The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  Mr. Labram had been expecting them. Fortyish, he was heavyset with a belly that spilled over his beltline.

  “Very happy to meet you,” he said, shaking hands first with Sowah and then Emma. “Please come this way into the house—you said you would like to look around. We have a tenant but they’re out right now.”

  They followed Labram along a shaded walkway with inlaid sandstone tiles. A breeze came off the river, glimpses of which they could see through a lush flank of trees.

  “I’m glad someone is paying attention to this case,” Labram said, unlocking the front door. “Mr. Tilson was here for only a few days, but he was a kind, decent man. I also met Mr. Derek when he came here looking to find out what had happened to his dad. Has Mr. Derek returned to his country?”

  Sowah replied, “Not yet.”

  Labram asked a little about the history of Sowah’s detective agency and Emma noted how humble Sowah sounded in his response. His words conveyed a quiet wisdom born of years of experience. Emma hoped to be like that someday.

  Labram must have been impressed as well. “That is very good, Mr. Sowah,” he said, nodding in approval. For his part, Labram was an Akosombo Dam engineer who had the option of free housing from the Volta River Authority. The Riverview would be his retirement home, but in the time being, he was reaping the benefits of Airbnb.

  “I hope we can find out what happened to him,” Labram said, “and that, God willing, it’s nothing bad that has occurred.”

  “Did anyone from CID get in touch with you?” Emma asked. Sowah wanted her to pose as many questions as possible, and she was gathering up the courage to do so in his avuncular presence.

  “One lady detective,” Labram said. “I think the name was Damptey—Dorothy or Doris—she called me and asked a few questions to confirm the dates Mr. Tilson had arrived and was supposed to have left. She said she would send someone from Akosombo Police Station to interview me, but no one has ever shown up.”

  “I see,” Sowah said, exchanging a glance with Emma.

  The house wasn’t as luxurious and modern as Poem’s place in Accra, but it was comfortably furnished, and the air conditioner was running. The kitchen and dining area merged into the sitting room. Two bedrooms and a bath were beyond that off a short hallway.

  The trio crossed to the other side of the room where the patio afforded a view of the Volta River from a different, better angle. The calm, grayish-blue expanse of water looked powerful and deep, its ripples reflecting the sun in miniature explosions of light. Tranquility belying strength was a quality Emma admired. A few fishing canoes, paddled by men solo or in pairs, bobbed up and down on the river’s surface. Emma had a flash of childhood nostalgia. Her father often took her out in a canoe on Lake Bosomtwe in the Ashanti Region to teach her to swim and dive, not a skill the average Ghanaian father imparted to his daughter. But Daddy had never had a son, and Emma was tomboyish enough as a reasonable substitute. She certainly had not been a girly girl. Up till the present day, men especially were surprised to discover she was a powerful swimmer.

  Looking southward, they could see the graceful arch of the Adome Bridge spanning the breadth of the river. Emma thought she could sit there for hours contemplating the view. But she snatched herself back to reality.

  “Mr. Labram,” Sowah said, “could you recount for us what happened the day Mr. Tilson disappeared and anything significant leading up to that day?”

  “I will be happy to do so,” Labram said, shifting his weight and attempting to get comfortable in a chair that was on the skimpy side for his bulk. “Mr. Tilson planned to return to Accra on Tuesday, third April. He called me on Sunday—April Fool’s Day—to let me know he would like to settle the bill on Monday, the eve of his departure. So, I came down around five on Monday afternoon and he paid the bill in full. We chatted for a little bit, and he told me he would leave around seven in the morning.”

  Sowah looked at Emma, cueing her to ask a question.

  Thank goodness she had one ready. “Please, did Mr. Tilson tell you anything about the problems he was facing—the reason he came to Ghana?”

  Labram hesitated. “He did. After he had been here a couple of days, he said he had come to Ghana looking for a woman he had fallen in love with online in America. When he arrived here, he found it was all a trick. He had given away thousands of dollars to a bunch of fraudsters.” Labram shook his head in disgust. “These people are spoiling our country.”

  Emma sensed his profound regret.

  “Mr. Tilson told me he was on a mission to find the culprit,” Labram continued. “I felt a bit sorry for him because I didn’t think he would be successful. Still, I prayed that he would be. If we can apprehend more of these people, perhaps others will be discouraged from doing these criminal things.”

  “It’s possible Mr. Tilson came here looking for Kweku Ponsu, a traditional priest,” Emma said. “Did he say something to you about that?”

  “Yes,” Labram said. “He asked me if I knew anything about Ponsu. I said very little except that he stayed in Atimpoku, his hometown, from time to time. However, I advised Mr. Tilson not to get involved with such people unless someone in the know accompanies him. He said his driver knew his way around and would assist him.”

  “You mean the driver Mr. Tilson hired for the trip from Accra?” Sowah asked.

  “Yes please.”

  “By any chance, do you have the driver’s contact information?”

  “He gave his name as Yahya,” Labram said, taking out his phone, “but I didn’t get his surname.” When he had located the number, he reached over to hand his mobile to Sowah, who wrote the number down in his small notebook, old school.

  “While Mr. Tilson was here,” Labram continued, “Yahya stayed at a hotel in Atimpoku. On Tuesday morning, he arrived here before seven to meet Mr. Tilson’s absence. He then called me to ask if I knew where Mr. Tilson had gone. I came down from my place and was very puzzled by his disappearance. Yahya and I went together to look for him at the Adome Bridge thinking he might have gone to take some photos. We even asked people in the Atimpoku area if they had seen an oburoni man early that morning or the night before, but no one had.”

  “So, it means Mr. Tilson disappeared sometime between five on Monday afternoon and seven Tuesday morning,” Sowah said.

  “Yes, sir,” Labram said.

  “And we understand that Mr. Tilson’s luggage was also not in his room,” Emma said. “Is that correct?”

  “Right,” Labram responded, his brow creasing. “That made us worry about whether it was a robbery attempt and he had been harmed. Or even killed.”

  “Those are the fundamental questions,” Sowah agreed. “Could someone have heard something out of the ordinary overnight? Do you have servants’ quarters?”

  Labram shook his head. “I have a house girl who comes to clean three times a week, but she lives in Atimpoku. If you want to question her, I can take you to see her.”

  “We would like that, thank you,” Sowah said, smiling at how cooperative their host was. It wasn’t always such smooth sailing for a private investigator. “What about neighbors?”

  Labram looked regretful. “Unfortunately, the splendid solitude of this place, which is the reason why many visitors come to spend their holidays here and escape from hectic city life, is a disadvantage in this case. The next house from here is half a mile away. With the tree and vegetation cover, you can hear virtually nothing, even during the quiet of the night.”

  Sowah nodded. “May we see Mr. Tilson’s room?”

  “But of course,” Labram said. “Please come this way.”

  They went to the hallway on the other side of the sitting room.

  “The house girl has been here already to clean up,” Labram said, opening a door on the right. “I’m sorry there’s nothing much to see except the present tenant’s belongings.”

&nb
sp; The bed was neatly made. Some paper items and a Bradt Travel Guide To Ghana lay on the desk. A spinner suitcase stood in a corner.

  “When did your present guest arrive?” Sowah asked, flipping over the luggage tag.

  “Last week, sir,” Labram said. “Him and his wife.”

  “No reason to think they have any connection with Mr. Tilson?”

  “Connection?” Labram asked, looking surprised. “Not that I know of.”

  Sowah nodded. It was a long shot, not a serious thought.

  Emma looked around, noticing a mosquito-netted porch outside the sliding glass doors. “So, Mr. Labram,” she said, “you’re certain there was no sign of forced entry onto the patio or through those doors that Tuesday morning?”

  “No, madam,” Labram responded. They stood in silence a moment.

  “This driver, Yahya,” Sowah said at length, “how did he seem to you?”

  “He was very agitated that we could not find Mr. Tilson,” Labram said. “He was almost in tears because with these car rental agencies, if anything at all happens to the customer, the driver is held responsible. I’m sure the company has sacked him by now.”

  “We’ll try to contact him once we return to Accra,” Sowah said. “I think we’re done here. Would you mind taking us to see your house girl, Mr. Labram?”

  “No problem, sir. We can go now. I’ll drive us there so we can talk to her. Her name is Kafui.”

  FORTY

  While Emma and Sowah were in Atimpoku, Derek made some progress of his own, scoring a visit with Rachel Jones, one of the American Embassy’s consuls. The building, at 24 Fourth Circular Road was an impenetrable gray fortress with no photography allowed warnings posted at every turn. The US Marines on duty on the grounds of the embassy were an additional reminder. Derek wondered what the consequences of snapping a pic would be.

  Unsurprisingly in such an environment, Derek had to surrender his phone on entry, pass through a metal detector, get a pat down, and sign in at reception before proceeding. As Derek entered the heart of the building, which was deliciously chilled to US standards, he had a sudden twinge of home pride and felt a little embarrassed. He didn’t want to be a rah-rah American.

  A security guard showed Derek to a waiting room full of people of all shapes, shades, and sizes, many of whom, Derek guessed, were seeking the coveted American entry visa. After some twenty minutes, an attendant called his name and Derek followed him down the brightly lit hall to a door bearing Rachel Jones’s name on a polished, brass plate. The attendant knocked, waved Derek in and then left. A diminutive, fiftyish, bespectacled white woman in a cream-colored pantsuit stood up from her desk and thrust out her hand.

  “Welcome, Mr. Tilson. I’m Rachel Jones.” She indicated a couple of chairs off to the side and they sat opposite each other. She crossed her stubby legs. “This is regarding your father, is that right, Mr. Tilson?”

  “Correct. ‘Derek’ is fine.”

  She smiled. “Then you may call me ‘Rachel’ in return. I’m assuming that since you’ve been in Ghana you’ve had no word on where he is?”

  “None.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. When did you arrive in Accra?”

  “May second, about three weeks ago. I’m staying at the African Regent.”

  Derek explained to Rachel his fruitless dealings with the police and his decision to go with a private detective agency. He saw concern flit over her expression.

  “Be careful with that,” she cautioned. “Some of these Ghanaian PI outfits are fraudulent. You might pay them a lot of money and end up with nothing at all in return.”

  “I hear you,” Derek said. “The agency I’ve hired is vetted by an international organization. But I appreciate your warning me. I’m curious about exactly what my father said when he came to the embassy. I mean, what was the purpose of his visit?”

  She nodded. “Your father did visit the embassy in late February. I spoke to him in this very office and took a report about his experience with this scam. I sensed he was deeply hurt and angry. Unfortunately, these cruel online cons aren’t uncommon, and I’m sorry we could not help your father to the extent of his expectations.”

  “Oh? What was he expecting?”

  “He wanted us to take action to address the prevalence of these scams, as in apply pressure on the police and the Ghana government to clamp down on this criminal activity. I’m sure you understand we can’t do that. We’re not in the business of law enforcement—especially not as guests in a sovereign nation such as Ghana. Furthermore, he wanted our FBI Legat to—”

  “Sorry, what was that?” Derek interjected. “The FBI what?”

  “Apologies,” Jones said. “I lapsed into State Department talk. The FBI maintains a presence in several countries as legal attaché offices, or ‘Legats.’ So, maybe Mr. Tilson—your dad—had read something about Legats and he more or less—and I don’t like to put it this way—demanded that our Legat start investigating his personal case. I explained to him this is simply not their role. As big a calamity as this thing was to him personally, it doesn’t rise to the level of an international concern.”

  “So, what exactly is the Legat’s job?”

  “They play a supportive role in cases that are of common interest to the United States and the host country. For instance, let’s say CID has a need for sophisticated evidence collection and testing, that’s an area we could assist; or, for instance—and I’m being entirely academic here—your father was in a hostage situation, we could offer the FBI hostage negotiation skills, if CID wanted them. Things like that. Beyond that, all I could recommend to your dad was to stick with the local police authorities.”

  “Who, I’m sure you know,” Derek said, making a face, “do absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Jones said. “Prosecution of these fraudsters does occur. There have been a few high-profile cases like this one guy who used to ride around Accra in a candy-red Ferrari from all the money he swindled. But by and large, the steady drip, drip, drip of everyday scams is a colossal problem the Ghana police struggle to keep up with.”

  “Is that the whole story? Isn’t the truth more that the police are too corrupt to seriously investigate?”

  “There’s no doubt that corruption is rife in Ghana at many levels of society and government,” Jones said, and left it at that.

  Derek blew out his breath. He felt deflated and helpless. Then he thought of something. “By any chance, do you read the Washington Observer?”

  “On occasion. Why do you ask?”

  “I wonder if you might have seen an article there last month by Casper Guttenberg in which he talks about Ghanaian and Nigerian Internet con artists and uses my father as an example.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I must have missed that one. I’ll confess we tend to read the Post around here.”

  “No matter,” Derek said. “I can find it and email it to you, if you’re interested. Anyway, the end of the article mentioned that my father was remaining in the country to”—Derek air quoted—“investigate who had swindled him. This was news to me. Did he say anything to you about his intention to get to the bottom of it?”

  “He did not,” Rachel said firmly. “If he had, I would have strongly cautioned him not to go down that garden path. It’s not the kind of thing an American wants to get mixed up with, especially on foreign soil.”

  “Right,” Derek said. “I know Casper Guttenberg, the guy who penned the piece, and I asked him more than once if this was some scheme he and my father cooked up, but he denied it.”

  “I wish I could help more,” Rachel said with a regretful smile. Clearly, delving into Cas’s involvement was of no interest to her.

  Derek stood up. “Thank you, Rachel, for taking the time with me.”

  When he was outside the building again, Derek felt empty. What had he found out from
this meeting? That his father and Rachel Jones had met and talked, but very little else. And of Gordon’s present whereabouts, Derek had learned nothing at all.

  FORTY-ONE

  Emma and Sowah followed Labram into the heart of Atimpoku. It was a linear town hugging the road on either side in a north-south direction. Its eastern portion sloped down to the river, while the western part rose steeply uphill. Growth and expansion were apparent, with multiple new homes under construction on the hillside.

  Labram’s house girl lived on the east side of the town, sharing a compound with several neighbors. Conversing and laughing, three women were cooking in the open space while half a dozen kids of all ages ran—or crawled—around in play. A few goats chewed placidly on whatever goats chew on, chickens pecked at the dirt with exploratory noises, and skinny stray dogs cautiously approached the cooking area in the hope of a few scraps. A radio was playing religious highlife somewhere.

  Labram greeted the group in Ewe.

  They responded in unison and one of the women let out an exclamation of surprise when she saw him. She dropped what she was doing, wiped her hands on a rag, and hurried to where Labram and his two guests were standing. She shook his hand with a slight curtsy.

  “Ei, papa!” she said, with a luminous smile. “Woeizo!”

  Labram introduced her to Emma and Sowah. “This is my house girl, Kafui.”

  They exchanged greetings. Emma was staring at the baby on Kafui’s back, an exquisite boy with a perfectly round head and big dark eyes with lashes that curled up as if by some kind of artificial device. I want a baby like that, she thought. “What’s your baby’s name?” she asked Kafui in Twi.

  “Please, his name is Yao.” Kafui glanced behind her to smile at her child snug and safe on her back, and then directed a couple of the older kids to place four chairs in a shaded spot.