Dodu and the sergeant looked at each other and went into hysterics. Dawson smiled and waited patiently for the hilarity to run its course, and then took out his ID badge and showed it to them. The grin disappeared from the lance corporal’s face as if Dawson had ripped it off. Dodu leapt to her feet, almost falling over her capsized stool as she staggered back and began to salute. “Sir, please, sir. I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know-”
Her colleague was standing to rigid attention as if turned to stone, but Dawson could see he was shaking slightly. As a sergeant and the more senior of the two, he was the more accountable, and was supposed to be setting an example of correct conduct.
“Do you know the motto of the Ghana Police Service?” Dawson asked him.
He swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
“‘To Protect and Serve with Honor,’ sir.”
“And is that what you were doing just now with me?”
“No, sir. I beg you, sir.”
“Sit down, both of you,” Dawson said.
Mortified, they took their seats, hardly daring to breathe. Dawson went behind the desk counter and stood at one end. “Give me the diary, please.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Dodu said, jumping up again and hastening to bring it to him.
Regardless of rank, high or low, one had to sign in for duty in the diary when visiting or taking on a new position at a divisional or regional headquarters. Dawson glanced at his phone and wrote in the time. He noticed that between midnight and 6 a.m., no entry in the diary had been made, suggesting that absolutely nothing had taken place during that time, which didn’t seem likely. More likely, someone on duty had been lazy.
“Where is the crime office?” Dawson asked, once he had signed in.
Dodu respectfully offered to show him, and he followed her outside to the left, passing the entrance to a small CID office where detectives sat to do their work. Above the second door was a small sign, crime officer.
“Please, it is here, sir,” Dodu said, opening up the locked door and standing aside so Dawson could get in. “Thank you very much, sir. You are welcome to Obuasi.”
“Thank you, Lance Corporal.”
She left him and he stepped inside to switch on the light. Ewurade, he thought. Look at this place. The musty room was about sixteen square feet. The desk was buried underneath stacks of paper and folders. A dust-coated computer monitor-the old type with a protruding cathode ray rear end-had been moved to the floor to make room for more junk. The folder-laden shelf on the wall near the desk was tilting dangerously, and Dawson decided that was the first item he should attend to before something snapped and sent the shelf’s contents flying. As he carefully removed the documents, he heard a movement behind him and turned.
The man at the door was potbellied with a melon-sized head and a jagged smile.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” Dawson said. “You are?”
“Detective Sergeant Augustus Obeng, sir,” he said, bracing briefly. “Oh, please, let me help you, sir.”
He rushed forward to relieve Dawson of the weighty stack of papers, which he dropped onto the first available space he found on the seat of an old armchair.
Dawson shook hands and snapped fingers with Obeng. Dawson had been told that he would be his most direct assistant-equivalent to Chikata, but not even close in physical comparison.
“My condolences for the loss of Chief Inspector Addae,” Darko told him.
“Thank you, sir. It was a big shock.”
Dawson sensed pain in Obeng’s voice. “I understand he had a stroke?”
“That day,” the sergeant explained, “he was having a terrible headache. We took him to Obuasi Hospital and they said his blood pressure was very high. But before they could give him some medicine, he collapsed dead right in front of us and they said he had bleeding inside his brain.”
Dawson visualized and felt the intensity of what must have been a catastrophic scene. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the commander in?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, please. I can take you to see him.”
Dawson followed Obeng up one flight of stairs. Compared to the constant buzz at CID headquarters in Accra, this place was as quiet as an empty church. The top veranda had a nice view of Obuasi High Street. The drizzle had stopped and it looked as if the sun planned to come out.
A corporal was on guard in the anteroom of the commander’s office. He knocked on the dark blue door and put his head in to announce the visitors.
“Please, you can enter,” he said, stepping aside to let Dawson through, but Obeng stayed out.
Assistant Commissioner of Police, Commander Ata Longdon, was tall, imposing, and hefty-too much sitting at a desk all day long. A thin Commander Longdon is in there somewhere, Dawson thought. He himself had always been thin, and though he was six feet tall, people sometimes underestimated his physical strength-a bad mistake for anyone who challenged him. But he had tamed his violent streak, or perhaps it had sputtered out under the pressures of parenthood.
Longdon looked up as Dawson entered and his face brightened-not a smile exactly, but something approaching it.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Dawson greeted him.
“How are you, Chief Inspector Dawson?” Longdon said. “Have a seat. Thank you for coming from Central to assist us here in Obuasi. Pascal Addae’s death has shocked us greatly.”
“Yes,” Dawson said with sympathy.
“I think you have already visited the crime office downstairs?”
“Yes, sir. I have.” Dawson wanted to put this delicately. “Seems like there’s some work to be done.”
“Yes, that is true.” Longdon was unconsciously drumming three fingers on his desk. “Months ago, I ordered Pascal and Sergeant Obeng to embark on a reorganization of the office, but then Pascal began to get sick. He didn’t know that he had very high blood pressure and kidney failure until it was too late. I appealed to Central for some assistance because Pascal was absent so often and the junior detectives were without guidance, but they delayed in taking action. I tried to fill in for him, but, well…”
Looking both bitter and sad, the commander was silent for a while, and Dawson said nothing. He was getting a picture of a divisional headquarters reeling from the tragic death of one of its own, and as a result suffering from low morale and disorganization.
“So,” Longdon resumed, recovering, “I will be depending on you to get the office back in shape. I have directed Sergeant Obeng to be at your service. You will also supervise the other detectives on their active cases.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Any problems, don’t hesitate to come to me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’s all for now. I will have Sergeant Obeng take you around the division.
It was nothing much to see. The impression Dawson had formed that the building had not originally been built to house a police headquarters turned out to be correct.
“Before,” Obeng explained as they went downstairs, “it was a house belonging to a certain businessman who donated it to the Ghana Police.”
Nice of him, Dawson thought, wondering if the businessman could now build them a fresh and modern facility.
“But Ghana Police is building a new place for us,” Obeng said, as if reading Dawson’s mind.
The charge office, CID room, and Dawson’s office-to-be occupied the front of the building. At one end of the dim rear corridor was the court office, which faced the CID room. Dawson put his head in and found a couple of lawyers with three officers preparing a case for court.
In the tailoring room, a tailor at his sewing machine repairing a police uniform looked up absently at them and smiled. “Morning, sir.”
Next in the hallway, Obeng opened the door to the exhibit room. Dawson let out a low whistle. Items from machetes to stolen trinkets were thrown chaotically one on top of the other, mixed in with a jumble of dusty folders and manila envelopes from old cold cases.