Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

“All right,” she said, waking it from sleep. “Let’s look at Chuck Granger. Here’s the official Tropical Gold page.”

The page showed a bulky, redheaded American man in his early thirties with a five o’clock shadow and a fierce frown.

“‘Property mogul Chuck Granger had it all,’” Akua read. “‘At a mere twenty-eight years old, Granger was worth two million dollars. But so tied up in making the deal, so determined to make more and more money, he ignored the warning signs heralding the US housing crash that triggered the worldwide recession. Granger lost everything.’”

Dawson was following her reading, slightly distracted by the faint scent of her fragrance. “So he lost everything in the real estate crash,” he said, “and decided the solution was to come to Ghana and mine for gold?”

“That’s the premise of the program, yes.”

Dawson sat back and laughed. “That’s just foolishness.”

“Not when it’s watched by millions of viewers in the United Kingdom and the United States,” she pointed out, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs at the ankles.

Dawson’s eyes very nearly strayed, but he remained resolute and held his gaze firmly on her face. “Only Ghanaians can lawfully engage in small-scale mining,” he said, “but an American lands at Kotoka Airport with a film crew and proceeds to mine illegally under the full glare of cameras, and no one asks any questions.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“But that attitude doesn’t go far enough,” she said, looking at him fully in the eyes. “I intend to find out exactly how and why that happened. Who gave these guys the green light, and who pocketed a tidy packet of dollars for it?”

Dawson felt moderate alarm stir within him. “Be careful how deep you dig, Miss Helmsley. Dangerous people high up want to keep things undercover.”

“But I would never say that to you,” she said. “I’m an investigator too-like you. Not a cop, but I have similar motivations. I have to go after these things and find out the truth. It’s in my blood.”

He felt he had expressed his sentiment poorly. “I just mean… well, pick your battles carefully. Even I drop police cases that aren’t worth the trouble.”

“Thank you for your concern, Chief Inspector.” She turned back to her iPad. “Take a look at one of the Tropical Gold episodes-just to give you an idea of what they’re like.”

The scene showed Granger, a group of galamsey boys, and an engineer caught in a drenching downpour at a mining site. An excavator was perched at the edge of a pit, and the operator was attempting to move earth in the midst of rain and a burgeoning flood, which seemed unwise to Dawson. Gradually, as the camera pulled away, the sodden ground at the edge of the pit began to sink, and then collapse. A lot of yelling and running around followed, with the operator leaping from the excavator before it slid forward in the mud and ended up in the pit on its side.

Dawson was incredulous. “Is it real?” he asked, eyes glued to the screen.

“An equal number of people say it’s fake as say it’s real. Now, watch this.”

She fast forwarded to the end of the episode and allowed the credits to roll up to a certain point, at which she froze the screen.

“Read what’s at the very bottom, Chief Inspector, if you would.”

“It says, ‘Explorer Channel wishes to thank…’” Dawson blinked. “‘… wishes to thank the Ministry of Tourism, Ghana.’” He exchanged an astonished glance with Helmsley.

“Exactly,” she said, nodding. “They somehow got sanction and approval from the tourism minister to come to Ghana and tramp up and down digging up the landscape.”

“Could be that Explorer lied about the true purpose of the visit?” Dawson suggested. “Maybe they told the ministry a half truth like, ‘We’d like to film the beautiful forests of Ghana while highlighting the tragedy of environmental destruction at the hands of illegal gold miners.’”

“Wow,” she said, looking at him with new admiration. “Beautifully put, Chief Inspector. You might have a career in journalism.”

He grinned. “Thanks, but I’ll stick to the police stuff.”

“At any rate,” Helmsley said, “you can see how addicting it could be to follow the weekly exploits of this, sorry to say, not very intelligent Chuck Granger.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Oh, yes. Well, in a way. I went to interview him at his site and he yelled me off the property. Big, fat, ugly American.”

Dawson almost laughed at the gusto with which she said it. “How well is he doing with the mining?”

“I don’t have numbers, but I think he’s making a killing. Sorry, bad choice of words.”

Dawson smiled. “Maybe not. Do you think he would have a motive to kill Mr. Liu?”

“Oh, good gracious, no,” she said with a flick of her head. “I don’t think he gives a flying fig about the Lius. They could be dead or alive, so far as he’s concerned.”

Dawson didn’t mention Kudzo’s story of Granger calling Bao names and threatening his life.

A female waiter appeared and interrupted them to ask if they’d like anything to drink.

“I’ll take a strawberry daiquiri,” Akua said. “And Chief Inspector Dawson will take?”

“Just some bottled water, thank you.”

“Still or carbonated?”

“Still, please.”

The waiter left and Dawson turned back to Akua.

“Now, Chief Inspector,” she said coyly, “let’s do a fair trade, shall we?”

“Meaning?”

“I gave you some dirt on Chuck Granger. In return, talk to me a little about Mr. Bao Liu, as well as the young Ghanaian guy you arrested.”

Dawson smiled ironically. “Seems like you know quite a bit already.”

“But not enough. I need to do a little fact-checking. Can you oblige me?”

“I’ll do what I can, but some things might have to be off the record.”

“Understood. So, when we saw each other last outside the police station in Obuasi, you had Bao Liu’s brother, Wei, in custody. You said it was not for suspicion of murder, but ‘a different offense.’ That different offense was?”

“We would have had him down at the station for questioning only, minus handcuffs, had he not taken a swing at one of my officers.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Bad move. Which officer was that? Can you name him?”

Dawson shook his head. “Leave him out of it, please.”

“Very well. And when I saw Wei with you and the other officers, you were on your way where?”

“To confirm his alibi with a friend of his.”

“And it checked out?”

“Yes. I can’t give you the details, but they freed Wei from suspicion, and as for the officer assault, we dropped the charge with a written warning that trying to hit a police officer can have severe consequences.”

“I’ll say,” Helmsley said dryly. “Lucky you were there at the time, because otherwise Wei might have gotten his arse well and truly kicked.”

“Maybe so. I don’t know.”

“Okay. And the Ghanaian gentleman?”

“Kudzo Gablah. He was one of the Lius’ galamsey workers. Not a strong suspect, and the ventured motive that he killed Bao because the guy was often late paying the workers never struck me as being anything else but weak. And his alibi was solid as well.”

“Who else do you have then, Chief Inspector?”

“No one.”

“Oh.”

She made a face of exaggerated disappointment, and he laughed. “Sorry.”

The daiquiri and still water arrived. Helmsley took a sip of hers and murmured her approval. “Any idea when the autopsy on Bao will be done?” she asked.

Dawson shook his head.