Gold of Our Fathers

by Kwei Quartey

  “No, sir,” Dawson admitted.

  Longdon glared at him for a moment before turning to Dzamesi. “I apologize, Commissioner. Mr. Dawson wasn’t authorized to make that nonsensical statement. Kindly disregard.”

  “But wait just a moment,” Manu said, leaning forward and looking at Dawson intensely. “I would like us to talk about this a little more because a similar thought has occurred to me now and again. Chief Inspector, what exactly do you mean by informants?”

  “Madam, if the Chinese are escaping just before a raid, I fear that someone within the force is feeding them information about the date and time such raids are to occur.”

  Manu was fingering her chin. “Do you know of any informants specifically?” she asked him. “Is that why you’ve brought this up?”

  “I can’t name any,” Dawson said. “Not yet.”

  Dawson stole a glance at Longdon. His face had turned to stone.

  “We will take note of what you have said, Chief Inspector,” Dzamesi said self-importantly, jotting something down on his pad. “For now, let us discuss some of the operations that we will be carrying out.”

  Manu, still not satisfied, cut in yet again. “Commissioner Dzamesi, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I don’t believe we’ve quite settled the matter. If informants exist, they pose a significant obstacle to our getting the Chinese galamsey activities under control, and we need to pursue the issue.”

  “‘We,’ meaning the task force?” the commissioner asked impatiently.

  “Why not?” Manu said with a shrug. “I suggest that it should be incorporated into the mission statement of the task force—with the president’s endorsement, of course.”

  “I understand your concern, Manu,” Dzamesi said quietly, “but such probes generate ill feeling in the force and have a detrimental effect on morale. I will bring it up with the inspector general of police, but I don’t think it should be the business of this task force.”

  Worthless lip service, Dawson thought. He will never take up the matter with the IG.

  “Very good, sir,” Manu said respectfully, but Dawson knew she was not pleased by Dzamesi’s response.

  “So,” the commissioner continued, “our main task at hand is uprooting these illegal Chinese miners. We will be concentrating first on the mines in a wide area around Dunkwa. Within the next few days, officers with the police SWAT Bravo Strike Force here in Kumasi will join the brigadier-general’s forces and conduct a raid at those sites. On an almost weekly basis, we plan to move farther north to areas like Obuasi, Aniamoa, Ntoburoso, and so on.”

  Dzamesi looked up for responses, and a short discussion followed. When a space opened up in the chatter, Dawson said, “Please, sir, what will be my role during these raids?”

  Dzamesi was taken by surprise. He looked at DCOP Manu, who in turn looked at Longdon. “Do you usually send your detectives on such raids?” she asked.

  The commander shook his head. “For safety reasons, we do not.”

  “That seems sensible,” the commissioner commented.

  “Is this not a special case, though?” Manu came in. “The chief inspector has been investigating the death of a Chinese man at one of the illegal mining sites that will be included in the upcoming raids. I would say that, in fact, it’s imperative that he be in attendance.”

  “Why?” the brigadier-general demanded, frowning.

  Let’s see how she handles this, Dawson thought, with growing admiration.

  “Not only must Mr. Dawson witness this raid in order to make his final investigatory report complete,” Manu said confidently, “he has gathered some very useful and specialized knowledge about these miners and the galamsey sites. For example, the chief inspector knows how many workers were at the mine where the Chinese man died, and he knows their names. This is important because we might have to question some of the people we round up, and Mr. Dawson can assist with this. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the goal of these raids is not just to uproot and terrify people. Are we not also seeking information?”

  “That is true,” Dzamesi conceded with hesitation.

  “Right,” Manu said. “In addition, the chief inspector has familiarized himself with the workers in the adjacent mine, which belongs to the American, Chuck Granger. This is detailed information that we don’t have, and I suggest that it would be valuable at the time of the raids.”

  Some muttering and throat clearing took place. Dzamesi finally answered heavily, “All right. Chief Inspector Dawson can be involved in the raid in observation status only.” He looked at Dawson sternly. “I want to make that clear. You will not play any active role.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dawson said. “Please, if you don’t object, will you allow Constable Kobby to accompany me? Apart from this being a learning experience for him, he was the first policeman on the scene of the murder, and I believe he deserves it.”

  Dzamesi flipped his palms upward, looking at Longdon. “That’s up to you, Commander.”

  Longdon opened his mouth.

  “It’s a good idea,” Manu said, putting the words into it. “Thank you, Commander.”

  And now, Manu and Dzamesi were even, Longdon was squashed, and Dawson held the DCOP’s negotiation skills in very high regard. She had argued successfully for Dawson’s inclusion, and he made a mental note to thank her later in private. As for Longdon, he sat rigid with his mouth shut and his jaw tightly clamped.

  The rest of the meeting was tying loose ends, and at the close, Dawson wondered, Are we finally doing something about the illegal Chinese miners? Or was this just window dressing for the benefit of Ghana’s president? An even more cynical thought struck Dawson. Maybe even the president was merely putting on a show, and this national inquiry would end up buried in the same lifeless cemetery with all the other worthless presidential task forces, blue ribbon commissions, and parliamentary subcommittees.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  When Dawson reached Akua Helmsley by phone, evening was approaching.

  “I need to talk to you,” he told her.

  “I’m on my way to The View,” she said. “I’m meeting someone but I’m early, so I have a little time. Can you come there?”

  “I can be there in about an hour,” Dawson said. “I’m coming up from Obuasi.”

  On the way, he called Christine to let her know he would be making a stop before getting home.

  “Okay,” she said, “but remember you promised to help the boys with their homework?”

  “Yes. I’ll try to be as quick as possible.”

  As he entered The View on the top floor of the building, Dawson’s suspicions were confirmed: a Ghana Police chief inspector couldn’t afford to eat or drink here. The room was large and airy. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided the view for which the place was so famously named. The floors were solid wood, as were the impeccably laid tables at which customers, most of them expatriates, sat and talked, ate and drank. Business was light at this early hour, so a couple of the black-and-white uniformed waiters were attending to just three tables, while the others hovered around the bar.

  Dawson saw Helmsley sitting alone at bar on the other side of the room, and he walked across.

  “Nice to see you, Chief Inspector,” she said, as he sat down.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’m on my way home, so I’ll have to make this quick.” He wanted to establish the strictly business nature of the meeting at the outset.

  “Of course,” she said. She wore a sheer white top and tight black slacks. Her hair was elegantly swept back. She smelled like heaven must smell, and he was beset by guilt. He should be treating Christine to a place like this, rather than meeting another woman here.

  “I’m having wine,” she said. “Would you like something?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She ignored him and lifted a finger to the bartender. “One Malta, please
.”

  “Thank you,” Dawson said. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I know.” She took a sip of her wine. “So. What’s on your mind, Chief Inspector?”

  He waited for the bartender to finish pouring. “It’s about Tommy Thompson.”

  “Ah, yes?”

  “You said you went to see him at the Accra office?”

  “I did.”

  “My partner Philip Chikata—you remember him—went to PMMC to talk to him. He claims you’ve never stepped foot on the premises.”

  She chortled. “I’m not surprised.”

  Dawson could tell she genuinely wasn’t, as if he had told her it rained in Kumasi. For his part, he was taken aback by the mildness of her reaction.

  “Tommy Thompson is a liar,” Helmsley said coolly. “Furthermore, he is trying to discredit my name. I’m sure he said some really unpleasant things about me.”

  Dawson said nothing in response, but yes, she was right.

  “Whether you believe him or not,” she continued as he watched her facial expression, “I know I don’t need to tell you there are some very nasty men out there who cannot stand having a woman snooping around the way I do.”

  “And the whistle-blower?” he asked her. “Is he or she one of the disgruntled employees fired over the last year or so?”

  She shook her head decisively. “No. The person is working at PMMC right now.”

  “I see.”

  “Contrary to popular gossip,” Helmsley said, “I don’t sensationalize my reports, nor did I sleep my way to my position, Chief Inspector.”

  “I never thought that,” Dawson said, a little hurt.

  “I appreciate your saying so. Anyway,” she said with a backward flap of the hand, “that’s neither here nor there. I’m glad you’re here, because there is something I want to ask you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Speaking of whistle-blowers,” she said, “would you be willing to be one, should the occasion arise?”

  Dawson’s Malta arrived. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he said, as the bartender poured. “In what regard?”

  Helmsley paused, waiting for the bartender to leave, and gave a quick glance around. “I want to look into galamsey corruption at the highest levels of the police force.”

  “Why do you want to do that?”

  “That’s like asking you why you want to solve crime,” she objected, but she was smiling.

  “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 g
lory. 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?”