Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

“Come on, sleep machine,” he said, switching off the TV at the conclusion and shifting her off his shoulder. “Time for bed.”

He shifted her and she groaned in protest, staggered up, and went sleepily to the bedroom.

Wednesday morning came and went, and it wasn’t until half past twelve that Commander Longdon called Dawson in for a meeting.

“The shooting of Miss Helmsley is having widespread repercussions,” he said, folding his fingers together on his desk. “Her father is well-known and quite wealthy, and the Helmsley family are well connected with the British diplomatic corps. As you can imagine, it’s important to handle this at the highest level. I had a meeting with DCOP Manu this morning, and she informed me that she will assign three detectives from Regional Headquarters to the case. In other words, they will be in charge of the investigation from this point on. Our role will be supportive only. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he said insincerely. He wasn’t going to passively wait around for these three detectives to get to work.

“Do you have anything new I should know about?” Longdon asked.

“Yes, I do, sir,” Dawson said, aware that he had to handle this delicately. “Akua Helmsley mentioned to me that she was writing a story about the rash of armed robberies in the Obuasi area involving gold that foreigners had bought. Did she contact you about the matter at all?”

“No,” Longdon said, shaking his head. “I have never spoken to the woman.”

Dawson jumped slightly as he received an electric jolt to his left palm. Why was the commander lying?

“She didn’t come to see you about four days ago?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“I believe that she was ambushed as she was returning from a visit to Mr. Michael, the gold dealer mentioned in Sergeant Obeng’s report,” Dawson said. “What do you know about this man, Michael, sir? Is his business legitimate?”

“As far as I know, yes. What is your interest in him?”

“I think he should be questioned in relation to the murder of Helmsley and Samuels. Sir, I know you want Regional to handle everything, but it will take them some time to get up to speed in this case, and time is of the essence. I want to go to Mr. Michael’s place to question him.”

“When?”

“Today. Now.”

The commander looked uncertain. “I will have to clear it with DCOP Manu, and I will let you know shortly.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. May I check back with you in about an hour?”

Longdon sighed wearily. “Yes, Dawson. You may.”

Constable Asase had done almost a month of driving duty in the past, so he was fit to be at the wheel of the Tata jeep when he and Dawson started out from Obuasi to Pakyi. They got to the now infamous left turnoff and continued on the dusty laterite road. Asase handled the rough ride with ease, dodging cavernous holes and skillfully navigating treacherous muddy patches.

With more efficiency than Dawson had anticipated, the commander had provided a police jeep for the expedition within three hours, apparently with DCOP Manu’s blessing.

“Boss, do you know exactly how far it is?” Asase asked.

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Dawson replied. “What I do know is that when we see the place, we’ll know it.”

But the farther they went, the more Dawson was plagued with an unsettling anxiety over the excursion. He shifted restlessly in his seat as they rounded a sharp corner.

Asase suddenly slowed down. “Sir-”

A black Toyota 4x4 was parked diagonally across the road.

Dawson knew at once what was happening. “ Shit . It’s a trap. Back up, back up !”

Asase slammed the jeep into reverse and raced backward. A man in dark clothes and a black mask got out of the Toyota with a pump-action shotgun and began running toward them. He brought the weapon to chest level.

“Get down, get down!” Dawson said.

Asase hit the brakes, and they ducked behind the dash as they heard the shotgun go off. But nothing hit their vehicle and no second blast followed. Dawson popped his head up. “He’s running,” he said. “Drive! Get him! ”

Asase gunned the jeep. At first the would-be assassin tried to reach his vehicle, but he looked behind him and saw Dawson and Asase coming too quickly for him to make it. He swerved left and headed for the bush. At the verge, he stumbled and dropped his weapon. As Asase hit the brakes, Dawson swung open his door and jumped out, followed by Asase a second later, both running after the man. Dawson had been a little closer to him to start with, and began to gain on him. Tough shrubbery covered a depression at the side of the road. The man leapt across it, but he had misjudged both its width and depth, and he fell. Dawson put in a burst of speed and jumped into the depression, landing solidly on the guy as he started to scramble up. Dawson pulled him down. They wrestled briefly until Asase leapt in, and he and Dawson immobilized the man facedown.

Dawson fumbled for his cuffs, but Asase had his out already. Together they brought the man’s hands together behind his back and cuffed him.

“Don’t move,” Dawson said to the man, gasping. He needed a second to catch his breath. He looked at Asase, who was pouring sweat. “Okay, we turn him over on three.”

He counted and they flipped the man over. Dawson put his fingers at the base of the mask and ripped it off the man’s face.

“Oh, my God,” Dawson said, flabbergasted. “Obeng. Obeng, why ?”

Obeng began to weep. “ Mepa wo kyew . I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry.”

“How could you do this?” Dawson was stunned. “Is someone else with you? Are you alone?”

“Yes, yes, I’m by myself,” Obeng said.

“Are you lying to me?”

“No, please. I swear I’m alone.”

“Let’s take him to the jeep,” Dawson said to Asase.

They pulled Obeng up to his feet and supported him as they climbed out of the depression, which was awkward and took some effort. The sun was ruthless and all three men were soaked with sweat. Asase went back to retrieve the shotgun.

Desperate to understand what was going on, Dawson sat in the back seat with Obeng. “Now, start talking,” Dawson snapped. “Who sent you?”

The sergeant bowed his head. “Please, I need protection,” he said weakly. “If you guarantee that me and my family will not be victimized for telling the truth, I know I can trust you, and I will talk.”

“I will do my best,” Dawson said, not wanting to overcommit himself, “but I’m losing patience now. Who sent you, Obeng? Who ordered you to kill us?”

The sergeant looked down at his hands. He seemed paralyzed.

“Mr. Michael sent you?” Dawson asked.

Obeng shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Then it can be only one other person,” Dawson said. “Commander Longdon.”

Almost imperceptibly, Obeng nodded his affirmation.

In the driver’s seat, Asase recoiled and looked away. “No,” he said firmly. “That cannot be. Not the commander. Excuse me to say it, boss Dawson, but this is a lie. Why the sergeant is accusing ACP Longdon of this, I don’t know, but it has to be this Mr. Michael.”

Obeng grunted, bitter amusement in his expression. “Constable, what you are saying is funny because Mr. Michael and the commander are the same person.”

Asase’s head whipped around and Dawson jerked upright. “What?”

“Yes,” Obeng said, nodding. “One and the same.”

“How is that possible?” Dawson asked skeptically.

“When, for example, a businessman wants to trade in gold,” Obeng began explaining, “a middleman like Mr. Granger will tell the businessman that Mr. Michael will call him about the deal. You can never call Mr. Michael. Granger will inform the people at the mansion-they are all Longdon’s family members-and they will take the number of the businessman, pass it on to the commander, and tell the businessman to wait for Mr. Michael’s call. The commander will call the businessman and arrange the deal. He disguises his voice and tells the guy what time he should go to the mansion. Anytime someone arrives at the mansion expecting to see Mr. Michael, they are told that he is not available but that he has left all necessary instructions to complete the deal.”