Children of the Street - [13]

For a while after Daramani had served time, he became an informant of sorts. That was the ostensible reason that Dawson kept in touch with the thief, but the marijuana was the real attraction.

“Hello, Daramani,” he said into the phone.

“Ei, Dawson, why you no visit me these days?”

“You know why.”

“Because of the wee?”

“Yes. I don’t want to smell it or even be anywhere near it.”

“Ao, Dawson, my brodda,” Daramani said regretfully. “So no more?”

“No more. I’ve given it up.”

“I see. Anyway, how are you?”

“Fine.”

“And your wife and your boy?”

“They’re fine too. You still have your job in Maamobi?”

“Yes, but life make too hard for Ghana nowadays.”

“I know, but don’t go back to your old habits.”

“No, not at all.”

They said good-bye and Dawson pocketed his phone. He had an odd fondness for Daramani, yet the man and his marijuana were a compartment of Dawson’s life that he couldn’t share with the people in his work or home life. That was why he wanted to leave it behind and kick the habit. Five months. Still clean. Still vulnerable.

The Ghana Customs, Excise and Preventive Service Building was a good meeting place. One couldn’t miss the red-roofed, sky blue structure against Jamestown’s mostly cream and brown. A few meters away on the same side of the street, the rusty Jamestown post office seemed like a sad, neglected child.

Wisdom was late. Dawson let the cab go and sought shade on the covered veranda of the customs building until the reporter showed up. When Wisdom arrived he parked with two wheels of his Graphic car up on the sidewalk and hopped out.

“Inspector, εte sεn?” he greeted in Twi as they shook hands.

“Eyε. And you?”

Wisdom had one of the largest heads Dawson had ever seen, with a wide gap between the eyes. All that brain taking up space, Dawson supposed.

“So, you have something for me?” the newspaperman said.

Dawson handed him an envelope. Wisdom peered into it as if something might jump out at him, and then he withdrew the autopsy photocopies.

“Ei!” he exclaimed, wincing. “My God. This is serious.”

“I hope your Yves can work on it soon.”

“He will. Trust me, he’s a good man.”

“Thank you for the help, Wisdom. I need to get to Agbogbloshie. Can you give me a lift?”

“But of course, Inspector.”

Walking alongside Christine in Agbogbloshie, Dawson could not help thinking that this was not such a good idea. It wasn’t just the mud, it was the sewage spread and garbage scattered everywhere after having been flooded out of rudimentary gutters.

“You remember the way?” Christine asked him, going around a puddle.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad. Because I’d be lost by now.”

Glancing at her with a smile, Dawson thought his wife looked like a bright jewel in a pigsty here in Sodom and Gomorrah. She had brought some papers to be filled out to start the process of getting Sly into a school.

A few more twists and turns, and they arrived at Gamel and Sly’s hovel. Dawson knocked, praying they were still there.

A young woman with heavy black eyeliner opened the door and peered out. “Yes?”

“Is Gamel here?” Dawson asked.

“You say what?”

“Gamel. Is he here?”

She was puzzled. “Please, no Gamel here.”

Dawson’s heart sank.

“What about a small boy called Sly?”

She shook her head.

A thirtyish man with massive shoulders was sitting on an upturned crate a few meters away. “They have gone,” he said, without much interest.

Dawson turned to him. “Gone to where?”

The man shrugged. “I dunno.”

Dawson blew out his breath like a deflating balloon. He looked at Christine.

“Sorry, Dark,” she said sympathetically.

“I had a funny feeling they might not be here,” he said, resigned. “Oh, well. I tried.”

“You did,” Christine said. “That’s what matters.”

But as they walked away, Dawson made a mental note: what mattered even more was that he continue to try. He would keep looking for Sly. Something about the boy had struck a chord.

8

Over the next three days, there were no leads. Dr. Biney’s official report didn’t add anything to what Dawson already knew from attending the autopsy. It would take ages to get back the test results from Korle Bu Hospital’s new DNA center, which was of limited capacity. Many of its samples still had to be sent out for analysis in South African labs and at the University of Southern California-a costly and time-consuming exercise.

Dawson, preoccupied over Hosiah, felt out of sorts, as if he might be heading into a blue mood. But it was Friday, and the prospect of the weekend brightened him somewhat.

Saturday, Dawson, Christine, and Hosiah visited friends in Lartebiokorshie. They had a son of around Hosiah’s age, so he had someone to play with while the adults talked. As they chatted on the veranda of the house, Dawson’s phone rang.

“Yes, Wisdom?”

“Dawson, Yves just sent me his rendition of the boy. You wouldn’t believe how fine it is.”

“Have you emailed it to me?”

“Yes, I have. And my boss wants it in the paper as soon as possible, so you’ll see the article tomorrow.”

“Okay, no problem.” Before he hung up, Dawson said, “Thank you, eh?”

“Who was that?” Christine asked.

“I’m afraid I have to leave,” Dawson said. “Something new on the case has come in.”