by Kwei Quartey
He began to tense. “Yes, I like to be punished, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t ejaculate in me,” she warned.
“No, no,” he muttered, just as he began to convulse. He struggled to pull out just in time.
He let out one last moan and fell asleep almost instantly.
Doris rolled off him and propped herself on her elbow to observe him snoring. “Men,” she said, shaking her head. “Hopeless.”
Early in the morning while it was still dark, Quaino rolled over, opened his eyes, and stared at the ceiling.
“DI Damptey,” he said.
She popped her head up. “Yes, boss?”
“Sit up. I need to talk to you.”
“Yes please,” she said, scrambling upright in bed.
“We are in a little bit of hot water,” Quaino said.
“Please, meaning?”
“Yesterday at close of business, DCOP Laryea called me about your case—the missing American. He’s getting pressure from Director-General Andoh, and he in turn is feeling the heat from the IGP. Laryea wants to see both of us on Monday.”
“Oh,” she said. That was serious.
“Yes,” Quaino said. “And you know Laryea doesn’t joke around. I fear him more than the director-general.”
“Yes please.”
“I haven’t checked with you about the case lately,” Quaino said, worried. “Are you about to make any arrest?”
“Arrest?” She went hot in the face. “Not as yet.”
“Why not?” he said.
“I’m still working on it.”
“We have to get something—somebody,” Quaino said, “by Monday morning.”
“We don’t have any evidence tying anyone to the crime,” she stammered. “I don’t even know where the American is.”
He grunted and they stayed silent awhile. Now he sat up. “But we do have evidence!” he said. “It has been staring us in the face. Come on, get dressed. We have an arrest to make.”
FIFTY-TWO
May 24
Sunday morning, Emma was dragging because of her late night, but she still got up early for the 8 a.m. church service, which was the short one—an hour. The 11 a.m. service ran into three hours and then there was additional Bible study after that.
In the tro-tro, Emma reflected on last night. Yes, she had to admit she had enjoyed herself more than she had in a long while. As for Courage, well, she wasn’t too sure about him yet. Much too early to say. She would wait and see, but she wasn’t in a hurry for anything serious, and as for sex—well, he could forget about that altogether.
Anyway, today was a new day, and Emma didn’t want to dwell much on the events of the evening. Right now, she was eager to get to the Autism Center to try out the new Samsung tablets Mrs. Akrofi had donated. When Emma arrived, Grace, another volunteer, was outside supervising four children.
“Morning, Emma,” she said. “Kojo is inside with Auntie Rose.”
Emma found Rose feeding the boy breakfast, a slow and laborious process, since Kojo didn’t like eating and had limited food preferences.
Rose was glad to see Emma. “How are you, dear?”
“I’m good, thank you, Auntie,” she said. “Would you like me to take over?”
“Yes, please,” she said with relief. “I’m going to church, now.”
“No problem,” Emma said, sitting down next to Kojo, who had begun rocking. “Kojo. Less back and forth, okay?”
Twenty arduous minutes later, Kojo had cleaned his cereal and fruit plates. “Good job,” Emma said. “Let’s wipe our mouths. You remember?”
Kojo flapped his hands multiple times.
“Here you are,” Emma said, handing him a napkin. The boy wiped his mouth, but barely.
“Okay,” Emma said, laughing. “Good enough.”
She unlocked the cabinet with the tablets while Kojo stood in the middle of the floor repetitively rubbing the thumb of his right hand against his fingers.
All the tablets were enclosed in solid, thick protective jackets and a screen protector. The kids were instant wreckers of anything delicate—especially expensive electronic devices.
“Come, big man,” Emma said. “Here, sit next to me.”
She placed all the tablets on the table in front of her and Kojo let out a few short, piercing shrieks.
“Stay cool,” Emma said. “Okay, let’s explore.”
Three of the tablets were the same, but the fourth was different in that it had a stylus pen for drawing on the screen. She doubted Kojo would take much to that, since he’d hardly ever been drawn to paper and pencil, but it might be worth the try.
A free autism aid app designed by a group of Ghanaians a couple of years ago was available, but no one had downloaded it onto any of the devices. Two tablets were almost out of battery power, so Emma plugged them in and began the download. The other two had enough juice for now, including the one with the pen. She set the latter where Kojo could reach it and at the same time tried out the stylus. At first, it was an odd experience drawing on the slick screen—nothing like sketching on paper. On the side of the tablet were several icons to change the thickness and texture of the lines. Emma valued these donations from the IGP’s wife, but she felt the drawing tablet was a little too advanced for any of the children here and she could see the stylus pen being destroyed in a matter of days.
Kojo made a noise and reached for the stylus.
“Okay, but be careful,” Emma said.
Left-handed, Kojo began scribbling a few lines, his head bent studiously over the screen.
Emma checked the other devices, where the pace of the downloads was agonizing. She was pretty sure the Wi-Fi at the center was still only 3G. She noted how still Kojo was sitting and how focused he was on his task. It was unusual for him. As the minutes passed, Emma followed the strokes of his hands in growing incredulity.
He had even figured out how to use the digital eraser. A head was taking shape, and then the body of a woman.
“Who is that you’re drawing?” she whispered.
He had found color on the app, which Emma hadn’t even yet discovered. She held her breath and slipped her mobile phone out of her pocket. She began to video Kojo as he was sketching a head of hair, large eyes, and a big smile. For thirty minutes, Kojo did his work and Emma recorded.
“Grace?” she called out, her voice cracking. “Grace!”
She ran in from outside. “What’s wrong?”
Emma pointed at the tablet. Kojo had put down the stylus and was rocking.
Grace came around to their side. “It looks like . . . It looks a little like Auntie Rose,” she said, looking at Emma and then at Kojo. “Who drew it? You?”
“No, he did,” Emma said.
His drawing was not an exact likeness of Auntie, but it was recognizably her. For a while, Emma and Grace stared at it in silence.
“But he’s never done anything like this before, has he?” Grace said.
“Not that I know of,” Emma said. “Auntie Rose would have talked about it if she had seen it before.”
“What about Abena?” Grace suggested. “Let’s check with her. Maybe she’s seen Kojo draw at home but hasn’t attached much significance to it.”
“I doubt that very much,” Emma said, picking up her phone from the table. “But I’ll call her now. I’m sure this is going to be as much a surprise to her.”
FIFTY-THREE
DCOP Cleophus Laryea was very fond of his nephew Inspector Dazz Nunoo, who was much more like a son to him. Dazz had benefitted from his uncle’s high position in the GPS, not for lack of intelligence or talent, but just because it never hurt to have a senior officer help steer you up the river of promotion. The current was always against you.
Most Sundays after church, Dazz would come over to Uncle Cleo’s spacious house in
Cantonments for lunch. Today, the two men’s wives had left on an outing with Dazz’s two young daughters. Uncle and nephew sat on the cool back porch to relax and drink beer.
Laryea had some news for his nephew. “IGP Akrofi has asked me to join President Bannerman’s task force on elimination of corruption.”
“Congrats!” Dazz said. “You must be happy about that, Uncle Cleo. You’ve wanted something like that for a long time.”
“These commissions and task forces on corruption have come and gone,” Cleo said, wiping a line of beer foam from his upper lip, “but this may be the first of our presidents who is deadly serious about it. Others have merely paid lip service.”
“Let’s hope it works this time,” Dazz said. “But what if Bannerman doesn’t get back in power?”
“He’s almost certain to. Evans-Aidoo, the standard bearer of the opposing party, is dead. His running mate doesn’t have anywhere near Aidoo’s magnetism.”
“That’s certain.”
How is the Panther Unit treating you?” Laryea asked.
“Everything is fine, Uncle.”
Laryea rose as his phone began to ring from somewhere in the sitting room. It took some searching to locate it under a pile of newspapers. It was Yemo Sowah calling.
“Ei, Yemo!” Laryea said. “Good morning! I’m doing well, and you?”
Both men slipped into Ga, their mutual mother tongue. Laryea wandered back to the patio as he was talking and sat down again. They chatted as old friends about this and that.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you how Emma Djan has been working out at the agency,” Laryea asked, as the conversation drifted inevitably toward work—something they tried, and always failed, not to do.
“She’s very good,” Sowah said. “Thank you for referring her to me. I’m grateful.”
“Did she ever reveal the real reason she left CID?” Laryea asked.
“No,” Sowah answered, “and because of what you told me about her meeting with the commissioner, I didn’t ask her. You and I both know the rumors concerning Andoh and young female recruits. I pray nothing untoward happened to Emma in that regard. If she wants to talk about it, I’m happy to listen. Apart from that, I think it would be too awkward to ask about it.”
“Agreed,” Laryea said. “What cases are keeping you busy these days?”
“You’ve heard about this American man—Tilson—who has disappeared?”
“Yes, I have. He came to Ghana supposedly to meet a woman he met online—or someone he thought was a woman. I’m curious how you came to be on that case, because our DI Damptey is also working on it.”
“Tilson’s son, Derek, came to us,” Sowah explained. “He was dissatisfied with the way Damptey was responding—or not, I should say.”
“I see,” Laryea said. “DI Damptey can be sluggish. I’ll find out what’s going on. Meanwhile, if you learn anything that you can share with CID, I would appreciate hearing about it.”
“Of course, my friend. Well as you mention it, there was something. We have reason to believe Mr. Tilson paid a visit to Kweku Ponsu, the fetish priest, a few days before his disappearance, but we don’t know what the purpose of the visit was.”
Laryea frowned. “Ponsu? What would Tilson have to do with him?”
“That’s the question, my brother. When I find out, I will let you know.” They wished each other a nice Sunday and a productive upcoming week.
“That was Yemo Sowah,” Laryea told Dazz.
“I gathered,” Dazz said. “So, you know something about Emma Djan leaving CID and joining Sowah’s agency?”
“Long story,” Laryea said cryptically.
Dazz smiled, aware he wouldn’t get anything more than that out of his uncle. “I saw her a few days ago while we were on SWAT duty at Kempinski Hotel,” he said. “She was working on that case, the American guy—Tilson? I’m not altogether familiar with the story. What happened, exactly?”
“Well, that’s the question,” Laryea said. “The gentleman lives in the US and was duped by one of these online romance scams. He came to Ghana supposedly to meet the woman he had fallen in love with, only to discover she doesn’t exist. Instead of returning home, Tilson decided to stay in Ghana for some time. But as of the third of April, he has disappeared.”
Dazz raised his eyebrows. “Third April? That’s a long time to be missing.”
His uncle nodded. “I fear he may be have got into trouble. Yemo was telling me on the phone that he has reason to believe Tilson intended to pay a visit to Kweku Ponsu.”
Dazz frowned. “Ponsu? For what?”
“That’s what we don’t know, but if we put two and two together, we know Ponsu deals with these so-called sakawa scammer guys, so could it be that Mr. Tilson went to talk to him about that and then got into trouble?”
“Ponsu should be questioned,” Dazz said. “Who has the case?”
“DI Damptey.”
Dazz palmed his forehead. “Oh, God.”
“Yes, her. DCS Quaino is her direct superior.”
“I’m not sure that helps,” Dazz said with a snort. “What is going on with those two?”
Laryea glowered. “I prefer not to think about it. We have a lot of dead wood floating around CID—people I would love to get rid of but can’t. More than ever, we need smarter and smarter police officers. To an extent, I think that’s happening slowly at CID. We have more university graduates than before and along with improved technology, I believe crime will suffer.”
“Is Ghana becoming more violent?” Dazz asked.
Laryea said, “It’s only recently that the police service has begun digitizing crime statistics, so at first glance, armed robbery, rape, and homicide might appear to be increasing, but it may be a function of improved records. We’ll need a few years to study the trends. What worries me is a possible increase in crime sophistication. For example, the assassination of Bernard Evans-Aidoo. That was a deadly, preplanned attack by an expert marksman.”
“Who is investigating?”
“Technically, CID in conjunction with the Bureau of National Intelligence. But the BNI, as usual, is trying to dominate.”
“Who do they suspect, do you know?” Dazz asked.
“No, I don’t, but the implications of a sniper eliminating the one threat to President Bannerman are dire. This is no small boy acting on his own. It’s more like a killing contracted by someone high up.”
“But a sniper, Uncle?” Dazz said. “Where would someone like that come from?”
“The BNI says they have reason to believe there could be secret assassins-for-hire in the ranks of military and SWAT units,” Laryea replied.
Dazz frowned. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Laryea said, his jaw hardening. “So, bear that in mind. I’m not asking you to spy on your SWAT colleagues, but, you know, just be alert.”
“Well, if I hear anything,” Dazz said cautiously, “I’ll let you know.” He hoped he never heard anything.
“I don’t want to put you in any awkward position, though,” Laryea said quickly, as if reading his nephew’s mind.
“I understand, Uncle Cleo,” Dazz said. He hurried to fill the slightly awkward silence. “How much would an assassination job pay?”
“Upward of three-thousand cedis.”
“Wow,” Dazz said. “Impressive.”
“So, if I notice you buying a whole lot of expensive toys,” Laryea said, winking at him, “I’ll have questions.”
Dazz laughed. “Don’t worry, I would never take such a job.”
Laryea beamed. “Of course. I know that, and I trust you.”
Dazz smiled, but then his blood froze to ice as something struck him. Courage buying that 52-inch TV fitted the profile Uncle Cleo had just depicted: a sniper with money to spend on expensive toys.
FIFTY-FOUR
; May 25
Mid-morning Monday, Sowah burst out of his office and came to Emma’s desk. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’ve located Sana Sana and he’s willing to meet.”
Emma jumped up and followed the boss out of the building. His gout had cleared up and he was walking faster than Emma had ever seen.
“How did you find him?” she asked.
“Not by phone,” Sowah said. “I used a network of street contacts who worked through the weekend.”
“Outstanding, sir.” She got into the passenger seat of his nice but modest Kia. Sowah simply wasn’t a flashy kind of man. “Where do we meet him?”
“Somewhere around Circle,” Sowah said, “but I don’t know the exact location. Once we get there, we’ll park, I’ll call his guy, and he’ll take us to another location. Sana doesn’t meet or live in one place all the time. He’s constantly on the move.”
“What a life,” Emma said, shaking her head. “I don’t know how he does it.”
“Nor I,” Sowah said. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine, sir,” she said, not planning on talking about her date. “In fact, it was special.”
She related the story about Kojo’s newly discovered talent. “He’s never liked paper and pencil, or even crayons. But because he’s so drawn to anything with a screen, I suppose the tablet liberated his gift, in a way.”
“Perhaps so,” Sowah said. “You seem to love working with the children.”
Emma smiled. “It’s sometimes a lot of frustration, but the small rewards make it worth it. Like Kojo.”
“I imagine he teaches you a lot about being patient.”
Emma nodded. “He does. And gives me practice in peering inside someone’s mind.”
“That’s why you’ll make a good detective.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They parked near Ernest’s Chemists on the northeast side of Nkrumah Circle and Sowah made the call, telling the guy on the other end where they were. He showed up after five minutes, a lanky man of about nineteen wearing ratty slide slippers. He didn’t say much except “Morning,” and they followed him off the beaten track into a deeply set huddle of residential shacks built on treacherous terrain. Walking down ever-narrowing passages, they came to a small, vomit-green house. Outside the door was a security man with a mass of knotted muscles. He patted Emma and Sowah down before holding the door open to let them in. They entered a musty, semi-dark room where it took a few seconds for their vision to accommodate.
