Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

“Yes, sir, I can have that for you.” Dawson hesitated on his next point. “Sir, that reminds me. I found three cases in the office that were started by my predecessor and Sergeant Obeng and remain open. They are incompletely written, and I wonder if you know about them.”

“Do you have the files?”

“I’ll get them, sir.” Dawson excused himself, ran downstairs, and returned with the documents.

“Two of the files concern armed robberies,” Dawson said, opening one of the three folders. “The first is a British national by name of Colin Wilshire who was allegedly attacked at gunpoint in Santase, Kumasi, and robbed of up to seven thousand dollars’ worth of gold when he was returning to his house after a buying deal. Do you recall that case, sir?”

“No,” Longdon said, looking puzzled. “What is the date on the file?”

“It happened in March of this year, sir.”

“That’s when Chief Inspector Addae was very sick and work became disrupted,” Longdon said. “Some of the reports were not passed on. We have to look at reopening the investigation. What is the other one?”

“It’s an American ex-basketball player called Beko Tanbry. He too had some dealings in gold. His SUV was ambushed between Obuasi and Kumasi around Pakyi. He made a report, but there is no follow-up.”

Longdon looked regretful. “I put Sergeant Obeng temporarily in charge when DCI Addae was ill, but little did I know that the alcoholism was impairing his abilities.”

He takes no responsibility whatsoever for any of these investigation lapses , Dawson thought. Pitiful. This man is not a leader ; he’s a worthless figurehead . No wonder the morale of the place was in the toilet.

“And the third case?” Longdon asked.

“It concerns the death of Amos Okoh.”

Longdon nodded. “An unfortunate accident.”

“Please, there are two versions,” Dawson said gently. “One is that it was an accident, the other that it was deliberate, but no real attempt at closing the case was made. I would like to do that, sir.”

Longdon nodded. “Good. I think we should get that completed.”

“I can begin work on all of these,” Dawson said.

The commander frowned. “That might make your plate too full.”

“If you would spare Constable Asase to assist me,” Dawson said, “I can take it on, sir.

“Because the cases are a lapse on our part, I want Regional to handle them,” the commander said abruptly.

“I don’t quite understand, sir. Since it’s Obuasi’s lapse, shouldn’t we be the ones to fix it?”

The veins in Longdon’s bulky neck swelled as he lost his temper. “Did you hear what I said?” he shouted. “The cases are going to Regional. Again you challenge me? Get out of my office! Get out! ”

Dawson’s eyes narrowed. This man is crazy. As he rose from his seat, Dawson locked his gaze with Longdon’s. I am not afraid of you, Commander.

That night, Dawson dreamt he had fallen into a mining pit full of blue water. Each time he tried to surface, Commander Longdon, standing above on a bridge crossing, shoved Dawson back into the water with a long bamboo pole sharpened at the tip. Akua Helmsley came running along the bridge to fight Longdon off, but as she got closer, he turned and drove the pointed end of the pole through her neck, almost decapitating her.

Dawson sat up in bed with a gasp. Sweat had soaked his T-shirt. He looked at his phone. The time was 4:20. He also saw that Akua Helmsley had sent him a link the day before via Whatsapp. He tapped it and it took him to The Guardian ’s website, where she had a new post. ghanaian authorities show force: but challenges still lie ahead .

She had written about the raid and the shooting. She even had a picture of the deserted mining camp with the incinerating excavators. Without qualification, Dawson admired Helmsley for her work. She was on the ball, and now he dismissed any doubts he had entertained about the veracity of her story that she had confronted Tommy Thompson at PMMC. The question was now, why was he lying?

He saw that she had texted him again about forty-five minutes later, asking him to call her. In the dark, Dawson admitted to himself that he had deliberately avoided contact with her ever since Christine had thrown out that hint of jealousy. He didn’t feel good about avoiding Akua, but he didn’t want marital problems either, especially over nothing. His personal and professional worlds had collided somewhat.

Why was he now filled with a foreboding that something awful had happened? It must have been the nightmare. Dawson rose to remove his damp T-shirt. Trying to sleep anymore was fruitless, so he took his shower and got dressed quietly while Christine slept blissfully with a light snore. Overnight, she had gradually hogged most of the bed, as usual. Wish I could sleep like my wife , he thought, peeping into the boys’ bedroom, or my children, for that matter .

Dawson went outside to think in the cool of predawn, taking a seat on the cheap plastic chair under the avocado tree for a moment. But he felt restless and uncomfortable, so he rose and went outside the front gate to watch Kumasi stirring awake.

His phone rang and his stomach dropped when he saw it was Commander Longdon. A call this early could only mean trouble.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning, Dawson. You need to travel to Pakyi as soon as possible. I’m on the way there myself. There has been a fatal shooting. This one is high profile.”

Dawson swallowed and closed his eyes tight. He felt faint. “Who is it, sir?”

“The journalist. Akua Helmsley.”

Dawson needed a tougher vehicle than the Corolla to go out into the bush, so he called Uncle Joe, who sent one of his drivers over with a jeep that Dawson could have for the day. He drove fast, reaching the turnoff just before Pakyi in under forty-five minutes. The directions were simple: just keep going into the deep bush, and then keep going some more. The unpaved, dusty road was barely wide enough for two vehicles side by side. It was rough in some sections and waterlogged in others, but the jeep, which had four-wheel drive, handled all of it without a problem.

After thirty minutes of travel, Dawson saw the vehicles in a cluster ahead: two black police Tatas off to the side, and a silver-gray Toyota Prado in the middle that Dawson recognized as Akua’s. He pulled over and jumped out, his heart beating hard and heavy at what he was about to see. Commander Longdon was with two uniformed low-ranked officers.

Longdon turned as Dawson came up. “It must have been an ambush,” he said. “It looks like both of them were forced out of the vehicle at gunpoint and then shot.”

The Prado was facing them. The door on the passenger side was ajar, and just below it, Akua lay on the ground crumpled like a broken doll. She had a single wound in front of her right ear, dried blood fanning out from it like a river delta. It was a professional job.

Stunned, Dawson recoiled. Oh. God. He felt numb, with a sense of utter defeat.

“The man’s body is here,” Longdon said, moving to the driver’s side of the Prado. But Dawson barely heard him, and he stayed where he was, staring at Akua’s body.

“Dawson?” Longdon was looking at him with the expression that said, Are you okay?

“Yes,” Dawson said, coming around the left-hand side, feeling as if he were floating in an unreal world. He couldn’t feel his feet touching the ground.

“His identification says he’s Joshua Samuels,” Longdon said.

Two biblical names , Dawson thought irrelevantly. “That’s Helmsley’s cameraman.”