Children of the Street - [25]
It was as they were about to turn in that Chikata called.
“It’s him, Dawson,” he said, his voice flat with finality.
“What are you talking about?”
“Daramani. We found a knife hidden in his room.”
Dawson’s heart faltered a couple beats. “A knife. What kind of knife? Dinner knife, pocketknife, what?”
“A big knife. Eight inches long, and it looks like there’s blood on it. We’ll send it for DNA testing, but I know it will match Musa’s. Daramani tried to get out of it with some crazy story that he killed a chicken a couple weeks ago to make a stew.” Chikata laughed. “He must think we’re stupid.”
“Why is that so difficult to believe?” Dawson asked testily. “It’s still cheaper to buy a live chicken in Accra than a packaged one from a store. Daramani doesn’t buy his food at ShopRite, you know.”
“I know that,” Chikata said dismissively, “but come on, what a story. Chicken blood.”
“Wait for the DNA, that’s what I’d advise you.”
“Dawson, you always brag about your instincts, but when it’s my instinct, you don’t give me any credit.”
Dawson wanted to say “Because you don’t have any instinct” but changed his mind.
“Wait for the DNA, Chikata,” he said. “That’s all I can say. Good night.”
They’ve delivered the scrap metal to the man in Nima, and now they’re heading back toward Daramani’s place. At night, Nima is full of shadows and dark places. Daramani takes Musa through an alley as a shortcut. When they emerge on the other side, Daramani is the only one pushing the cart. The cargo on the cart is wrapped in a tarpaulin. It’s Musa, dead with a knife in his back. No one pays the slightest attention to Daramani as he pushes his cart down the street in the direction of Korle Lagoon.
Dawson sat up in a cold sweat. He looked around in the darkness. Those first few seconds after his nightmares, the brief transition from the dreamworld to the real, were the scariest.
He got up, changed his wet pajama shirt, and sat on the side of the bed. Christine stirred and turned but didn’t wake up.
Dawson thought about the dream, visualizing Daramani pushing a cart with the dead Musa on it. In the middle of the night, it seemed plausible. In the morning it would not. He cupped his chin in his palm. Why was perception always so different at night?
His mind bounced around. Chikata had wrestled the case away from him. Just like that. Dawson felt impotent. What good was an inspector who gave the case away to his sergeant? Maybe he wasn’t really cut out for this work. He sighed. That tiresome existential crisis was back.
16
Saturday morning, Christine and Hosiah went shopping with Granny Gifty, leaving Dawson to do a few things around the house. About noon, he headed to Nima, picking up a Daily Graphic on the way. All Saturdays had a certain quality about them, a feeling of release from the chains of the workweek, the freedom to relax and browse. In neighborhoods like Nima, there was an increase in crowds moving back and forth and an upswing in buying and selling: fabrics, food, clothes, shoes, pots, pans, building materials, tools, cosmetics, and electronics.
Dawson made his way to Daramani’s place. He tried the door, hoping in vain that Chikata had carelessly left it unlocked after his search. Two doors down, a woman was washing clothes in a wide metal bowl with a pot of stew bubbling beside her on a charcoal grill. Dawson greeted her.
“Do you know Daramani who lives there?” Dawson asked her, pointing to his door.
She flicked perspiration from her forehead. “Yes, I know him.”
She was probably in her forties. Her voice was raspy, like sandpaper. Her name was Sheila.
“I’m from CID,” Dawson said. “I’m trying to find out a little bit about him. Can you help me?”
She might cooperate, she might not. It was luck of the draw.
“If I can help you, I will,” she said.
“Thank you. Were you here the night of Saturday before last?”
She shrugged. “I’m always here at night.”
“Do you remember seeing Daramani with another man around ten o’clock?”
She shook her head. “By that time, I’m inside. But maybe my son saw something. As for that boy, he stays up too late playing cards with his friends.”
“Is your son here?”
“Yes, but he’s sleeping.” She got up. “Please, let me wake him up for you. Lazy boy.”
The ratty door, which didn’t fit in its frame, slammed behind Sheila as she went inside yelling, “William! William!”
Glancing through the dirty, unraveling mosquito netting in the top half of the door, Dawson made out one larger and one smaller room, but they were both small.
Sheila returned in a huff. “He sleeps until late, then he gets up and listens to that crazy music, and then he goes out with his friends.” She shook her head. “Oh, Ewurade.”
William came to the door and propped it open as he leaned against the jamb. Chunky, around twenty, he was wearing a red T-shirt with I ♥ AMSTERDAM written across it in blue and white.
“Good afternoon, William.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“The gentleman wants to know about Daramani,” Sheila said to her son. “Two weeks ago on Saturday night, weren’t you playing cards with your friends?”
Darko Dawson, Chief Inspector in the Ghana police service, returns in this atmospheric crime series often compared to Alexander McCall Smith's The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency novels.Darko Dawson has just been promoted to Chief Inspector in the Ghana Police Service – the promotion even comes with a (rather modest) salary bump. But he doesn't have long to celebrate because his new boss is transferring him from Accra, Ghana's capital, out to remote Obuasi in the Ashanti region, an area now notorious for the illegal exploitation of its gold mines.When Dawson arrives at the Obuasi headquarters, he finds it in complete disarray.
At Cape Three Points on the beautiful Ghanaian coast, a canoe washes up at an oil rig site. The two bodies in the canoe – who turn out to be a prominent, wealthy, middle-aged married couple – have obviously been murdered; the way Mr. Smith-Aidoo has been gruesomely decapitated suggests the killer was trying to send a specific message – but what, and to whom, is a mystery.The Smith-Aidoos, pillars in their community, are mourned by everyone, but especially by their niece Sapphire, a successful pediatric surgeon in Ghana's capital, Accra.
Опорск вырос на берегу полноводной реки, по синему руслу которой во время оно ходили купеческие ладьи с восточным товаром к западным и северным торжищам и возвращались опять на Восток. Историки утверждали, что название городу дала древняя порубежная застава, небольшая крепость, именованная Опорой. В злую годину она первой встречала вражьи рати со стороны степи. Во дни же затишья принимала застава за дубовые стены торговых гостей с их товарами, дабы могли спокойно передохнуть они на своих долгих и опасных путях.
Как часто вы ловили себя на мысли, что делаете что-то неправильное? Что каждый поступок, что вы совершили за последний час или день, вызывал все больше вопросов и внутреннего сопротивления. Как часто вы могли уловить скольжение пресловутой «дорожки»? Еще недавний студент Вадим застает себя в долгах и с безрадостными перспективами. Поиски заработка приводят к знакомству с Михаилом и Николаем, которые готовы помочь на простых, но весьма странных условиях. Их мотивация не ясна, но так ли это важно, если ситуация под контролем и всегда можно остановиться?
Из экспозиции крымского художественного музея выкрадены шесть полотен немецкого художника Кингсховера-Гютлайна. Но самый продвинутый сыщик не догадается, кто заказчик и с какой целью совершено похищение. Грабители прошли мимо золотого фонда музея — бесценной иконы «Рождество Христово» работы учеников Рублёва и других, не менее ценных картин и взяли полотна малоизвестного автора, попавшие в музей после войны. Читателя ждёт захватывающий сюжет с тщательно выписанными нюансами людских отношений и судеб героев трёх поколений.
Александра никому не могла рассказать правду и выдать своего мужа. Однажды под Рождество Роман приехал домой с гостем, и они сразу направились в сауну. Александра поспешила вслед со свежими полотенцами и халатами. Из открытого окна клубился пар и были слышны голоса. Она застыла, как соляной столп и не могла сделать ни шага. Голос, поразивший её, Александра узнала бы среди тысячи других. И то, что обладатель этого голоса находился в их доме, говорил с Романом на равных, вышибло её из равновесия, заставило биться сердце учащённо.
Валентин Владимиров живет тихой семейной жизнью в небольшом городке. Но однажды семья Владимировых попадает в аварию. Жена и сын погибают, Валентин остается жив. Вскоре виновника аварии – сына известного бизнесмена – находят задушенным, а Владимиров исчезает из города. Через 12 лет из жизни таинственным образом начинают уходить те, кто был связан с ДТП. Поговаривают, что в городе завелась нечистая сила – привидение со светящимся глазами безжалостно расправляется со своими жертвами. За расследование берется честный инспектор Петров, но удастся ли ему распутать это дело?..
Если вы снимаете дачу в Турции, то, конечно, не ждете ничего, кроме моря, солнца и отдыха. И даже вообразить не можете, что столкнетесь с убийством. А турецкий сыщик, занятый рутинными делами в Измире, не предполагает, что очередное преступление коснется его собственной семьи и вынудит его общаться с иностранными туристами.Москвичка Лана, приехав с сестрой и ее сыном к Эгейскому морю, думает только о любви и ждет приезда своего возлюбленного, однако гибель знакомой нарушает безмятежное течение их отпуска.