“Not yet.”
By 6:30, Dawson was becoming doubtful that she would show, and by 7:00, he was losing hope. He buzzed Chikata again and told him they would wait until 7:15 and call it quits if Charity did not show up.
Ten after seven, Dawson saw her hovering uncertainly at the corner of Labone Avenue and Cantonments Road. She spotted him and hesitantly began to walk in his direction. He closed the space between them and met her halfway.
“Hello, Charity. Thank you for coming.”
“Yes, please.”
She was jumpy and kept looking around. Taking a guess, Dawson asked her if she was a Ga. She said yes, and Dawson switched from English to Ga to help her feel more at ease. “Where do you want to talk?”
“Not here,” she said firmly. “Rather, let’s go to my sister’s house.”
“I have a taxi.”
They swung around to pick Chikata up, and Dawson introduced Charity to him, reassuring her that he could be trusted. Charity suggested Baah avoid the congested Ring Road and directed him through the twists and turns of the side streets, some of which were in a terrible, potholed state. Along the route, vendors sold Kelewele-ripe plantain crisply deep-fried with ginger, red pepper, and other spices-by fluorescent light or smoky kerosene lamps.
Charity’s neighborhood was relatively close to the beach, separated from it only by Labadi Road. She told Baah where to stop and Dawson asked him to wait, giving him a couple of cedis to get something to eat.
It was pitch dark as they made their way to the house, and although Charity knew every inch along the route, Dawson and Chikata thought it best to use their flashlights as they navigated clogged gutters and undulating terrain with sharp outcroppings of rock.
In her own environment, Charity seemed less diffident. Her sister’s house was small and square with a corrugated metal roof and hole-ridden mosquito netting on the windows. Outside, a young woman in her early twenties was crouched on her haunches frying fish on a charcoal stove by lantern light. Three small children ran up to Charity to hug her before going back to playing.
“My grandchildren,” she told the two men with a smile. “That’s my daughter who is cooking. Please, let’s go inside the house.”
In the sitting room dimly lit by one anemic bulb, a boy of about thirteen was sitting on a lopsided couch watching a small TV with grainy reception. He got up immediately without prompting and turned off the set before leaving with a respectful “good eve’ng” to the two guests.
Charity pulled up some plastic chairs, and the three of them sat down at a slight angle to each other.
“Thank you for bringing me to your house,” Dawson said in Ga. “I told you I’m trying to find out what happened to Lawrence Tetteh, and I hope you can help me.”
“Yes, please.”
“Can you tell me a little bit about him?”
“He was a good man. He always tried to help me. I stayed in the servant’s quarters, but every Sunday, he told me to take the day off to go to church and visit my family.”
Dawson sat forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a more relaxed pose, which tended to put people more at ease. “Who is living in his house now?”
“His uncle and his aunt, their son, and the son’s wife. And another woman too, but I don’t even know who she is.” She shook her head as if she was talking about a den of thieves.
“How did Mr. Tetteh treat you?”
She clasped her hands together, and her face took on heavy sorrow. “He respected me and trusted me even more than his own family.”
“What about his wife?”
“He married some woman when he was in States. She doesn’t live in Ghana.” Charity looked down at her fingers. “Different women always used to come and visit him.”
“What happened that day when he was killed?” Dawson asked her gently. In the corner of his eye he saw Chikata watching with his usual stress-free pose, arms open, legs apart. “It was a Sunday, correct?”
“Yes please,” she said, nodding. “He had been in Côte d’Ivoire since Monday of that week, returning on Friday night. He spent the whole of Saturday at home writing something on the computer. On Sunday morning, I came to him to ask him if he needed anything.” Charity rubbed her hands back and forth over the top of her thighs, revealing the stress she was feeling telling the story. “He said no and told me I can go to church and spend the day with my family. That was the last time I saw him alive.” Charity’s bottom lip began to tremble. “When I returned in the evening, I went to check on him and found him dead in the sitting room.”
Ah, this is what I want, Dawson thought ecstatically. “So, it’s not true that you welcomed Silas to the house in the afternoon or that you were home when you heard a gunshot and saw Silas running from the house?”
She bowed her head. “Yes, please. It’s not true.”
“It’s okay.” Dawson didn’t want her to feel any shame or embarrassment. He could tell she was the kind of person who easily accepted undeserved blame. “Who told you to say that you were home that day and that you saw Silas?”
“Two policemen,” she said softly, almost fearfully. “They came to see me the next morning to ask me what happened. I said to them that I had already told an inspector from the police station what had happened the night before, and they had already taken my statement. They told me that the inspector was not working on the case anymore and that I had to sign a new statement.”
Dawson exchanged a glance with Chikata. These two so-called policemen had probably been imposters or BNI guys.
“Did they tell you their names?” Dawson asked.
“No, please. They told me to come with them and they took me inside their car. One was driving and the other one sat with me in the back. They drove me far to somewhere around the Trade Fair site, and they didn’t say anything. I was afraid to ask where they were taking me.” Charity’s voice was shaking with emotion. “They found some lonely place and parked the car there. They told me I was in trouble because since I was the only one who found Mr. Tetteh dead, then probably I was the one who killed him. So they’re going to arrest me.”
She sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and brushing tears away.
“I told them I can never kill Mr. Tetteh. I begged them for mercy. Then they said they had to arrest me, and the one who was driving said he was going to handcuff me, and the other one said, ‘No, don’t do it.’ And I begged them, ofaine, ofaine, don’t take me, please. They said they knew Silas killed Mr. Tetteh, and they could arrest him if I confirm it for them. If I don’t confirm, then they have to arrest me rather.”
Charity was wringing her hands and curling her feet inward. Dawson could see how much anguish the story was causing her. “They said I should make another statement saying that I saw Silas coming to kill Mr. Tetteh. They would write it for me, and I would sign it. Then when the time came to testify in court, I have to say the same thing as I said in the statement, and they said they will teach me how to say it. So I signed the statement, and they let me go.”
She looked up at them almost apologetically. Dawson was angry but not with her.
“There’s nothing else you could have done,” he said, doing his best to reassure her. “I would have done the same thing if I had been in your position. Did the two policemen ever return?”
“Once, about one week later. They said they had arrested Silas for killing Mr. Tetteh, and they wanted to thank me for helping them but that later they would need me again to make the statement in court.”
Dawson’s jaw was clenching and unclenching. “Don’t worry. You won’t have to.”