“I will-thank you for notifying me.”
“Oh, and Chief Inspector? I would exercise caution with him, okay?”
The sun was out, blasting the earth through a freshly washed atmosphere, and the floodwaters at Dunkwa were receding. Just like the first time Dawson had come to Bao Liu’s mining site in the taxi, he stopped the car at the point the route became impassable.
It was as hot as a plantain grill, but the soil was still as soft and mushy as fermenting kenkey dough. Dawson could see the excavators in the distance working on Granger’s site, but before he reached it, he came to the Lius’. Wei was there, supervising a brand new crew of young Ghanaian guys in the digging, carrying, and washing of gravel, and lo and behold, the XCMG excavator was up and running again.
Dawson came up to Wei, who greeted him with an elaborate show of bowing and scraping. Dawson supposed he didn’t want to chance spending any more time in jail and was being as deferential as he could just for that reason.
“Nǐ hǎo, Mr. Liu,” Dawson greeted him against the drone of pumps and the noise of the excavator.
“Oh, nǐ hǎo, nǐ hǎo,” Wei said, laughing. He seemed to like that.
“How is business?”
“Fine, sir,” Wei said, beaming. “Everything is good.”
Dawson was startled. Wei’s answer had been fluent, but during the interview at the station when Mr. Huang had acted as interpreter, Dawson had been under the impression that Wei had little or no ability to speak English. Perhaps this short sentence just happened to come out right.
“Kudzo and your boys all left you?” he asked Wei.
“Eh?”
“Kudzo gone?”
“Oh.” Wei shrugged and made a face indicating both regret and resignation.
“How is Lian?”
“Fine, sir.”
“I would like to talk to her in the next few days when she’s feeling a little better. Can I have her phone number from you?”
Dawson might have said that too fast, because Wei looked confused.
“Lian,” Dawson repeated, then made the universal sign for talking on the phone.
“Ah,” Wei said, laughing. He recited the number off by heart.
He pointed in the direction of Granger’s site. “Mr. Granger over there-does he trouble you?”
“Trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no trouble; no trouble,” Wei said hastily, smiling.
He doesn’t dare rock the boat he’s in, Dawson thought. He doesn’t want any problems. “Okay, thank you. Good luck. Xièxiè.”
As Dawson walked toward Granger’s site, Dawson got a text from Chikata.
evthng cool boss. coming thurs
Dawson texted back, where u staying
friend, Chikata returned.
ok
The timing was good, Dawson reflected, because he wanted Chikata to be there when he went looking for Yaw. For density of muscle combined with agility, Chikata was a very good match for Yaw. Dawson wondered if by “friend” his inspector meant a girlfriend, because that could well be the case.
Nearing Granger’s concession, Dawson could see how much larger it was than Liu’s, and how much more extensively dug up, what with four working CAT excavators. The peaks and valleys were severe, with several shades of soil-red, brown, gray, and the treasured black gravel. Here the mud was treacherous and deep, a little unnerving as Dawson walked along an undulating crest between two plunging pits full of milky-brown water. He thought of Amos falling into a pit like these, and then averted his eyes. Better to watch where he was planting his feet.
He had attracted attention from the workers on the site, and a Ghanaian guy built as solid as an SUV approached them holding a pump-action shotgun with the barrel resting against his right shoulder.
Not the friendliest person, Dawson thought. “Good morning, sir,” he called out amiably, which is the way one should greet a man holding a firearm.
“Morning.” Complete monotone.
“Chief Inspector Darko Dawson.” He had his ID out and ready. He wouldn’t show it to someone like Mr. Okoh or his wife, but to the likes of this guy, most certainly. The man looked at the badge, not really long enough to read it-if he could read, Dawson thought unkindly. “And your name, sir?”
“Godson.” He flicked his narrow eyes up and down Dawson’s frame, as if trying to size him up as a physical force.
“I’m looking for Mr. Granger,” Dawson said. “Is he here?”
“Follow me.”
Godson led the way, beyond the pits to a more shaded area at the fringe of the site where tree cover still existed. Dawson heard another droning sound of medium to high pitch as they proceeded farther, and then he spotted a large generator outside a cabin hidden by a thicket.
“Wait here,” Godson said.
He knocked on the shack door, put his head in for a moment, and then looked back at Dawson. “You can come in.”
Godson stood aside to let him pass. As he got in the door, the blast of cold air hit him. Unbelievable. In the middle of nowhere, this man had an air-conditioned shack. That was what the powerful generator was for, and Dawson guessed that the Explorer Channel had had the structure built. He saw now that it wasn’t really a “shack” in that ragged sense. This was more like a comfortable, brightly lit office space with a desk, chairs, file cabinets, a settee, and not one but two air-conditioning units.
The man at the desk was standing with his arms folded. He was surely an example of how the popular Ghanaian phrase “red white man” came to be. Granger had reddish-blond hair and skin that looked like it was permanently pink and moist in the Ashanti heat and humidity. He was a big man the way only Americans were made-lots of bulk, but not necessarily more powerful pound for pound than someone like Yaw or Chikata, who were smaller than Granger overall.
He greeted Dawson with a near imperceptible upward flick of the head. His nose was crooked, as if broken several times in the boxing ring or in bar fights.
“Chuck Granger?” Dawson said.
“Yeah. Who’re you again?”
Dawson still had his ID badge out. Granger looked at it considerably longer than Godson had, then indicated a seat for Dawson.
“I’m cool,” Granger said to Godson, who nodded and left.
Granger sat not quite opposite Dawson. “What d’you need, Mr. Dawson?”
“I’m investigating the death of Mr. Bao Liu. The one whose mining site is next to yours.”
Granger grunted. “Yeah, well, I dunno if I can help you. What d’you need to know?”
“Did you ever have any skirmishes with Mr. Liu?”
“The very first day I got here,” Granger said, “he and his goons came onto my property and accused us of trespassing. I told them to fuck off, but up till the time of his death, he came sniffin’ round here every few days like a jackal, trying to intimidate us.”
“Did you ever exchange gunfire with Bao Liu or his people?”
“Well, someone came onto the property one night to collect soil samples,” Granger said, “but we don’t know if it was Liu’s folks or not. Anyway, Godson fired warning shots and they took off.”
“They collect soil samples to estimate how much gold you have on your site?” Dawson asked.
“Supposedly.” Granger shrugged and his lip curled. “Stupid really, because you have to sample a whole lot more gravel than that.”
“Where were you last Thursday night through Friday morning, Mr. Granger?” Dawson asked.
“In Accra,” Granger said, with certainty. “I was there to see Tommy Thompson, director of PMMC.”
“Why were you there to see him?”
“Site licensing issue,” Granger said carelessly. “Not to bore you with the details, but I like to keep my nose clean and my records scrupulous, so I keep in close contact with Tommy.”
It sounded good, but it wasn’t enough for Dawson. “Do you have his phone number?”