“That would be perfect. I’ll be looking forward to your visit.”
It was almost three thirty. Dawson wanted to add one more item to the list of the day’s accomplishments. He called the number Dr. Smith-Aidoo had given him for her Aunt Eileen. She didn’t answer the first time, so he tried again. This time, someone picked up the call.
“Hello?”
“Is this Eileen Copper?”
“Yes.” The voice was husky and monotone.
He introduced himself and told her he was investigating her brother’s murder.
“Oh, really.” Now her tone was cutting. “Well, I live in hope that you’ll rise above the mediocrity of the Sekondi Police.”
Everyone taking a swipe at Hammond and his team, Dawson thought. “Then I’m sure you’re eager to help. I’d like to come and talk to you this afternoon.”
She hesitated.
“Around five,” Dawson pressed, not allowing her to stall.
“All right, Inspector.”
Good. He was thinking ahead and planning the next steps. DS Chikata would be arriving the following day, and Dawson was looking forward to it. Together, they could get a lot done much faster, clear this mystery up, and get back home.
A GIRL OF ABOUT ten years old showed Dawson into a dark, stuffy sitting room with dusty stacks of papers, books, and folders. His nose tickled and he sneezed twice. The room had one window dirtied by the red dust kicked up from the unpaved road outside.
“Please, I will go and call Auntie Eileen,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“Thank you.”
He chose not to sit on either of the two white plastic chairs, and instead peered at some of the dusty documents on the floor-psychology and biology papers taken from journals, and books on herbal medicines. With interest, he picked up a book called A History of African Witchcraft and skimmed through a few pages.
“Inspector Dawson?”
He turned to see a thin woman standing in the middle of the room.
“Mrs. Copper?”
“That is correct. How do you do?”
They shook hands. Hers was as rough as a dead leaf. He estimated her age around fifty. Her unprocessed hair was speckled with grey, and she wore a simple throw-on dress with a brown and white Ghanaian print. Obviously, she chose not to support her sagging breasts with a bra.
She pointed to the chair behind him. When he sat down, dust puffed up from the cushion and irritated his nose again. He suppressed an urge to sneeze.
“First of all,” he said, “I want to express my condolences for your brother’s death.”
“Thank you.” She half smiled, but it was bitter. “If only expressions of sympathy could resurrect a person. Next to my husband, Charles was the most important person in my life. So, yes, I am stricken, but I feared this was going to happen.”
