“True, but that’s when the crime has been committed. Do you know of galamsey corruption in the police?”
“Come on. It’s a foregone conclusion. How is it that during these raids, some of the Chinese bosses are nowhere to be found? It’s because someone tips them off.”
She amazed him. It was as if she were echoing exactly the discussion with DCOP Deborah Manu.
“I know of no one,” he said. “At least not yet.”
“If you come across it,” she said, “will you let me know?”
“It depends,” he said, taking a sip of Malta.
“On what?” she asked, angling her head. Lit by the recessed ceiling lamps, she was stunning.
“On whether it’s too dangerous to tell you,” he said.
“Not this again, Dawson,” she said. “You’re going to have to stop trying to protect me. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“No doubt about it,” he agreed. “But everyone needs someone else to watch their back. I’m going to watch yours.”
“I accept graciously,” she said, smiling and dipping her head slightly. “Now, something else I’m working on.”
“Is there anything you are not?”
“Funny.” She laughed, but quickly grew serious. “This one is all about staged armed robberies perpetrated on gold buyers or potential investors from abroad who-” She broke off and changed the direction of her gaze. “Ah, here he is.”
Her date had arrived. Probably of Lebanese-Ghanaian mix, he was on the chubby side and decidedly shorter than Akua. He must be really rich, Dawson thought unkindly, and then regretted it. Helmsley introduced the two men, and Dawson wasted no time in excusing himself.
“We’ll catch up later,” Helmsley said to him as he took his leave.
“Sure.” Before he left the room, he took a quick look back and saw Akua sitting very close to the gentleman, with her hand resting on his thigh.
Dawson arrived home at seven thirty, and immediately sensed as he came through the door that the evening was going to be a bit bumpy. Christine was ironing clothes in the kitchen, and that she was unhappy was obvious with one glance at her expression.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, coming beside her and putting his arm around her waist.
“It’s okay,” she said, pressing her lips together. “I’m sure your meeting, wherever that was, was very important.”
He didn’t like the sarcastic treatment, but he was determined not to allow it to rattle him.
“Tell me how I can help, love,” he said. “I’m all yours.”
“Check the boys’ homework,” she said. “I haven’t had time to do it. Hosiah needs to finish his bath so Sly can get in. The water is running slow. And I’m not sure if Sly has his uniform laid out for tomorrow. If he doesn’t, he can use the one I’m ironing now. I don’t understand what he does with his shirts.”
“I’ll check it all out, don’t worry.” He kissed her neck. “I’m really sorry.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Go and attend to them.”
Just as he was leaving, she asked, “Anyway, where were you?”
“I was just late leaving Obuasi.”
“But you said you had a stop.”
“Yes, I had some questions for that journalist, Helmsley.”
“Oh,” Christine said, head studiously down as she ran the iron back and forth. “Nothing you couldn’t handle on the phone?”
“No,” he said, frowning.
“And where did you meet this wonderful journalist Helmsley?” she asked.
Her tone ruffled his composure. “Please, Christine. There’s nothing personal with the woman. It’s all business.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
He turned, shaking his head, which was aching as if a vicious little man were kicking his skull from the inside. He hurried to the bathroom when he heard Hosiah let out a yell. Eyes clenched shut, the boy was standing in the shower stall covered in soapsuds crying out, “Ow! Ow!”
“Hosiah, what are you doing?”
“The water’s stopped,” he gasped. “And there’s soap in my eyes.”
Dawson scooped up a bowl of clean water from the standby emergency bucket. One never knew when the water would be cut off. “Here,” he said, pouring it over his son’s head. “Wash the soap out. Hosiah, I told you, the water tank is not as big as the one we have at home in Accra, so you have to keep your showers short. You’re not the only one living here, are you?”
“Yes, I know, Daddy,” Hosiah said, rinsing his eyes out until he was able to fully open them. “But I didn’t really take a long time.” He continued with a meandering explanation.
“Yes, okay, I get it,” Dawson said, cutting him short and handing him another bowlful of water. “Wash off quickly because Sly needs to come in for his bath too. Here’s your towel.”
“I don’t use one, remember?” Hosiah reminded him.
“Oh, that’s right-you don’t,” Dawson said. “Well, whatever it is you do.”
Since probably the first day his son had been able to take his own shower or bucket bath, he had had the odd habit of not toweling off. He swept off the excess water from his body with his hands, and that was it. Neither Dawson nor Christine knew where the idiosyncrasy came from, but Hosiah was Hosiah.
“Finished!” Hosiah exclaimed, jumping out of the stall in birthday-suit glory. He did a fair imitation of a rapper while executing a small dance. “Look at me, Dad.”
“Very nice,” Dawson said, rumpling his son’s head. “Now hurry up and get ready for bed. Sly? Sly! Where does the boy disappear to?”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
By nine on Friday morning, the sun was promising a sweltering day. Dawson sat in the front passenger seat of the Tata SUV as the driver took it over rough, undulating terrain. In the seat behind him, Constable Kobby was quiet.
Following the dark blue SWAT Bravo police vehicle ahead, the SUV pitched and swayed. This was the tough part of the journey toward the Lius’ mining site that Dawson’s little Corolla had never been able to make.
They came around the corner and stopped at a meeting point east of Dunkwa and south of the point where the Ofin River makes a U-turn from south to north, but because the trailing edge of Dunkwa Forest blocked their view, the river wasn’t visible from where they stood. Illegal miners had not yet ravaged this spot, but loggers had, and the forest had been severely thinned out over just a matter of a few years.
Some fifty soldiers from the 4th Infantry Battalion had assembled, dressed in green-and-brown camouflage outfits and armed with automatic weapons. They were a hard, lean bunch, good to befriend, bad to antagonize. They listened as a compact staff sergeant briefed them. Some sported sleek dark glasses to reduce the sun’s glare, or perhaps just to add to their mystique.
The SWAT officers, in black-and-gray camouflage, were fewer in number than their military counterparts. They piled out of their vehicle, came to order, and the unit leader, a deputy superintendent of police, addressed them. With Kobby nearby, Dawson leaned against the vehicle and watched the DSP giving instructions and cautions. When he was done, he approached the detectives. The name badge on his right chest read frimpong. Dawson was junior to him in rank, so he briefly braced in salute, as did Kobby.
“You will hold back from the scene until it has been secured by the soldiers and Bravo,” Frimpong instructed them. “Some of these galamsey guys are very dangerous, and you are not to engage with them in any way. We don’t want any injuries or fatalities. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Dawson replied. “Please, what is the specific strategy for the raid?”
“We have at least two groups of illegal miners working inside this part of Dunkwa Forest,” Frimpong said. “In fact, if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of their excavators from here. We’re splitting up to carry out dual operations as simultaneously as possible. If we do only the forest first, some of the illegals might escape under foliage cover and go to warn the others.”