Children of the Street - [9]

“All right, then. Let me know if and when you reach him. Thank you, Wisdom.”

Dawson needed to visit the pump station belonging to KLERP, the Korle Lagoon Ecological Restoration Project. It stood on the west bank of the upper lagoon, directly opposite Agbogbloshie on the east. You couldn’t talk about Agbogbloshie and its cursed waterways without bringing in KLERP. It had been around for ten years or more, and was part and parcel of the saga of a troubled slum that just would not go away.

By twisting the arm of one of the other investigators, Dawson managed to snag Baidoo and the only Tata jeep immediately available out of the two assigned to the Homicide Division. Otherwise, Dawson would have had to wait hours before the other vehicle returned from whatever mission it was on.

Traffic was heavy along High Street. As Baidoo inched forward with unflappable patience, Dawson’s phone rang. He felt a surge of both dread and anticipation as he saw it was Edith Kingson calling. This might be it.

“Edith, how are you?” he said sweetly.

“I’m very well, thank you, Darko.” Her voice was as clear and sparkling as crystal, but now she hesitated slightly and his heart sank.

“It’s not good news, is it?” he said.

“No,” she replied sadly. “I’m so sorry. They turned it down. They said your financial situation was not dire enough to justify clemency. I tried to argue on the basis of Hosiah’s bad medical situation and the kind of future he was facing. I argued until Director Hanson even got annoyed with me.”

Dawson felt as though a ten-story building had just collapsed and crushed him. His breath left him, and for a moment his vision darkened and he couldn’t speak.

“Darko?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I’m here.”

“Again, I’m terribly sorry. If you like, you can always re-submit the petition and I will try once more for you.”

“Thank you, Edith,” he said softly. “For all your help. I appreciate it.”

He pocketed his phone and stared despondently out the window. Traffic had begun to clear as they passed James Fort toward Cleland Road. Agbogbloshie was in the distance to their right; the beach was visible on their left. Ahead, new road construction was raising a cloud of dust. Underneath the section of Cleland that became the Winneba Bridge, the sea met the Korle Lagoon with spectacular and sometimes violent churning, like two opposing cultures forced to mix. Dawson kept his head firmly turned away so that Baidoo wouldn’t see his tears welling up.

They turned right on Ring Road West. About half a mile up, Baidoo pulled into KLERP’s yard, where two small, one-story office buildings stood, one of them a trailer. A black 4 × 4 with darkened windows was leaving about the same time.

“Wait for me,” Dawson told Baidoo, hopping out.

The merciless noon sun was almost directly overhead, and the asphalt underfoot felt like it was on fire. Dawson walked up the steps to the trailer and knocked on the first door. He heard a faint “Come in.” He pushed the door open. It was a small office chilled to Arctic temperatures by a gale-force air conditioner. A doe-eyed woman with vermilion lipstick and an expensive hair weave was sitting at the only desk in the room.

“Good morning,” Dawson said.

“Good morning. You are welcome.”

Dawson explained who he was and the reason for the visit.

“Please have a seat,” Doe Eyes said. “I will see if the director is available.”

She left the room. Dawson sat down on a chair to the side, looking around while tapping his foot on the hollow-sounding floor. Pasted on the wall were pictures of the top KLERP executives, two of whom were Europeans.

Doe Eyes came back. “Please, the director has just left.”

Dawson guessed it had been the said director in the 4 × 4.

“Can I speak to someone else?” he asked her.

She hesitated. “Please, one moment.”

She disappeared again, returning two minutes later. “Please, come with me.”

Dawson accompanied her outside to the trailer’s third door. He waited again as she went inside, certain that at least one step in this process could have been eliminated. The door opened, and Doe Eyes said Dawson could come in. She held the door for him and then she left.

This room was even more frigid than the first. At one of the two desks was a young man in a tie working at his laptop. He stood up.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon. Darko Dawson, CID.”

“Cuthbert Plange,” the man said, shaking hands. “I’m in charge of client relations here. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Dawson said, choosing the closest chair. “I’m investigating the death of a boy found in one of the Agbogbloshie channels yesterday.”

“Ewurade,” Cuthbert said, shaking his head and sitting back down. He had full lips and thick speech, like a cotton-stuffed pillow. “This Agbogbloshie. You never know what can happen next. How did the boy get there?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. You have a good view of the lagoon from here. Was anyone here early Sunday morning?”

Cuthbert shook his head. “Not at all, sir. We close the station down Saturday evening around six, lock the gates, and open up again Monday morning. Sundays are sacred.”