by Kwei Quartey
“Sorry, sir,” Emma said. “Please, I left a cleaning rag here.”
“Okay, hurry up. You are disturbing us.”
She located the rag and began to leave as the two men returned to conversation.
“He’s saying they have to cut the grant to our forensic lab at UCC,” Kingsley said, sounding frustrated. “At most, then, we will produce six graduates this year.”
“Where do they go on graduation? Do you place them?”
“We try to. In any case, they all end up in one of the private DNA labs in Accra and Kumasi. They mostly do paternity testing. But Thomas, it’s of the utmost urgency that we try and get some of our graduates into the police force as forensic experts.”
“We’ve talked about it. It’s a slow process. CID is always stretched thin. The Ministry of the Interior would have to give us a lot more money for us to bring on officers as forensic experts. You know the private labs must pay these people four or five times the salary we offer. Why should they come here? There’s no incentive.”
“That’s why I say, privatize the FSL.”
Thomas looked uncomfortable.
“You too, why?” Kingsley said, showing amusement and irritation at the same time. “You’ll be okay. They’ll find another position for you. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I know, but . . . well, you can’t expect me to start promoting privatization, can you? That’s like chopping my own leg off.”
The two men laughed, obviously relieving some of the tension.
Emma left the room, and as she pulled the door shut quietly, she heard Kingsley say, “We are both being strangled, my friend.”
She felt an itch to eavesdrop further, but she had the jitters that she might get caught. She instead swept the verandah on the first floor, then proceeded to the second. Midway through cleaning and mopping the corridor, she heard a vehicle start up, then a second. Looking down from the window, she saw that both men were departing.
When Thomas had first shown Emma the ropes in the first-floor lab, she had unobtrusively looked for CCTV cameras and had seen none. Now, as she unlocked the door and entered, she satisfied herself that she hadn’t missed any hidden security cameras, even if it was rather unlikely those would be here.
At the door, she slipped on her gloves and shoe and hair covers and began working on the first of the countertops, which were all made of a beige-colored Formica. With a diluted bleach solution, Emma wiped down the surfaces carefully, avoiding touching the instruments, as Thomas had instructed. One of them, about the size of a large desktop printer, had a red upper section and a lower panel of multiple LED lights and switches designated with the words electronic gas pressure controls and other things Emma didn’t understand. The instrument was called sri 8610c gas chromatograph. With her phone, she took a photograph quickly, even furtively. A part of her felt she was being watched.
There was more: a high-performance liquid chromatograph and infrared spectrophotometer. Emma took photos of them as well. At the end of the counter was a sink and tap, both of which she thoroughly scrubbed and rinsed.
Forgetting about the cleaning for a moment, Emma went around the lab’s periphery, where there were work and washing stations, rows of different-colored chemical bottles, and microscopes—huge, double-barreled instruments nothing like the small ones Emma remembered from school biology. She looked for the manufacturer—Zeiss, which she presumed was German.
On another of the counters was a glass chamber the size of a small fridge labeled cyanosafe. Inside the chamber were hooks and what looked like clothespins hanging from thin metal bars. Emma peered at a plastic cup hanging from one hook. That looked interesting. She took a photo.
At the end of the lab was a door labeled forensic biology/dna. Emma tried it, but it was locked. She peeped through a small window in the door. There, too, lots of instruments and devices. She could just make out the label on one of them—7500 real-time pcr. To the right side, Emma could see a large, solid door, at the top of which were the words: freezer: no unauthorized entry. She had a feeling this was where she needed to be to check on the existence, or lack thereof, of the DNA from Lady Araba’s crime scene. The only question was how.
TWENTY-TWO
One year before
During the two weeks after Araba had told Augustus she wanted nothing more to do with him, he turned in desolation to the bottle. The sun had just set one Saturday when he began to feel terribly ill. His stomach was aching. He must have had a fever, because he felt like his face was on fire. When looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he gasped at how dreadful he appeared. Was he imagining it, or had the whites of his eyes really turned yellow? Was he hallucinating? A rush of nausea enveloped him. He fell to his knees and threw up ghastly material that looked like a slurry of coffee grounds.
I’m dying, Augustus thought. He felt so awful he almost wanted to. He crawled to the bedroom and climbed up on the bed, where he lay very still. His breathing was rapid and shallow, with a grunt on every exhalation.
He had to call someone. The first person who came to mind was Araba, even if she’d told him to stay away from her. Where was his phone? He realized he’d left it in the sitting room and dragged himself out of the bed, holding onto the walls and furniture to steady himself.
Araba answered only after two attempts to reach her. “Gus, we agreed you wouldn’t call anymore,” she said.
“I know,” he said hoarsely. “But I’m sick. I’ve been throwing up, and I think I have a fever. Araba, please—I need help, and you’re the only one I can depend on. I’ve got to get to a hospital.”
There was a pause, and then Araba relented. “Okay, wait there. Kweku and I will get to you as soon as we can.”
“Thank you,” Augustus said. “You’re an angel. I love you.”
To make it easier to get into the vehicle, Araba had Kweku-Sam drive the Audi instead of the high-profile Range Rover. Augustus needed their help to get to the car, his balance precarious. Araba had never seen him look so sick. His eyes were bloodshot and yellow at the same time. She didn’t know what that meant, but he was obviously in bad shape.
She checked him into Nyaho Medical Centre, the best hospital closest to them. Several heads turned to look at Araba as she entered behind the nurse’s aide pushing Augustus along in a wheelchair. While the staff attended to him, Araba went to the payment office to settle the requisite minimum fee.
Once Augustus was checked in, he was placed temporarily in the intake ward for monitoring. Araba sat and waited in the hallway, watching nursing staff, aides, lab techs, and physicians both young and old going back and forth. After almost two hours, a staff member popped out to say Araba could go in to see the patient.
Augustus was hooked up to an IV and heart monitor in a spotless, oddly empty ward. A public hospital would’ve had patients in every bed, busy as a beehive with people running about in unspecified chaos.
Augustus seemed to be sleeping as Araba came to his bedside, but he must have sensed her, because he opened his eyes.
“Hi,” he said weakly.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
He smiled wanly. “Like shit run over.”
She gently took his hand. “Did the doctor come in?”
“Yes. She looked like she was sixteen. That’s when you realize you’re getting old.”
Araba pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “Does she have any of the blood tests back?”
“Yes,” Augustus said, “but even before that, they knew what was wrong: alcoholic hepatitis.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It is,” Augustus said, turning from his back to the side. “She said my liver is twice the size it should be, and if I continue drinking, one day it will stop working altogether.”
“What happened, Augustus?”
“It was . . . it was after you’d told me you wouldn’t
see me again. I went to pieces and started drinking nonstop. I’m not blaming you; I’m just telling you what pushed me over the edge.”
“I get that, but you need to take responsibility for your own actions too, and I don’t think you are.”
“I can,” he said, “but I need you by my side.”
“No, you need to attend Alcoholics Anonymous,” she countered. “I can’t help you, but they can.”
He pulled her down to his cheek. “Araba, you can help me just by being there for me. Please. I’m begging you.”
Araba sighed. “This is your last chance, Gus. I can’t afford to drop everything just to take you to a hospital every time you go overboard.”
“I promise you, I really will stop drinking. Having you there will ground me.”
“All right,” she said.
Augustus’s eyes moistened, and he squeezed her hand. “Thank you so much,” he said.
“Promise me you’ll go to those AA meetings.”
“I do, and I will. I’m going to be sober from now on.”
They gazed at one another for a moment.
“My parents will be here soon,” Augustus said.
“You called them?”
“I didn’t want to, but sooner is better than later. They’ll probably hear about it eventually. Everyone is such a blabbermouth in Accra.”
Araba clicked her tongue. “It won’t be long before a whole bunch of people know I brought you in.”
“Give me a kiss,” he said, and she kissed him on the lips.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please forgive me for everything I’ve put you through. I love you, Araba. I really do.”
After a while, their mood lightened, and they began to watch a fun Nollywood movie on Araba’s iPhone. Holding hands, they laughed at the antics of a clueless villager trying to find love in the big city. In the middle of that, Augustus received a text from his mother that she and Julius were almost there. He showed the message to Araba, and they looked at each other with the same question in mind. Should Araba be there when Augustus’s parents arrived, or should she leave before that?
“Stay,” Augustus said firmly.
“Are you sure? I don’t want any trouble.”
“I won’t allow it,” Augustus said fiercely. “We’ve decided to stay together, and that’s our decision. I’m an adult, you’re an adult. No one, not even our parents, can force us to do otherwise.”
When Julius Seeza and his wife, Caroline, entered Augustus’s room and saw Araba, they froze, their faces turning dark as a thunderstorm sky.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Caroline snapped.
“Mama, Papa,” Augustus said calmly, “please sit down and we can have a civilized discussion.”
“Civilized discussion,” Julius repeated in disbelief. “Civilized discussion? Just yesterday you were promising to turn your life around, and here you are with the same old detritus that has pulled you down in the first place—”
“Pulled him down?” Araba interrupted. “Justice Seeza, it’s me who has buoyed up your son time and time again. The terrible effects of his upbringing under you and your wife made him turn to the bottle—that is what I have been saving him from over and over.”
“What?” Julius said.
“Everything from your mouth is rotten, Lady Araba,” Caroline said, her face twisted with contempt. “When you speak, all we smell is garbage. You are a bitch of the highest order. Get your claws out of my son or you will be sorry, very sorry—mark my words. I will not take insults or abuse from you after the havoc you have wreaked in my son’s precious life. The reason he is here in this hospital is you—”
“Mama, that isn’t true!” Augustus said, sitting up straighter in bed. “You can’t blame this on Araba or anyone else, for that matter. I take full responsibility.”
“She poisons you,” Caroline said, her face bitter as bile. “She fills your head with propaganda and turns you against those who love you the most. That conflict is what is eating you alive, and it’s why you’ve been drinking. The first step to take to conquer this affliction is to wash yourself of the past and leave behind everything and everyone that has been to your detriment. That includes her.”
They stared at each other, opposing armies at an impasse.
Then Araba, cool as watermelon, said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You will regret saying that,” Julius said, pointing at her. “Come, Caroline. We are leaving.”
At the door, Caroline turned and addressed Araba for the final time. “There is a special place in hell for people like you. I hope you get there very soon.”
TWENTY-THREE
Ten months after
Jojo peeped into the window of the Trasacco Valley security booth and greeted Peter with an ebullient smile. “Good afternoon, boss.”
Peter looked up. “Hey, Jojo! Come in.”
Jojo went through the open gate under the arch and around to the booth, where the interior space seemed less than Jojo had estimated looking from the outside. Peter was filling out some papers on a clipboard. They shook hands with the traditional terminal snap of the fingers.
“How be?” Peter said.
“By His grace, my brotha. How are you doing?”
“I’m blessed, Jojo. You know, God is good.”
“For sure. Today my boss said there’s no work this afternoon, so I’m going home early.”
“Oh, okay,” Peter said. “I’m going to the other side to check the back gate. You can come with me if you’re not in a hurry.”
“Not at all.”
Peter let one of the other guys know he would be back in a bit, and Jojo walked alongside him as he took the road straight ahead. Jojo glanced behind and noticed two CCTV cameras mounted on a mast to the right side of the gate.
The roadway was perfectly paved, lined by a low trimmed hedge, on the other side of which the grass was green and well-tended. Beyond that, the fences enclosing each property were topped with flowering bushes of bougainvillea or hibiscus. Towering over all of these were palm trees planted at regular intervals.
“How you keep the place fine, oo,” Jojo praised Peter. “The grass and everything.”
He smiled. “Not really me. Our landscaping master is Ismael. Maybe we’ll meet him on the way.”
“Okay, cool. And the house where the woman died, which one is that?”
“It’s near the back gate where we’re going. I’ll show it to you.”
They walked for a while without saying anything, Jojo looking around in admiration of the huge homes painted vibrant sun yellows, subtle olives, or sky blues with white trims, rust reds, and even lily pinks. The kind of money one must have in a place like this, he thought.
Jojo heard a mechanical drone in the near distance. He saw the source of the noise as they turned the corner down a new block of houses. Ahead, a man wearing goggles was shaping a shrub with a powered hedge trimmer.
“That’s Ismael,” Peter said. He called out, “Ayekoo!”
Ismael turned, grinned, and switched off the trimmer. “Yaaey!”
“How goes it?” Peter greeted him.
“I dey oo,” Ismael said, grinning.
He was sweating heavily. He was wiry and strong, around thirty, and seemed friendly. He had a tribal mark on his right cheek and a chip in one of his front teeth that slightly marred an otherwise easy smile.
“Meet Jojo,” Peter said. “He just started working at the Hills. Jojo, this is Ismael, the best gardener in the world.”
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Ismael said bashfully to Jojo, laughing. “You are welcome here.”
“Thanks,” Jojo said. “But in fact, I have to agree with Peter—how you make the place is very nice. Congrats.”
“Thank you, thank you. You know, I like my job very much.”
> “But do you do everything by yourself?” Jojo asked. “Because the place is big.”
Ismael smiled. “Not everything. I bring in other guys sometimes, when there’s a lot to do. In the rainy season, the weeds grow very fast.”
That season had already begun, but the weather hadn’t cooled down as much as expected. Jojo mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Will you also be working at the Hills when they’re ready to start planting?” he asked.
Ismael seemed doubtful. “I’m not sure. Maybe, but no one has told me anything about it. They might use a contractor landscaper.”
“Ismael is a Trasacco employee from the early days,” Peter explained, “but now they do things a little differently—they use more third parties.”
“I see,” Jojo said.
“Where are you going now?” Ismael asked Peter.
“To check on the back gate. Have you seen if it’s working today?”
Ismael shook his head. “It’s not, but I think yesterday it was okay. I’ll go with you.”
Carrying his hedge trimmer easily in one hand, the groundskeeper joined the other two men on their walkabout.
As they reached the rear side of the complex, Peter said to Jojo, “We’re having too many problems with the back gate. It’s supposed to have a vehicle sensor so it opens as the car approaches and the person can leave the complex.”
“Why do you have a rear gate?” Jojo asked.
“Good question,” Peter said. “Personally, I would get rid of it. They wanted it so people deeper inside the complex have an easier, faster exit by using the back, because the front gate is a little far for them. But sometimes the sensor doesn’t work, and the gate itself is always getting stuck. They keep repairing it, and then it just breaks down again.” They were in front of the notorious gate now, which, like the front entrance to the Valley, was made of wrought iron painted black, though not as high. Jojo deduced from the chain and motor housing at about calf level that the gate was the sliding type.
Peter knelt at the motor box and opened it with a key to peer at the device’s innards. He pressed a button, and the gate slid to the right rather sluggishly all the way to its end point. When Peter pressed another button, the gate started back in the other direction and looked as if it was fully functioning until it stopped a little past halfway.