Children of the Street - [28]
Dawson feigned ignorance. “Not that I know of.”
Chikata hurried away. Fifteen minutes later, he returned looking devastated. He went quietly back to work.
After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “My uncle says I should ask you what the next step is and what my orders are. Sir.”
“Your orders?”
“Yes, sir, Dawson, sir. He said you’re in charge and I shouldn’t do anything without your prior approval. He also said Daramani should be released immediately because the case against him is very feeble. Sir.”
“Oh.” Dawson blinked. “Okay. Well, what we need to do now is get Musa Zakari’s name and photograph to the Public Relations Office for wide media release. Also there should be a statement that charges against Daramani have been dropped. Oh, and remind Wisdom Asamoah he’s supposed to give me an extra print for Akosua.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We don’t think Musa had any family in Accra, but someone might come forward if they see the photograph in the papers or on TV. We also need to look for people who knew him, like his fellow truck pushers in Agbogbloshie and around Accra. So we go to the places they congregate, show them the new picture of Musa, and see if anyone knew him. We’re looking for enemies too. These guys are living in a very tough world. Maybe one of them hated Musa for whatever reason. Maybe cutting off his fingers was an act of spite, who knows?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll start on those things. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to look for a Dr. Allen Botswe at the University of Ghana. He’s a criminal psychologist. I want to ask him what he thinks of Musa’s case.”
“Yes, all right, sir.”
As Dawson got to the door, he turned to add, “And Chikata, stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m not the bloody headmaster.”
18
Professor Allen Botswe, Ph.D., had suggested meeting Dawson around three o’clock at his house in East Legon. Dawson had a good idea of what to expect. This neighborhood southeast of the University of Ghana campus was populated by mansions priced at 400,000 cedis up to a million, roughly the same figure in U.S. dollars. How and where did Botswe get all that money? Not on a University of Ghana salary, for sure. Dawson had done his homework. Botswe was the only criminalist in the psychology department. He’d made himself a name as an expert on cultural aspects of murder in Ghana and West Africa. Every year, he was invited to be guest professor or speaker at universities in Europe, the United States, and Canada, engagements that paid handsomely.
The autopsy photos in a messenger bag slung across his back, Dawson started out to East Legon on his Honda. There was rain in the forecast, but he thought it was going to be much later on. As he passed the airport on his right, Dawson felt the bike shudder slightly. The machine was getting long in the tooth, with various mechanical hiccups showing up of late. Just past the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, the Honda stalled out completely. Dawson cursed as he repeatedly tried to get it started again.
He let the Honda cool off for about ten minutes. He tried again. This time it responded. Still sputtering, it made it to the destination, but barely.
Dr. Botswe’s house was enclosed within high walls topped with razor wire. The entrance was a towering wrought-iron gate. Dawson rang the outside bell. A man peeped through a viewing space in the right-hand wall.
“Good afternoon, I’m Inspector Dawson.”
The man nodded, pulling the gate open. Dawson rode in. The Honda gasped, shuddered, and shut off prematurely.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the man said. “I’m Obi. You are welcome.”
Dawson shook hands with him. “Pleased to meet you, Obi. How are you?”
“I’m blessed, praise God.” His voice had a grainy texture, like gari. He was a compact, powerful man of about thirty-five with a shiny, shaved head. “Is your motorcycle giving you problems?”
Dawson pulled his helmet off, resting it on the seat. “It’s getting old, is the problem.”
Obi smiled broadly but sympathetically. “Oh, so sorry. Please, if you can come with me. Doctor is expecting you.”
Parked at the perimeter of the circular, redbrick driveway was a glistening silver, late edition Benz with an interesting license plate: AB-7777-P. Dawson assumed the AB was by design: Allen Botswe. One paid extra for a personalized plate-a lot extra. The professor also had a stunning black Infiniti SUV in the two-car garage. Filthy rich, Dawson thought.
The front door was solid mahogany with a decorative etched-glass inset. Obi waved his proximity card across the reader to the side, pushing the door open after a faint click. The vestibule was deliciously cool. A giant chandelier hung from the high, vaulted ceiling. On the marble floor stood four massive Ghanaian sculptures. The paintings on the walls were from different parts of West Africa. Against a mauve accent wall was a bronze representation of Sankofa, the bird that turns its beak to retrieve the egg on its back. It is not taboo to go back and fetch what you forgot-so the saying went.
They passed a spiral staircase on the way to the expansive sitting room. On the far side of that was a floor-to-ceiling bay window. A pair of sliding French doors opened onto a manicured garden with a gurgling fountain. Dr. Allen Botswe, who was sitting in a plush leather armchair reading a book, looked up.
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.
Действие романа происходит в нулевых или конце девяностых годов. В книге рассказывается о расследовании убийства известного московского ювелира и его жены. В связи с вступлением наследника в права наследства активизируются люди, считающие себя обделенными. Совершено еще два убийства. В центре всех событий каким-то образом оказывается соседка покойных – молодой врач Наталья Голицына. Расследование всех убийств – дело чести майора Пронина, который считает Наталью не причастной к преступлению. Параллельно в романе прослеживается несколько линий – быт отделения реанимации, ювелирное дело, воспоминания о прошедших годах и, конечно, любовь.
Егор Кремнев — специальный агент российской разведки. Во время секретного боевого задания в Аргентине, которое обещало быть простым и безопасным, он потерял всех своих товарищей.Но в его руках оказался секретарь беглого олигарха Соркина — Михаил Шеринг. У Шеринга есть секретные бумаги, за которыми охотится не только российская разведка, но и могущественный преступный синдикат Запада. Теперь Кремневу предстоит сложная задача — доставить Шеринга в Россию. Он намерен сделать это в одиночку, не прибегая к помощи коллег.
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.