Children of the Street - [12]

“What are we going to do?” she asked, sounding empty.

“It’s not the end of the road,” Dawson said. “There’s always something around the corner.”

Christine sat up, suddenly angry. “We’re not going to sit around and let our son die.” Her voice cracked. “This stupid government that does nothing but steal our money. They think we’re going to let him die just because of them?”

She jumped out of bed, eyes blazing.

“Christine-”

“Idiot bureaucrats at the hospital with no soul,” she said, her voice trembling. “Just because of them?”

Dawson scrambled up himself and hurried around to her side of the bed.

“And yes,” she continued in fury, “that incompetent Ghana Police Service you work for. Do they want us to let him die?”

She began to weep, her lacerated cries wrenched from her throat. Dawson put his arms around her, but she struggled to pull away. He held her firmly and wouldn’t let go.

“I’m with you, Christine,” he said. “You have to remember that. I’m with you. And I won’t let you or Hosiah down. Ever.”

At last her body relaxed and molded into his, and she cried until her energy was spent.

7

After the overnight rain, the roads were in no condition for Dawson’s motorbike, so he took a cab to work. The commute was a nightmare. Several intersections and whole segments of streets were flooded, a reflection of the sorry state of Accra’s drainage system. Traffic was at a standstill in every direction. Taxi drivers, including Dawson’s, were being their usual aggressive selves, which didn’t help people’s tempers any.

His phone rang.

“Morning, Wisdom.”

“Good morning, Inspector. Where are you?”

“Stuck at Nkrumah Circle.”

Wisdom grunted. “Best of luck. I spoke to Yves last night. He says he’ll do it for us.”

“Okay. When do you need the photo?”

“Today. Can you send me a high-quality scan?”

“Scan! We hardly have any computers at CID and you’re talking about scanners?”

“The whole CID, not a single scanner? I don’t believe it.”

“Since it troubles you so much, why not buy one for us?”

Wisdom chortled.

“I can photocopy it for you,” Dawson said. “That’s the best I can do.”

“Why can’t I get the original?”

“Release an original photo to you from police files? I don’t think so, my friend.”

“Okay, okay. So where can I pick up the copy?”

“I’m going to Agbogbloshie later today. I can meet you on the way there, say in front of the Ghana Customs building. I’ll call you before I leave.”

Chikata was even later to work than Dawson was.

“Ah, this Accra flooding,” he said with disgust as he sat down next to his boss at a worn, pockmarked desk. “Anyway, good morning, Dawson.”

“Morning, Chikata.”

They shared a large, open office with nine other detectives ranging in rank from constable to inspector. When Dawson got to be chief inspector, he would move to a more exclusive room somewhere. For now, this old and bare room on the seventh floor of the CID building was the home base Dawson and his colleagues loved to hate. The air-conditioning consisted of louvered windows, which on one side of the room provided a view of the car park below and on the opposite side opened to the outside corridor.

The noisy office was as busy as an ant colony. Some detectives were taking reports from witnesses or crime victims. Others streamed in and out through the always open door. There was also a good deal of aimless chatter that all the investigators had learned to tune out as they conducted interviews.

“Any leads from yesterday in Agbogbloshie?” Dawson asked.

Chikata shook his head. “I took two constables with me. We spread out and asked as many people as we could, about a hundred and fifty in total. But nothing.”

“A hundred and fifty? Not bad. And no one knew of a missing young man of the description you gave?”

“No one was even interested.”

“Maybe people will care more when we circulate a forensic artist’s sketch.”

Chikata was surprised. “Since when do we have a forensic artist?”

“We don’t, but Wisdom Asamoah found one for me.”

Chikata pulled a face. “That nosy guy.”

“Ah, but it’s the same nosiness as ours,” Dawson said with a shrug, “and as long as we’re getting something out of it, I don’t care.”

Around four, Dawson flagged a taxi down to make the trip to Agbogbloshie via his meeting place with Wisdom at the customs building. He called Wisdom to let him know he was on his way. The taxi crawled along Independence Avenue while captive traffic was swamped by hawkers trying to peddle plantain chips, apples, world maps, DVDs, books, tools, belts, and even three bewildered little puppies. While the taxi was stationary, Dawson beckoned to a vendor and bought a bag of iced water-the same item responsible for much of the scourge in the Korle Lagoon.

Dawson’s phone rang. The caller ID said DARAMANI. He hesitated before answering. Daramani, who came from arid northern Ghana, had been a petty thief and marijuana dealer Dawson had arrested years ago. He was considerably rehabilitated now, holding down a job and not stealing.

When Dawson had first raided Daramani’s place in Nima, he had found a marijuana stash of exceptional quality. Possession and use was illegal in Ghana. It also happened to be Dawson’s Achilles’ heel. He disliked alcohol, but wee was almost impossible for him to resist. Standing in Daramani’s ragged living quarters, Dawson was the arsonist in a tinderbox or the child molester in a nursery school. He did what he should never have done and took some of the marijuana for himself.