“Dis place be Monkey Hill,” he said.
“Why is it called that?” Dawson asked.
“Because plenty monkey dey.” Baah said with a laugh. “They make sanctuary for them and plenty birds too. We should go there?”
“Okay, but later,” Dawson said.
They passed a wetland area with a patchwork of glistening pools, woody plants, and swamp grass on either side of the road, and then Effia-Nkwanta Hospital, where Dr. Smith-Aidoo and her father had identified the bodies of her uncle and aunt. Next in quick succession were the high court, the men’s and women’s Sekondi prisons, and the pale green Sekondi Takoradi Metropolitan Assembly (STMA) building.
They turned in at a sign reading GHANA POLICE SERVICE, REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS, SEKONDI. SERVICE WITH INTEGRITY, and climbed a steep incline to a two-story pale yellow building with the signature GPS blue trim. The hill on which it stood gave a fine view past the corrugated metal roofs of old Sekondi to the blue Atlantic Ocean, the fishing harbor, and the naval base.
Dawson liked Baah, so he made him an offer to engage his services on a daily basis. They haggled a little and then came to an agreement on the price.
Dawson went directly to the Homicide Division on the first floor, where the front room was equipped with six desks, four of them with computers. No one paid much attention to Dawson as he came in except one of the men, who looked up at him over the top of his glasses.
“Morning. May I help you?”
“Detective Inspector Darko Dawson, from CID Headquarters.”
The man jumped up to salute. “Oh, fine! Good morning, sah. You are welcome, sah. Superintendent Hammond is expecting you. Please, if you can have a seat. I will tell him you have arrived.”
He went to a door a few steps behind him, knocked lightly, and then opened it.
“Please, Inspector Dawson is here from HQ.”
Dawson heard the reply, “Show him in.”
The sergeant opened the door wide and stepped partly into the room to allow Dawson to pass and then left, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Superintendent Hammond looked up as Dawson came in.
“Good morning, sir,” Dawson said.
“Good morning. Please, have a seat.”
He indicated the chair opposite his desk. His grey-peppered hair, which hadn’t been trimmed for a while, was receding from his furrowed brow, where one especially deep crease cut sharply into the middle of his forehead like a canyon. The cold absence of a smile and his failure to make eye contact alerted Dawson that something was wrong.
