The technicians took photos, got some serviceable fingerprints, and searched the vehicle and surrounding areas. They found nothing more of importance, and neither had Dawson. No laptop, briefcase, purse, handbag, backpack, or any other personal belongings, so once the bodies had been collected and the SUV driven away to the Motor Traffic Unit at Kumasi Regional HQ, there was nothing left but the task of solving a new murder.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
From Pakyi, Dawson headed immediately to the Golden Tulip Hotel in Kumasi. He was functioning, but life seemed surreal, slow, and thick, as if he were moving through soup. How can Akua be dead? He repeatedly saw her in his mind, collapsed and lifeless beside the Prado, and the blood on her face-so much blood.
He realized as he arrived in Kumasi that he had been navigating large portions of his journey without being aware of his surroundings-like sleep driving. He shook his head and blinked several times to wake himself up, refocus, and bring back reality to its baseline.
He turned off Victoria Opoku-Ware Road, onto Rain Tree Road near the Royal Golf Course, and into the Tulip’s car park. Inside the hotel lobby, he went to reception and asked to see the manager.
“Please have a seat,” the desk attendant said. “I’ll call him.”
But Dawson didn’t take a seat in any of the comfortable chairs in the gleaming lobby with its twinkling recessed lights. He stared at their reflection in the polished tile floor, lost in thought. He jumped when he heard a voice to his side saying, “Good afternoon, sir.”
He looked up and found the manager in front of him. His badge said sarpong. He was small in stature and dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and Adinkra tie.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sarpong. My name is Dawson-chief inspector with CID. May I speak to you in private?”
“But of course. This way, please.”
Dawson followed him to his office at the side of reception, which Sarpong unlocked with a swipe card. It shut behind them with a solid click. It was a quiet room with a thick carpet.
Before Sarpong offered him a seat, Dawson spoke. “I have some bad news. One of your guests, Akua Helmsley, was found murdered this morning.”
“Oh!” Sarpong took a step back-staggered really-and held on to the back of one of the armchairs as if he might otherwise fall. “Oh, no.”
His eyes were wide, his mouth open.
“I’m sorry,” Dawson said, and instantly he felt himself return to normal, because now it was Sarpong in shock and Dawson who had to take charge.
Sarpong sat down weakly. “So that’s why,” he murmured.
“That’s why what?”
“That’s why the policemen were here yesterday.”
“What policemen?” Dawson asked sharply.
“This morning when I came on shift,” Sarpong said, “Mr. Brooks, the night manager, told me that around nine o’clock, two detectives from CID came to the hotel saying that Miss Helmsley had been reported missing and that they needed to search her room.”
“Did the manager give you a description of the two men?”
“No, sir.”
“Did they take items away?”
“Yes. They asked him to open the safe, and they removed documents from it.”
What documents? Dawson frowned. None of this made sense. Commander Longdon had not mentioned this. He would have been aware, wouldn’t he? Dawson thought about it for a moment. It was possible someone reported Akua missing to one of the larger Kumasi police stations like Manhyia Divisional Headquarters. They might have forwarded the report to Regional, which might have then sent two detectives down to investigate. Sometimes the left didn’t know what the right was doing.
Something was still wrong, though. By nine at night, it would have been barely twelve hours or so since Akua had been seen last. That didn’t constitute a disappearance. Unless… Unless whoever came to look through Akua’s room already knew she was dead. Dawson’s blood chilled. “May I see her room?”
“Of course you may.”
They took the lift to her room on the third floor. The Guardian treats its reporters well, Dawson reflected, unless it’s Akua’s own money that paid for this. It was an executive room with a king bed, minibar, a sprawling bathroom, two armchairs with matching footrests, and a polished rosewood floor.
The desk was clear except the lamp on top of it-nothing in the drawers. The wardrobe had Akua’s clothing both in drawer space and on hangers, with shoes on the floor of the wardrobe. The safe was indeed wide open and empty.
Neither of her two suitcases contained any items. Obviously she had not been planning on any travel. Dawson looked around. In fact, except for her clothing, this room had been emptied out, and anything else that Akua might have had in her possession on her excursion into the hinterland was now in someone else’s hands.
“Thank you, Mr. Sarpong,” Dawson said finally.
The manager cleared his throat. “Please, do you know whom I should contact regarding her belongings?”
“The Regional Headquarters will take care of it. I think they will inform the British High Commission as well as the family. I’m sure someone will be in touch with you very soon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Dawson said. “Please give me the number of the manager who was here last night-Mr. Brooks, you said? I’d like to get a description of the men who were here.”
When Dawson got back to the jeep, he perched on the side of the driver’s seat with the door open and one leg out as he called manager Brooks. He tried the number twice before getting through. He introduced himself to Brooks, who confirmed the story of the visit by the so-called CID detectives.
“They were both dressed in black suits and black ties,” Brooks said, “and they were wearing sunglasses.”
Dawson almost laughed. It sounded more like that movie Men in Black than anything CID detectives would wear in real life. But it certainly appeared to have impressed Brooks.
“What else?” Dawson asked. “Age, height, body type?”
“They were both average height, one a little fatter than the other, with the belly sticking out. One had a mustache; the other did not. I would say they were in their thirties.”
“What names did they give you?”
“Only one of them, the fatter one, showed his ID, and he said his name was Hammond.”
“Did you stay with them while they searched the room?”
“Yes, sir. They were there for about ten minutes-that’s all. They took some papers from the safe.”
Dawson thanked Brooks and put in a call to Commander Longdon. He didn’t pick up, so Dawson began heading back to the Obuasi office. His phone rang about thirty minutes later.
“Yes, Dawson?” Longdon said. “You called me.”
“Good afternoon, sir. Please, were you made aware of any search of Akua Helmsley’s hotel room conducted by two detectives from CID?”
After a pause, Longdon said, “I don’t get you. You say what about Miss Helmsley?”
“Two men claiming to be from CID went to the Golden Tulip last night and ransacked her room. They took some documents from her safe.”
“Impossible,” the commander said at once. “No one in CID was authorized or asked to do that.”
“Perhaps from Regional?”
“No, no,” Longdon said firmly. “Someone else is behind this. I don’t know who, but it is not CID.”
“Then the only entity that comes to mind is the BNI,” Dawson said.
“The BNI are the last people on earth to impersonate the CID,” Longdon pointed out.
He’s right, Dawson thought. He didn’t have a high opinion of the Bureau of National Investigations, and had indirectly tangled with it before. If he had to write anything about it, he would describe the BNI as Ghana’s controversial internal intelligence agency whose authority overlaps with and sometimes unlawfully exceeds that of the police service. Not an auspicious designation.