These types of shenanigans bothered Dawson tremendously.
“So now you have all your pieces scattered all over the table like a jigsaw puzzle,” Armah said. “Granger, Thompson and the PMMC, Bao, Wei Liu, Mrs. Liu, Yaw. The question is how they fit together.”
Chikata had been called back to Accra. It had been too much to hope that he could be transferred to Obuasi for the long term. Commander Longdon had now assigned Detective Constable Asase to be Dawson’s junior partner.
Still, Dawson needed Chikata, and he called him to explain the mission. “We need to know if Thompson was with Chuck Granger that Thursday to Friday.”
“Yes, boss.”
“One other thing. You have to be careful with this one-it will test your questioning skills. Akua Helmsley is planning to write an article accusing the PMMC of falsifying gold production figures by including illegally mined gold. Ask him if that’s true, but don’t say anything about Helmsley’s article. Watch his reaction, the way his eyes move, his posture, and so on.”
“I see. All right, boss.”
Dawson ended the call and sat thinking for a moment about who was up next for questioning.
Dawson drove to Sofo Line, where Mr. Huang owned a hardware supply store. Sofo Line, an area of Kumasi favored by the Chinese, was once on the “outskirts” of the city. Only two years ago, free and wild vegetation had grown on the tough red soil, but as a traffic interchange that claimed to be the largest in West Africa was constructed, residential and commercial buildings had followed. Sofo Line would inevitably become densely populated.
Up on the hill stood Prempeh College with its lush grounds nourished by the Ashanti Region’s generous rainfall. Prestigious as it was as a boys’ boarding school, it would have been Dawson’s choice for his boys if the family were to live in Kumasi permanently. But although the city was growing on Dawson, he probably would always want to return to Accra.
Several hundred meters along, Dawson spotted the store, logically named Huang’s Hardware, next to a Samsung outlet, and pulled up in front of it. Opening the shop door, Dawson received a welcome blast of air-conditioned coolness. Dawson looked around. It was larger than he had expected and quite busy with both Chinese and Ghanaian customers searching the packed shelves for shovels, pickaxes, machetes, tools, pans, buckets, and all kinds of equipment, much of it mining related. Huang must be doing quite well for himself, Dawson speculated.
He asked one of the store workers where Huang was and was directed out of the store and around to the back, where Dawson found Huang watching as young workers unloaded supplies from a large truck. When he saw Dawson, he walked over. “Good afternoon, Inspector.” He seemed neither overjoyed nor displeased to see him-merely courteous.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Huang.”
“Can I help you?”
“Maybe we can go where it’s a little quieter?”
Huang unlocked one of the back doors, and it opened up into a short corridor, at the end of which was an employee entrance to the store. Huang grabbed a couple of chairs and brought them closer together.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the chairs.
Dawson chose one and sat. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. I know you’re busy.”
“Oh, no problem,” he said, waving it away. “I saw you arrest the young man from the village for killing Mr. Bao.”
“Allegedly,” Dawson corrected him gently. “I came here to ask you something about Bao and his wife.”
“Yes?”
“Did they get along well with each other?”
Huang looked worried. “Why, something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to know.”
“I think everything fine,” Huang said cautiously, “but I didn’t spend so much time with them, even though I knew them. You know, we Chinese in Kumasi, we keep to ourselves. We don’t like to get into each other business.”
“I understand,” Dawson said, thinking, Then he’s going to dislike my next question. “I apologize for asking this, but there was a rumor that Mr. Bao was very fond of young Ghanaian women. Do you know anything about that?”
Huang appeared mortified. “No, oh no, sir,” he stammered, shaking his head.
“No, what? No, it’s not true, or no, you don’t know anything about that?”
“I don’t know anything, Inspector. Please. Sorry. I don’t know, sir.”
“But you heard the rumor before?” Dawson pressed.
Huang shook his head firmly. “No, sir. Inspector, please, I have to go now. Thank you, sir.” He stood up and Dawson followed his lead. Huang hurriedly guided him to the entrance to the store.
“I need a bucket,” Dawson said, breaking the awkward tension. “Can you show me where to find one in your shop?”
Huang was visibly relieved to move to matters of commerce. “Oh, sure,” he said, a smile bursting upon his face. “I can show you.”
He took Dawson to a section of the shop where buckets-plastic, metal, big and small-were stacked, and Dawson chose one.
“Thank you, Mr. Huang. Thank you very much.”
As Dawson completed his purchase and left the store, he considered the way Huang had responded to his questions and concluded that the Chinese man knew something, or had heard something, about Bao’s philandering. He was just too embarrassed to admit it, or he simply did not want to involve himself in that way. The question remained whether Lian had known about it and if it had had anything to do with Bao’s murder. Perhaps Dawson was wrong, perhaps he was stereotyping Lian, but his instincts were that even if she had known, she would have kept quiet about it and never taken any action against him.
But Dawson had been surprised before. This could be one of those occasions.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
In the morning, Commander Longdon held a staff meeting, which Dawson and Asase attended. When Dawson’s case came up, he summarized his misgivings over the foregone conclusion that Yaw Okoh had killed Bao Liu. As he did so, Dawson sensed Longdon’s growing impatience.
“I don’t understand where this sudden change of mind over Yaw’s confession is coming from,” the commander said irritably. “I’ve read your full report, and in fact, it’s watertight. The culprit has now been remanded into prison custody, so the next step is waiting for trial. You know it is almost impossible to get back to a suspect once they are out of police custody and under the prisons’ jurisdiction. Why are you going back on this?”
“I suspect it’s a false confession,” Dawson said. “Yaw may be protecting his father.”
“Protecting his father,” Longdon repeated, as though carefully considering the validity of each word. “All this psychological talk for what? Drop it now, Dawson. Right now, we have open cases that I want you to begin working on.”
“Yes, sir,” Dawson said, obediently.
But he had no plans to obey.
Sergeant Obeng lived in Obuasi Central, the oldest part of town. Constable Asase knew, more or less, where his house was. Dawson walked with him down Nkansa Drive, a busy paved street crammed with customers and shops on either side. If I ever need a backpack, mattress, propane tank, gas cooker, new mobile phone, boxer briefs, Nike running shoes, or a soccer ball, he thought, I’ll be in the right place.
Asase turned off the main street into the marketplace thick with the odor of dried fish, snails, and fresh meat. A cage held squawking chickens for purchase. They passed next to the fruits and vegetables where a pickup truck loaded with green plantains blocked their path and forced them to make a detour. Beyond that, the clothing and textiles part of the market was quieter, with sounds noticeably muffled by the fabrics. Asase made a left on Central Station Road, and then a sharp right into a narrow, nameless alley along which a trash-laden gutter ran. He stopped in front of the battered doors of two small dwellings, their torn mosquito nettings dangling like a man hanged.