Gold of Our Fathers - [9]

Dawson skirted a row of kids’ bicycles for sale on the pavement and made a mental note of the Cool Cuts Barbershop-he would soon need his fade refreshed. Behind the pavement was a small Airtel mobile phone station underneath a wide red-and-white umbrella, right beside a vendor of cheap knockoff Coach and Michael Kors bags from China, and a secondhand TV and appliances shop next door to that.

The sign ahead on the right said obuasi divisional police headquarters. Dawson remembered seeing the building on the way in last night, but in the darkness he had not appreciated how small and unlike a headquarters it was. It could have been a largish two-story house or a store. The basic yellow-and-blue GPS color scheme was there, but several shades of faded, chipped paint did not quite do the job. The upstairs windows were barred with hideous metal burglarproofing, which led Dawson to believe that the building had indeed once been a retail outlet or home. On the upstairs balcony, a policeman and two civilians leaned against the balustrade and placidly watched the goings-on below.

Half a dozen cars or so were parked in front, including a black Tata SUV belonging to the GPS. Several people were standing around waiting their turn to report their issues to the charge office behind blue double doors that looked more like the entrance to a warehouse. Citizens and uniformed policemen walked in and out. Dawson approached the charge office, but paused to one side for a moment to get an idea of how the officers were conducting themselves.

A buxom female lance corporal behind the high counter stifled a yawn of utter boredom as the two people in front of her-one a skinny, shifty-eyed young guy and the other an older, wizened man with a deeply lined face-argued vociferously about what seemed to be a circular dispute over a plot of land.

The lance corporal couldn’t take any more. “Okay, okay,” she bellowed. “Go and wait outside. I will call you.”

The two men left, barely skipping a beat in their argument.

“Stupid people,” the lance corporal muttered.

The male sergeant next to her grinned as she sighed heavily and looked despondently down at the daily diary open in front of her. It was the large recording book into which every event during each shift at the station was recorded, even the weather. “I don’t feel like writing any report down,” she said. “Waste of time.”

Dawson stepped up to the desk and took note of the lance corporal’s nameplate. “Even if you think it’s a waste of time, Dodu,” he said, “you are still obligated to write a report.”

She looked up at Dawson, eyes blazing. “And who are you?”

“I am a well-informed citizen.”

“Eh? You say you are what? An informed citizen.” Dodu sucked her teeth and began to laugh. “You are funny. My friend, who are you, and what do you want?”

“I am your chief crime officer,” Dawson said.

Dodu and the sergeant looked at each other and went into hysterics. Dawson smiled and waited patiently for the hilarity to run its course, and then took out his ID badge and showed it to them. The grin disappeared from the lance corporal’s face as if Dawson had ripped it off. Dodu leapt to her feet, almost falling over her capsized stool as she staggered back and began to salute. “Sir, please, sir. I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know-”

Her colleague was standing to rigid attention as if turned to stone, but Dawson could see he was shaking slightly. As a sergeant and the more senior of the two, he was the more accountable, and was supposed to be setting an example of correct conduct.

“Do you know the motto of the Ghana Police Service?” Dawson asked him.

He swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“What is it?”

“‘To Protect and Serve with Honor,’ sir.”

“And is that what you were doing just now with me?”

“No, sir. I beg you, sir.”

“Sit down, both of you,” Dawson said.

Mortified, they took their seats, hardly daring to breathe. Dawson went behind the desk counter and stood at one end. “Give me the diary, please.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Dodu said, jumping up again and hastening to bring it to him.

Regardless of rank, high or low, one had to sign in for duty in the diary when visiting or taking on a new position at a divisional or regional headquarters. Dawson glanced at his phone and wrote in the time. He noticed that between midnight and 6 a.m., no entry in the diary had been made, suggesting that absolutely nothing had taken place during that time, which didn’t seem likely. More likely, someone on duty had been lazy.

“Where is the crime office?” Dawson asked, once he had signed in.

Dodu respectfully offered to show him, and he followed her outside to the left, passing the entrance to a small CID office where detectives sat to do their work. Above the second door was a small sign, crime officer.

“Please, it is here, sir,” Dodu said, opening up the locked door and standing aside so Dawson could get in. “Thank you very much, sir. You are welcome to Obuasi.”

“Thank you, Lance Corporal.”

She left him and he stepped inside to switch on the light. Ewurade, he thought. Look at this place.