Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

“Of course,” she said. She wore a sheer white top and tight black slacks. Her hair was elegantly swept back. She smelled like heaven must smell, and he was beset by guilt. He should be treating Christine to a place like this, rather than meeting another woman here.

“I’m having wine,” she said. “Would you like something?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

She ignored him and lifted a finger to the bartender. “One Malta, please.”

“Thank you,” Dawson said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” She took a sip of her wine. “So. What’s on your mind, Chief Inspector?”

He waited for the bartender to finish pouring. “It’s about Tommy Thompson.”

“Ah, yes?”

“You said you went to see him at the Accra office?”

“I did.”

“My partner Philip Chikata-you remember him-went to PMMC to talk to him. He claims you’ve never stepped foot on the premises.”

She chortled. “I’m not surprised.”

Dawson could tell she genuinely wasn’t, as if he had told her it rained in Kumasi. For his part, he was taken aback by the mildness of her reaction.

“Tommy Thompson is a liar,” Helmsley said coolly. “Furthermore, he is trying to discredit my name. I’m sure he said some really unpleasant things about me.”

Dawson said nothing in response, but yes, she was right.

“Whether you believe him or not,” she continued as he watched her facial expression, “I know I don’t need to tell you there are some very nasty men out there who cannot stand having a woman snooping around the way I do.”

“And the whistle-blower?” he asked her. “Is he or she one of the disgruntled employees fired over the last year or so?”

She shook her head decisively. “No. The person is working at PMMC right now.”

“I see.”

“Contrary to popular gossip,” Helmsley said, “I don’t sensationalize my reports, nor did I sleep my way to my position, Chief Inspector.”

“I never thought that,” Dawson said, a little hurt.

“I appreciate your saying so. Anyway,” she said with a backward flap of the hand, “that’s neither here nor there. I’m glad you’re here, because there is something I want to ask you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Speaking of whistle-blowers,” she said, “would you be willing to be one, should the occasion arise?”

Dawson’s Malta arrived. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he said, as the bartender poured. “In what regard?”

Helmsley paused, waiting for the bartender to leave, and gave a quick glance around. “I want to look into galamsey corruption at the highest levels of the police force.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“That’s like asking you why you want to solve crime,” she objected, but she was smiling.

“True, but that’s when the crime has been committed. Do you know of galamsey corruption in the police?”

“Come on. It’s a foregone conclusion. How is it that during these raids, some of the Chinese bosses are nowhere to be found? It’s because someone tips them off.”

She amazed him. It was as if she were echoing exactly the discussion with DCOP Deborah Manu.

“I know of no one,” he said. “At least not yet.”

“If you come across it,” she said, “will you let me know?”

“It depends,” he said, taking a sip of Malta.

“On what?” she asked, angling her head. Lit by the recessed ceiling lamps, she was stunning.

“On whether it’s too dangerous to tell you,” he said.

“Not this again, Dawson,” she said. “You’re going to have to stop trying to protect me. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“No doubt about it,” he agreed. “But everyone needs someone else to watch their back. I’m going to watch yours.”

“I accept graciously,” she said, smiling and dipping her head slightly. “Now, something else I’m working on.”

“Is there anything you are not?”

“Funny.” She laughed, but quickly grew serious. “This one is all about staged armed robberies perpetrated on gold buyers or potential investors from abroad who-” She broke off and changed the direction of her gaze. “Ah, here he is.”

Her date had arrived. Probably of Lebanese-Ghanaian mix, he was on the chubby side and decidedly shorter than Akua. He must be really rich , Dawson thought unkindly, and then regretted it. Helmsley introduced the two men, and Dawson wasted no time in excusing himself.

“We’ll catch up later,” Helmsley said to him as he took his leave.

“Sure.” Before he left the room, he took a quick look back and saw Akua sitting very close to the gentleman, with her hand resting on his thigh.

Dawson arrived home at seven thirty, and immediately sensed as he came through the door that the evening was going to be a bit bumpy. Christine was ironing clothes in the kitchen, and that she was unhappy was obvious with one glance at her expression.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, coming beside her and putting his arm around her waist.

“It’s okay,” she said, pressing her lips together. “I’m sure your meeting, wherever that was, was very important.”

He didn’t like the sarcastic treatment, but he was determined not to allow it to rattle him.

“Tell me how I can help, love,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

“Check the boys’ homework,” she said. “I haven’t had time to do it. Hosiah needs to finish his bath so Sly can get in. The water is running slow. And I’m not sure if Sly has his uniform laid out for tomorrow. If he doesn’t, he can use the one I’m ironing now. I don’t understand what he does with his shirts.”

“I’ll check it all out, don’t worry.” He kissed her neck. “I’m really sorry.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Go and attend to them.”

Just as he was leaving, she asked, “Anyway, where were you?”

“I was just late leaving Obuasi.”

“But you said you had a stop.”

“Yes, I had some questions for that journalist, Helmsley.”

“Oh,” Christine said, head studiously down as she ran the iron back and forth. “Nothing you couldn’t handle on the phone?”

“No,” he said, frowning.

“And where did you meet this wonderful journalist Helmsley?” she asked.

Her tone ruffled his composure. “Please, Christine. There’s nothing personal with the woman. It’s all business.”

“ Okay. Sorry.”

He turned, shaking his head, which was aching as if a vicious little man were kicking his skull from the inside. He hurried to the bathroom when he heard Hosiah let out a yell. Eyes clenched shut, the boy was standing in the shower stall covered in soapsuds crying out, “Ow! Ow! ”

“Hosiah, what are you doing?”

“The water’s stopped,” he gasped. “And there’s soap in my eyes.”

Dawson scooped up a bowl of clean water from the standby emergency bucket. One never knew when the water would be cut off. “Here,” he said, pouring it over his son’s head. “Wash the soap out. Hosiah, I told you, the water tank is not as big as the one we have at home in Accra, so you have to keep your showers short. You’re not the only one living here, are you?”

“Yes, I know, Daddy,” Hosiah said, rinsing his eyes out until he was able to fully open them. “But I didn’t really take a long time.” He continued with a meandering explanation.

“Yes, okay, I get it,” Dawson said, cutting him short and handing him another bowlful of water. “Wash off quickly because Sly needs to come in for his bath too. Here’s your towel.”

“I don’t use one, remember?” Hosiah reminded him.

“Oh, that’s right-you don’t,” Dawson said. “Well, whatever it is you do.”