbery or burglary. So at this point, I went to the local police station—they hadn’t heard anything, so I gave them a statement, and then I went to CID Headquarters here in Accra and gave a statement to a Detective Inspector Doris something—I forgot the last name.”
“Damptey?” Sowah said.
“Yes, her.” Emma caught exasperation in his tone. “She was less than responsive, to put it mildly. Maybe she doesn’t consider it a priority to look for some American guy who’s been duped by a scam.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“Last week. She had nothing to tell me. Not even if she had started working on any leads. I felt like I was talking to a brick wall. I spoke to one of my Ghanaian cousins who told me if I had wanted anything done, I should have given Damptey some money at the start.”
Sowah grimaced. “Unfortunately, that is how our country runs now. Money above honor, duty, or integrity.”
Derek nodded. “And I noticed that exact motto up in your waiting room—honor, duty, and integrity.”
“It’s our guiding principle,” Sowah said evenly. “If you can’t abide, you have to leave.”
“That’s good to hear in this environment,” Derek said. “When did Ghana get like this? Maybe I was too young to pay attention when I was here as a kid, but I don’t remember the country or the people like this back then.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” Sowah agreed. “I’ve been around much longer than you have, and I can say with certainty that money is more of a motivator for Ghanaians than it ever was. Money runs everything. Honest or corrupt, it doesn’t matter, and the police are possibly the worst offenders.”
Derek looked disheartened. “That’s discouraging.”
“Indeed,” Sowah said.
“What’s causing it? All this corruption, I mean.”
Sowah deflected his gaze for a moment and then shook his head. “Our society is ridden with this cancer.” He pulled in his breath and released it harshly. “Anyway, even with money, Damptey might not have prioritized you, as you say. The police service is underfunded and choked with old cases. Not that
I’m excusing them, but both Emma and I have worked in the Ghana Police Service, so we know what conditions are like.”
“Oh, really,” Derek said, looking at Emma with interest.
“Perhaps I should have asked you much earlier,” Sowah said to Derek, “but how did you find us, sir?”
“Once I figured out I wasn’t getting anything with DI Damptey,” Derek said, “I searched online to see if there were any private detectives who could help and came across the International Association of Private Investigators website. They listed you and your agency as one of only two in Accra that’s fully licensed and vetted. That’s how I found you.”
Sowah smiled. “Thank you. Yes, the IAPI often sends us referrals. Derek, I would prefer to believe this conundrum will have a happy, reasonable conclusion, but we must be realistic and hope for the best while preparing for the worst.”
Derek nodded, his jaw hardening and his eyes downcast. For his sake, Emma sent up a silent prayer.
THIRTY-ONE
May 17
Sunday afternoon after church, Emma took a couple of tro-tros to reach the Autism Center at the junction of Barnes Road and William Tubman Avenue. She was in a huff because the driver’s mate on the tro-tro had been slow—deliberately in Emma’s mind—about rendering the correct change. But once she arrived at the Center, she forgot the trivialities of Accra travel.
It was a modest place, but still far better off than the other autism institutions in the country. The rectangular brick building on the left was a small, converted home with a playroom, classroom, and an administrative office-cum-staff lounge/meeting room. The courtyard had a pair of swings, a slide, a climbing net, and two mini soccer goals on each side of the yard. The sky was darkening with rain clouds, so everyone was inside.
“Auntie” Rose Clarkson, the owner and director of the center, was a hands-on woman who didn’t mind working the weekends. She had only one staff member on with her on Sundays. Speech, art, and music therapy made up much of the activity during the week, but it was on the relatively unstructured Sunday when many of the permanent staff were off that Auntie Rose needed more volunteer help.
