Free Children of the Street by Kwei Quartey Page B

missed two calls from Akosua while fast asleep on the sofa. He quickly called her number. No response. Dawson wondered what she could have been calling about. He speed-dialed Chikata, who didn’t respond either. He’d try both of them after lunch. For now, he forgot about them as he dug into a luscious plate of baked tilapia smothered in Awo’s mouthwatering tomato and onion sauce.
    It was after lunch that Chikata phoned.
    “I tried calling you earlier,” Dawson said.
    “Yes, I see that,” Chikata said. “Sorry I couldn’t take it. I was questioning that guy, Daramani.”
    Dawson sat bolt upright. “Daramani?”
    “Akosua spotted him at the Nima Market earlier on today. She tried to call you but didn’t get you, so she got in touch with me through CID. At that time she had kept Daramani within sight, so I told her to follow him if she could while I was on my way there. We stayed in contact on the phone, and by the time I got to Nima, he had gone into the public WC—the one on Alata Street. So I just waited for him to come out.”
    Dawson swallowed. “Where are you now?”
    “At CID. I brought Daramani back with me so we could interview him.”
    Dawson’s heart began to race. “Has he said much to you so far?”
    “He says he knows you. In fact, he says you’re his friend.”
    Dawson’s mouth went dry.
    “At first I thought he was bluffing,” Chikata continued, “but then he told me he knew your wife’s name is Christine and your son is Hosiah.”
    A sheen of cold sweat burst out over Dawson’s forehead. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
    W hen he got to CID, neither Chikata nor Daramani was in the detectives’ room. Instead, one of the corporals had a message that Dawson was to report to the chief supol. His heart sank. This was getting worse by the minute. He went down to the second floor with the sick feeling of a pupil going to the headmaster’s office.
    “Sit down,” Lartey said as Dawson came in. “Philip picked up this man Daramani, who I understand knew the Korle Lagoon victim.”
    “Yes, sir,” Dawson said. “That’s what the victim’s former girlfriend told us.”
    “Mm-hm, yes. Now, when Philip was questioning him, Daramani claimed he’s a good friend of yours, and even named your wife and son correctly. Is it true he’s your friend?”
    “He knows me, I know him,” Dawson said. “Maybe you call that a friend, I don’t know, sir. I arrested him years ago, and after he had served time, he acted as an informant for a while. After that, I kept an eye on him to make sure he stayed out of trouble.”
    “That’s laudable, I suppose, but why the interest in him in particular?”
    Dawson shrugged. “Sometimes I see potential in the unlikeliest people.”
    “You brought him in on marijuana possession, correct?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Have you seen any, em, potential—as you call it—realized in this gentleman?”
    “Well, he’s stayed out of trouble, learned better English. And now he has a better job.”
    Lartey tapped the end of his pen on his desk, looking skeptical. “I see. And the marijuana? Tell me about that.”
    Dawson had to be careful. Was this a trap? What had Daramani told them?
    “He knows all too well it’s against the law,” Dawson said.
    “Has he stopped using it?”
    “If not, he could be arrested all over again.”
    “So if you were to catch him smoking marijuana, you would of course arrest him.”
    “Use, possession, and sale of marijuana is against the law,” Dawson said firmly. “He knows that and I know that.”
    “Yes.” Lartey stared at him for a moment without blinking. “Do you understand how your relationship with Daramani is a conflict of interest in this investigation?”
    “Yes, sir, I do.”
    “Did you not realize on Wednesday that you knew Daramani when the young lady showed you his place of residence in Nima?”
    “Since he wasn’t there, I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure it was the same person. People move