“Where did you go?” Akua asked Dawson, breathing heavily.
“Just to take a look downstream,” he said, his instincts telling him that it was not yet time to discuss Yaw Okoh with her.
In the shelter of the Prado, they heaved a sigh of relief and rested for a moment.
“Okay,” Akua said to Dawson. “Let’s get you back to Obuasi. Where are you staying?”
“Coconut Grove Hotel.”
“You know it?” Akua asked Sammuels.
He nodded. “Yes.”
As they made their careful way out of Obuasi, Akua removed a Samsung tablet from her bag, switched it on, and passed it back to Dawson. “I thought you might have a look at some of Mr. Samuels’s photos of the different mining sites. We’re going to put the best ones in an online gallery.”
He looked through them, admiring the way she had sequenced some of the increased devastation at particular spots over several months-from forest to bleak, yellow-gray moonscape. Some of the photos showed galamsey workers toiling in groups at the edge of a river; in others they were panning for gold in solitude. There were also the large industrial operations with bulldozers and excavators, giant pits, and massive trommels washing tons of gravel by the hour. Dawson was struck by the tone of sadness conveyed by the way Samuels had shot the images.
“You are very talented, Mr. Samuels,” Dawson said. “Congrats on these amazing photographs.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dawson skimmed through more, stopping at an image of a Chinese worker operating a bulldozer as it mowed down a line of neatly planted cocoa trees as if they were nothing but insignificant twigs. The time stamp was from about three months ago.
In the next picture, also from three months ago, Samuels had captured an excavator in slow transit from one mining area to the next along a narrow, muddy path deep in the forest. He had shot it in sequence from wide angle to close. Here, the operator was not Chinese; he was Ghanaian. As the camera moved in, it showed him clearly. There was the scar across the lip and the infamous bare torso. Dawson’s breath caught. Yaw Okoh knows how to operate an excavator. Three months ago, before his brother’s death, perhaps he worked for a company or individual involved in small-scale mining.
It was a stunning revelation. The day was wet and gloomy, but suddenly Dawson saw it as clear and bright. What he had only yesterday considered unlikely had turned out to be entirely plausible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dawson had had a good night’s sleep at Coconut Grove with no surprise leaks but the hotel was still without power. For a few minutes as light crept to the sky, he lay in bed with his mind roaming. When would the family be up from Accra? When, if ever, would the guesthouse be inhabitable?
And this murder case. He felt there was a track he must follow, given yesterday’s discovery that Yaw Okoh could operate an excavator. If that piece of heavy machinery was used to quickly bury Bao Liu, Yaw had the skills to do it, and he had a powerful motive as well. And so did his father. Could it have been a collaborative effort? In the overpowering of the Chinese man, two men would have been far more effective than one.
Dawson felt the sense of eagerness he always had whenever a potential lead appeared-like walking around without direction in the bush until a path suddenly appears that might well take you where you want to go. But he also knew that sacrificing any loose ends at the altar of a promising lead was foolhardy, and at the moment, the uninvestigated item was still Chuck Granger, the American whose mining concession was adjacent to the Lius’ site.
According to Akua, Granger stayed-or had stayed-at the bed-and-breakfast called Four Villages Inn. It was time to pay a visit. Dawson swung his feet to the floor and headed for the shower. He hoped, at least, that water was flowing.
•••
The rain had diminished to on-and-off sprinkles, but that didn’t mean Kumasi traffic was any less chaotic than if the downpour had continued at full power. Flooding at various points of the city was still very much in force, particularly at the roundabouts where traffic came to a standstill and drivers lost their tempers with each other. Trading insults in traffic was the Ghanaian way, but the melodramatic displays were never as serious as they might seem.
Crawling forward by the inch toward the Ahodwo section of the city, Dawson took the opportunity to call Daniel Armah, his dear friend and mentor.
“How are you, Darko?” Armah said, his voice gentle and perhaps not quite as steady as when he was a younger man. By now, he would be in his sixties, Dawson calculated.
“I’m fine, Daniel. So nice to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry it took a little while to get back to you. The wife and I were in the Upper East Region, and reception wasn’t very good there.”
“No problem at all,” Dawson said, smiling. “I wanted to say hello and find out when we can see each other again.”
“Whenever you are free. My schedule is mostly flexible now that I’m in semiretirement.”
Dawson suggested he could come around with the family when they came up to Kumasi.
“Excellent,” Armah said. “I’ll be glad to see you.”
Whatever mood Dawson was in, it was always good to hear Armah’s voice.
As he neared Four Villages Inn, Dawson noticed several Chinese establishments-hotels, restaurants. Outside a Chinese-owned casino, a cluster of Chinese men and women smoked and talked. Dawson wished he could get inside their heads. What did they really think of Ghana and its people? Lian Liu had certainly let her feelings be known, and Dawson supposed that the destruction of land carried out by the Chinese illegals was an indication of just how much they didn’t care. But over and over again in history, it was much the same story. Just like the Portuguese, the Dutch, Germans, or British, the Chinese wanted what Ghana had, and Ghanaians were going to let them have it with few or no strings attached. Why?
Four Villages Inn was tucked into a lush, quiet corner away from the street, with tall eucalyptus trees flanking the outside wall of the compound. The uniformed watchman at the sentry box acknowledged Dawson as he pulled in.
“Good morning, sir,” the watchman said, coming up as Dawson parked and got out of the Corolla.
“Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Scott.”
“Please, he is inside. You can knock on the door.”
A generic brown-and-white dog barked fiercely at Dawson from the top of the steps leading up to the front veranda, but it took off with its tail tucked in as Dawson got closer.
The veranda was wide and festooned with hanging potted plants, and two sets of glass tables and cushioned wicker chairs were arranged at the opposite ends. It was far more like a home than a hotel. Dawson knocked on the solid mahogany door and waited, looking around at the beautifully laid-out garden to the right of the veranda.
The door swung open, and a petite Ghanaian woman in a smart outfit greeted Dawson, who introduced himself and asked to see Mr. Scott.
“Let me call him. Please have a seat.”
Dawson chose the closest wicker chair and grinned at the dog, who had come back warily to eye him.
“Mr. Dawson, is it?”
He turned to find a white man in a Ghanaian-print shirt. His girth was generous, and his pale hair was thin and wispy at the top of his head.
Dawson stood to shake hands. “Yes, Detective Chief Inspector Darko Dawson, CID.”
“Oh!” Scott exclaimed enthusiastically. “Whatever the crime is, I confess.”
He burst into a hearty peal of laughter that seemed to rise from the depths of his abdomen, while his face colored pomegranate- red with mirth. “Have a seat, Mr. Dawson,” he said, still smiling.