“Bring them some water,” Boateng told his wife.

Fiti waited for her to return with two battered tin cups of water. She disappeared quickly to leave the men to their meeting.

“How are you today, Inspector Fiti?” Boateng asked deferentially.

“I’m fine, but your boy is not.”

“Please, what is wrong, Inspector?”

“He killed the girl. Gladys Mensah.”

Boateng squirmed. “He killed her?”

“Yes. Someone saw him go with her into the forest, and that was the last time she was ever seen.”

“Who saw him?”

“I can’t tell you that, but I believe what the person says. So your boy did it, but he won’t confess. If he confesses, he will get a light sentence from the judge. So talk to him. Tell him to confess and sign the paper. Okay?”

Boateng’s shoulders slumped. He was devastated.

Fiti stood up and patted him on the shoulder. “Go and see him now, understand?”

One of the Ho police constables drove Dawson and Timothy the five kilometers to Sokode. They bumped over an unpaved, gravelly road full of potholes.

“Turn at the next right,” Timothy instructed.

They bounced along a little farther, and Timothy pointed. “There it is.”

In God We Trust Motors was aptly named, being not much more than a wobbly shack amid scores of large and small engine parts scattered about the yard. A wiry man in his forties was tinkering with a chunk of equipment on a table and looked up as the car approached and stopped about fifty meters away.

“Is that the man who did your repair?” Dawson asked Timothy.

Timothy was squinting out the window. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t look familiar.”

“Wait here,” Dawson said, getting out.

He walked over to the man. “Ndo na wo.”

“Ndo. Any problem?”

“I’m Dawson, from Accra police.” He showed his ID.

“I’m Quaye.”

They shook hands. Quaye’s palm was rough as sandpaper.

“Am I in trouble, sir?” he asked.

“Not as far as I know,” Dawson said. “Are you the owner here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need your help. Do you see that man sitting in the back of the car? Do you recognize him?”

Quaye took a look for a few seconds and then shook his head. “No, sir. Why?”

“He says he was here last week Friday.”

“I wasn’t here at that time. Only my cousin.”

“Is your cousin here now?”

“No, sir. He went back to Cape Coast.”

“You work here alone?”

“My son helps me, and he was working last week. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Yes, please.”

Quaye turned his head and yelled, “Ato! Ato!”

A skinny, bare-chested boy of about ten years old came around from behind the shack wearing threadbare oversize Nikes.

“Yes, Papa?”

“This is Inspector Dawson from Accra. He’s a detective.”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“How are you, Ato?” Dawson said.

Ato’s attention was momentarily drawn to the police car, and he suddenly smiled and waved.

“You know that man?” Dawson asked Ato in surprise.

“Yah, I remember him,” he said. “He came last week with a tire puncture.”

Dawson’s stomach lurched. “What day last week?”

“Friday, sir.”

“How are you so sure it was Friday?”

“Because it was my birthday and I was conversing with him and when I told him it was my birthday he gave me some extra dash.” Ato grinned.

Dawson’s mouth had gone dry. “What time of day was he here?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but it was getting to evening time.”

“And he left when?”

“He was our last customer and it was already dark. After him, we closed, so I think maybe about almost seven.”

“What kind of car was he driving?”

“Audi Eighty.”

“Color?”

“Like a silver or gray color.”

That was what Timothy drove. A silver Audi 80.

“And you remember that was his car for sure?”

“Oh, yes.” Ato’s eyes went wistful. “I love that Audi Eighty toooo much.”

Dawson was shattered. His heart was pounding as he went back to the car.

“Do you remember that boy over there?” he asked Timothy.

He nodded. “I do. I gave him a couple cedis for his birthday-as he claimed it was.”

“What kind of car were you driving?”

“My Audi, of course. What else would I be driving?”

Dawson was asking these questions in the futile hope that he could somehow stitch his case back together, but he knew he couldn’t. The brutal fact was that Timothy’s alibi was now established beyond a reasonable doubt.

“What’s going to happen now?” Timothy asked.

Dawson stared at him, feeling chilly even in the hot afternoon sun. “You’re free to go,” he said.

“Oh, super. Um, if it’s not too much of a bother, can I have a ride back to Ho?”

34

SAMUEL DREAMT HE WAS trying to get away from his father, but he seemed to be running in place and Papa got closer and closer to him, reaching with grasping fingers as he called out his name.

“Samuel. Samuel!”

He started awake and realized it was Papa calling him in real life. He got up and went to the bars. This time, Mama had come too. Samuel ached to be on the other side with her.

Constable Bubo leaned against the wall and watched them with folded arms.

“Mama, Papa,” Samuel said, “I’m so glad to see you.”

He could tell his mother had been crying, and it made tears prick the corners of his own eyes. Papa looked sad, but it wasn’t like anything Samuel had seen before. This was deep, and there was pain and anger.

“Papa. What’s wrong?”

“Why have you brought us this shame, why have you disgraced us?”

“Papa, I’m not trying to-”

“Quiet! Do you hear me? Keep quiet. You have always been a troublemaker and a liar. Tell the truth just for once, eh? Tell the inspector what you did to that girl. They already know you did it, eh? Someone saw you going into the forest with the girl, so why are you trying to deny it?”

“Papa, it’s not true,” Samuel said desperately.

“Confess, Samuel, please. If you confess, they will give you a lighter punishment and the gods of Ketanu will forgive you.”

“But Papa, I didn’t do it.” His voice broke and rose to a high pitch that bounced off the cell walls.

“Samuel, stop,” Mama said. “You can’t hide it anymore.”

Samuel hit the jail bars with his open hand and turned away in fury and despair. He put his forehead against the dank wall and wept.

“Take me out of here, please, Papa, take me out. They’re going to kill me, I swear, they’re going to beat me to death.”

“Then tell them the truth!” Papa shouted. “Tell them!”

Samuel stopped crying and sank to his knees with his head bowed. Mama was weeping now.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Bubo said, “Time to go.”

They left, and the cell became ghostly quiet again.

Timothy was released and cleared of all charges. Dawson drove despondently back from Ho to Ketanu. For the first time since beginning the case, he was starting to doubt himself. What if it was Samuel who did it? Maybe Dawson didn’t want to believe it because Samuel was Fiti’s suspect and not his. Was he perhaps prejudiced against Fiti because the man was just a “bush policeman”? Wouldn’t it be ironic if it really was Fiti doing the solid detective work and not Dawson?

Now that he had no case against Timothy, Dawson wanted to find out more about what Auntie Osewa had told Inspector Fiti-or what he said she had told him.

All of a sudden, Dawson felt a powerful need to talk to Christine. He pulled over and got his phone out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, even before he had the chance to tell her how miserable he was.

“Everything,” he said gloomily. “Not getting anywhere with this case.”

“No leads?”

“I’m either following them wrong or they’re just not the right ones.”