“I thought all that had been outlawed.”

“Technically, yes. There’s a law on the books, but not a single person has ever been arrested in connection with trokosi.”

“Why is that, exactly?”

“Good propaganda is one reason, if not the only one. The fetish priests-who, by the way, don’t like being referred to that way-insist trokosi is an age-old tradition that should be respected. And if anyone tries to eradicate it, they say, the gods will be angered and take revenge in some way. That scares away even the police. And then there’s AfriKulture.”

“Afri-who?”

“AfriKulture. It’s an organization dedicated to saving aspects of Ghanaian culture and tradition that it claims are under attack from the Western world, trokosi being one of them. I’m loath to admit it, but their campaign is gaining strength. You can hardly get to a shrine without going through AfriKulture.”

“What does AfriKulture say about the girls taken into the shrine?”

“That they’re privileged young women who will learn the ways of morality. They deny that any of them are cast into perpetual servitude.”

“I take it you think that’s a load of nonsense.”

“Yes, I do. Look, this thing might have worked centuries ago, but it doesn’t fit with modern times. I think these so-called priests are con artists enslaving young women under the guise of a so-called tradition.”

“Togbe Adzima being one of these con artists, in your opinion.”

Timothy nodded vigorously. “Without a doubt. Gladys felt the same way.”

“She confronted Adzima?”

“Not just confronted. She went head-to-head with him. I told her she had to tone it down, but she wouldn’t. She kept telling him she was going to bring down the hand of the law on him, and he kept invoking the power of the gods against her. Told her she would be struck down by them if she continued in that fashion.”

“And now she’s been struck down,” Dawson said.

“Yes,” Timothy said bitterly. “It really gets to me.”

“At any rate, it would seem to make Adzima a suspect. What do you think, Inspector Fiti?”

“I think Togbe Adzima believes in his gods,” Fiti replied. “He really would trust them to destroy Gladys on their own power, and so I think he would leave it for the gods to do and not kill her himself.”

Interesting point, Dawson thought.

“The one I really suspect is Samuel Boateng,” Fiti went on.

“Who is he?” Dawson asked.

“This boy Samuel-he was constantly pestering Gladys to be his girlfriend and, according to Charles Mensah, some farmers saw him talking to her near the forest the last evening she was seen alive.”

“You say ‘boy.’ How old is Samuel Boateng?”

“He’s nineteen, something like that.”

“You’ve questioned him?”

“Yes, and I’m going to arrest him. I believe he became very angry that Gladys was rejecting him and he killed her soon after he was spotted with her that evening.”

Dawson nodded. “I see. What about Gladys’s family members?”

“All of them loved Gladys,” Fiti said, “and they were proud of her because she was going to be a doctor. Only one thing-there is some bad talk about her aunt Elizabeth. Some people say she killed Gladys using witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft,” Dawson echoed in surprise. “Why do they think that?”

“She’s a widow,” Fiti said, “she has no children, she’s an older woman, and she makes money. Those things make people suspect her.”

“The profile of a witch, so to speak. Did she have a motive?”

“Witches don’t need any motive,” Fiti said witheringly “Elizabeth’s husband died in his sleep years ago without any explanation, and people accused her of the same thing.”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been to this part of the world before, Inspector Dawson,” Timothy said, “but belief in witchcraft is very strong around here.”

“Believe it or not, I was here twenty-five years ago.”

“Oh, is that so?” Timothy said. “What brought you, may I ask?”

“I came with my mother to visit her sister. She still lives here.”

“What’s her name?”

“Osewa Gedze.”

“Oh, yes,” Fiti said. “I know her. Kweku’s wife.”

“Maybe later you can show me to their house,” Dawson said. “I’m not sure if they live in the same place, and Ketanu has grown a lot since I was last here.”

“Constable Gyamfi can take you there,” Fiti said.

“Did you also visit Bedome when you were here as a kid?” Timothy asked.

“No, I didn’t. How far is it from here?”

“About a kilometer away on the other side of the forest. Shrines prefer to be somewhat obscured by bush or forest.”

“Makes sense,” Dawson said. “Especially now with all this scrutiny.”

“Indeed,” Timothy said. “Where will you be staying while you’re here?”

“The MoH guesthouse,” Dawson answered. To Fiti he said, “Are you all right with my being in Ketanu with the investigation?”

“Look, it’s no problem,” Fiti said. “Anyway, when we go and arrest Samuel today maybe it will be all over and you can go back to Accra and live in peace ever after.”

He suddenly grinned at his own verbiage, showing a set of yellowed horse teeth, and Dawson couldn’t help smiling himself.

“Before arresting Samuel,” he said, “can we go to the scene of the crime?”

TIMOTHY SOWAH LIVED IN Ho, and he had to get back. Dawson walked him to his car, a sleek, silver Audi 80. Timothy opened the trunk and pulled out a bag containing two bottles of liquor. Dawson took a peek. One was Beefeater London dry gin and the other was German schnapps.

“Good heavens,” Dawson said. “Look at the size of these things.”

Timothy affected a rueful look. “Standard gifts to take to a fetish priest. Besides, I want to make sure Togbe’s tongue gets loosened.”

“Thank you,” Dawson said. “Very thoughtful.”

They exchanged calling cards.

“I’ll put my personal mobile number on the back,” Timothy said. “Just in case you need me.”

“Left-handed, I see,” Dawson commented as Timothy wrote it down.

“Yes,” Timothy said. “Is that of particular interest?”

“Yes. My mother was left-handed, and my brother is ambidextrous, so I tend to like lefties.”

“Oh, thank you,” Timothy said, looking pleased. “I certainly hope we’ll meet up again soon in less unpleasant circumstances, Detective Inspector. Best of luck.”

“Thanks, Mr. Sowah.”

“Oh, please-do call me Timothy.”

Dawson and Inspector Fiti set out into the forest. The midafternoon sun had fled from a mob of black clouds building up in the northeast corner of the sky.

“We have to be quick,” Fiti said. “The rain is coming.”

They picked up the pace. Dawson caught sight of a compound in a grove of trees in the distance to his right, and immediately his recollection of it swept in. Isaac Kutu’s place. He remembered it clearly, and Isaac as well. Deep, dark, flashing eyes with secrets in them.

“Does Isaac Kutu still live there?” Dawson asked, pointing with his chin.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I met him at my auntie’s house the time I visited with my mother.”

“We can go and see him tomorrow if you like,” Fiti said. “He knew Gladys Mensah very well.”

They turned left off the Ketanu-Bedome footpath into the forest. What resembled a trail soon disappeared, and as the sky darkened, the vegetation thickened around them and slowed their progress. Now Dawson remembered the same padded and insulated quality of the forest that he had experienced when here as a boy. Sound was quickly muffled by the trees and undergrowth. Every footfall, every scrunch of dead leaves or crack of a branch had a kind of nearness isolated by the cocoon of the forest’s stillness.

After several minutes of tramping along, Fiti stopped, put his hands on his hips, and looked around. “I think I’m lost.”

He turned one revolution, getting more confused. “Which way did we come?”