Dawson spent part of the morning briefing the constables on their positions, what they were looking for, and what to do in different situations. Any vehicle slowly circling these areas should arouse suspicion and should be watched. A car whose driver picks up a street child should be followed and assistance called for if necessary.
While Chikata was off calling the phone companies, Dawson went to SCOAR.
Genevieve was out for the moment, to Dawson’s relief. He didn’t want to have to navigate around her guardedness.
He found Patience in the staff room.
“I know you’ve probably seen and heard the bad news about Ofosu’s death,” he said to her as he took the seat she offered him.
“It’s terrible what’s going on, Inspector,” she said. “I work every day with these boys and girls. I call them my children. Yes, there are problems, and no, they are not all angels, but I do love them.”
“To your knowledge, did Ofosu ever come to the center?”
“Not that I know, but you should check with Socrate, and also check the other street children centers in Accra. There’s the Catholic Street Child Refuge, CSCR, for instance. They’re much larger than we are.”
“That’s my next stop today,” Dawson said. “I also wanted to let you know, Patience, that last night I spoke to a bunch of the street kids from around the railway station about how to look out for themselves and each other, what suspicious signs to watch for, and so on. Issa is going to be my main contact person.”
Patience beamed. “Thank you for doing that, Inspector. You may not realize how much a gesture like that means to the kids, especially coming from a policeman. They are so used to being vilified. Are you sure you don’t want to be a social worker?”
“Funny you should say that. Someone recently asked me about becoming a psychologist. I had a question for you that maybe you can help me with. Do you mind if I close the door?”
“No, of course not.”
The door shut, Dawson continued. “I wanted to ask you about Socrate.”
Dawson saw a brief flicker of discomfort flash across Patience’s face. “Mm-hm? What did you need to know?”
“What’s your opinion of him?”
“Well, you know, he does a very good job at what he does-electronic stuff, the computer, and so on, and he really helps us to raise money.”
“Have you had any complaints about him from the children?”
“What kinds of complaints?”
“Abuse or maltreatment.”
She shifted in her chair. “Did you hear something like that?”
“Yes. From Antwi.”
“I see. In that case, you should bring that up to Genevieve. I’m very sorry I can’t help you much with this kind of thing. It’s really the boss’s area.”
“Thank you, Patience.”
He could tell that she knew something. Either she had been afraid to bring it to Genevieve’s attention or she had brought it up and been shot down.
Dawson made his way to CSCR in Accra New Town. The director, Sister Sylvia Kwapong, was a gracious, gray-haired woman who took no offense at Dawson’s inquiries, providing him with detailed information on all past and present employees. Nothing really stood out about any of them, but Dawson took away a list just the same.
As he was leaving, he thought of something.
“Sister, do you know a nine-year-old boy called Sly?”
Dawson gave her Sly’s description, relating how they had met. She searched her mind for a moment and shook her head. “No, I’m afraid no one comes to mind. If I come across him or anyone who knows of him, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
“Please do.”
“I can tell you’re very worried about him,” Sister Sylvia said gently.
“Yes, I am.”
“I will pray that you find him safe and sound, Inspector. The good Lord will answer my prayers.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
Dawson left her with his card. He headed home. Accra New Town was adjacent to Nima, where Daramani lived. For a moment, Dawson wondered how his “friend” was doing. For the first time in many months, Dawson felt a craving for wee return like a conniving ex-lover. It seized him, pulled him into its bosom, and planted an openmouthed kiss. Dawson fought to pull away, but he felt himself weakening.
The phone rang, and he jumped. Thank God. It was a welcome rescue from temptation.
It was Chikata on the line. “Okay, seems we were both kind of wrong and kind of right,” he said. “Tigo phone says they can’t link a phone number to a particular person for the same reasons you were giving, but one of the engineers told me they could possibly help in another way. He said if the radio station can split the broadcast feed and send one portion to the phone company, they could try locating the caller with their Global Positioning System. But the process might take a few minutes and the caller has to stay on the line long enough.”
“I see,” Dawson said. “It’s worth a try.”
“So who is buying at Papaye’s?”
“I’ll buy, of course. The superior officer always buys.”
45
Genevieve had left the office earlier that day for the first day of a weeklong seminar at the Accra International Conference Center. She was to make a presentation the following morning, Tuesday. It was as she drove home that she remembered she had left her thumb drive in the office. She debated picking it up early in the morning before going to the seminar, but she knew morning traffic would make that risky. Annoyed with herself, she turned off on the next street and headed back to SCOAR.
Everyone had left for the day, the center was quiet. Socrate had the place to himself. He listened to Joy FM on the Internet while he updated the website and surfed around the Internet for pleasure. He went to Genevieve’s office to get the spy cam. He removed it, resting the speaker on the corner of his desk as he began the upload to his computer. While that was taking place, he went to the toilet.
Genevieve let herself in the side door. Down the corridor, the lights were on in her office as well as Socrate’s, two doors down. She popped her head in hers, but he wasn’t there, nor was he in his own office.
“Socra?” she called out.
Suddenly alarm flared in her mind. Was it Socrate in the building or someone else?
“Socra?”
She looked behind her and down the corridor again. No one.
On his desk was a small, partially dismantled speaker, which looked just like the one in her office. Puzzled, Genevieve went back to check and, indeed, only the speaker’s mounting bracket was in place. The speaker had been taken down. In Socrate’s office again, she peered at the speaker, whose front grille had been removed. Right beside the bass unit was a space lined by putty.
Something else was on the desk: a miniature camera. Connected to Socrate’s PC by a USB cable, it was tiny. Genevieve’s eyes darted between it and the speaker. She picked up the camera and pressed it into the putty. She was right. It fit snugly and firmly.
Her heart pounding, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, she circled the desk. She looked at the monitor screen. A pop-up window asked whether to save or launch the download. Genevieve’s hand hovered over the Enter key for a moment. She hit it. The surveillance image started. She saw herself in her office. She gasped and staggered back.
Socrate was at the door. “Genevieve. What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? No, the question is what are you doing here, Socra? What is this?”
He came into the room slowly, his eyes blinking rapidly. He already knew what Genevieve had seen. He stood next to her, staring blankly at the screen.
“You’re spying on me?” she said, her voice up one octave.
“I wouldn’t call it spying,” he said dully.
“What would you call it? Oh, Ewurade, Ewurade.” She took another step back, suddenly feeling suffocated. She could not control her breathing. She felt like she was about to faint.