THE MINISTRY OF HEALTH kept a guesthouse in Ketanu for the occasional stay by a minister or one of his or her deputies. It was small but comfortable, with a kitchenette and bath. The bedroom-cum-sitting room had one small table, an armchair, and a desk. The two beds were narrow and firm.

Dawson immediately took a cold shower-cold was the only temperature available. The water pressure was low, but it still felt good. In the bedroom he opened the window louvers to get in as much air as possible. He wanted to call Christine, but he would first have to recharge the battery of his mobile. He plugged it into the wall and hoped there wouldn’t be any surprise electricity cuts within the next hour.

Ever since that night twenty-five years ago when he had first stumbled through a tune for Mama on the kalimba she had given him, he had loved the instrument and continued to practice. It soothed him whenever he played, and it connected him to his mother. He now had quite a collection of kalimbas, and he had selected an eight-note to bring along to Ketanu.

He sat and played for a while, both improvised tunes and ones he had composed, and then he rolled a joint and smoked. He needed it. The kalimba had taken away some of the tension the day had built up but certainly not all.

He thought about Gladys Mensah. She must have been quite someone to know, a force to be reckoned with, and that might have been exactly the problem. Someone feared her or hated her enough to kill her. Or loved her and was rejected by her.

He began to think about it in a circular way. Round and round until it no longer made any sense. He knew it was the THC infiltrating his brain. Tetrahydrocannabinol. What a cold, clinical name for stuff that soothed him with silky, molten warmth. He felt it infusing like rainwater saturating thirsty soil. His muscles started to relax, and his body felt light and floating. He sighed. It was very good, this feeling.

The world seemed to expand when he smoked. Sometimes that gave life more meaning, but on other occasions it only made it seem more mysterious. Marijuana had a sense of humor too. Dawson stared at the bed, and it looked longer, wider, and higher, but in an odd, distorted way. The angles seemed all wrong, and he giggled at how ridiculous it appeared as a piece of furniture.

He sobered again. Christine loathed his habit. She knew he smoked, but they never talked about it, and he kept it strictly away from her and Hosiah. This trip was ideal for getting some good marijuana in-far from home and CID Headquarters.

Possession and use of marijuana was illegal in Ghana, but it didn’t bother Dawson that he was breaking what he considered a silly law.

He finished his joint, lay down on the bed, and returned to thinking about Gladys. Who would kill her? Togbe Adzima? Maybe. She had evidently infuriated him. Samuel Boateng? Perhaps. Dawson didn’t know enough about him yet. What about family members themselves? Inspector Fiti had discounted that proposition, but even as a boy, Dawson had learned that a detective should never overlook a “loved one” as the victim’s possible slayer.

As soon as Papa had returned from Ketanu, he went to Accra Central Police Station to report Mama officially missing. It was two weeks before anyone got back in touch with them. A plainclothes policeman came to their house. Darko stared at him. He was about Papa’s age, late thirties, neat, and small. Darko had always thought policemen had to be big.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Daniel Armah,” he said to Papa. “Is Beatrice Dawson your wife?”

“Yes,” Papa said.

Armah shook hands with him and then with Darko and Cairo, who was in his wheelchair.

“So,” Armah said. “She’s still missing?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Armah’s gaze was flat and steady, and Darko couldn’t tell what he was thinking. At first he thought the detective simply wasn’t that interested in Mama’s case, but when Armah sat down and took a long and painstakingly detailed report, Darko realized he had been wrong. Armah took his time and asked Papa a lot of questions-sometimes the same question twice-and wrote everything down. After more than an hour, the detective left. Darko stood at the door and watched him walking away, oddly wishing he could stay longer. Suddenly Armah turned around and waved to him as if he had felt Darko’s gaze.

Papa stayed in the house, and Darko played in the yard with some friends. Cairo sat in his wheelchair watching them. After a while they got together and pushed him careening around the yard while he laughed at the top of his lungs.

Darko looked up as Detective Armah appeared again at the side of the yard and beckoned to him. He walked a little way with Darko out of sight of the house and stooped down face-to-face with him.

“You want your mama back, eh?”

Darko nodded.

“She’s a good mother to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your father? Is he good too?”

Darko hesitated too long. “Yes, sir. He is good too.”

“He never beat your mama or threatened to do something to her?”

“No.”

Armah asked him a few more questions like that-actually the same question in different ways. At first, Darko couldn’t understand why he kept doing that, but then like a flash of light in the dark, he realized what the detective was after. That was Dawson’s first, chilly lesson that, in murder cases, those closest to the victim could well be prime suspects. It took Darko’s breath away. It had not even entered his mind before now that Papa could remotely be involved with Mama’s disappearance. It was a terrible, awful thought. Darko began to tremble.

“When will you find Mama?” he said, close to tears.

“I will try very hard, Darko, okay?” Armah said. “I promise you.”

His voice was firm, but he held Darko surprisingly softly. Darko didn’t know that kind of touch from his father, and he hadn’t realized a man could be so gentle.

Armah kept his promise. Month after month, he stayed in close contact, bringing them news even when there was little to be brought. Every answered question seemed to raise a new one, and there was more information on what had not happened than what had. For instance, on the day Mama left Ketanu, no tro-tro collisions between Ketanu and Accra were reported. That practically ruled out Mama having been in a vehicle crash, but it still didn’t help determine where along her journey she had disappeared, nor the how and why.

Armah had shown Mama’s picture to dozens of people at the bus stop at Atimpoku. One fish trader had remembered spotting her the day she had been in transit with Darko and Cairo, but not on the day she had disappeared. Armah had also been up to Ketanu twice. Yes, people had seen Beatrice, Osewa’s sister, but no one could shed any light on what could have happened to her.

Armah had quickly eliminated Papa as a suspect because his alibi, much of it provided by Darko and Cairo themselves, was airtight. Still, Armah continued to come up with more questions about Mama, and sometimes it seemed he had a promising lead. Nothing materialized, but Armah never showed any sense of hopelessness.

To this day, Dawson remembered the exact moment he looked at Armah and thought, I want to be like you when I grow up. The sun was setting at the time, and Armah had been at the house for a few minutes. For a moment the detective turned his head to one side, and the living room window framed his profile in sharp outline against the vermilion dusk. His nose was sharp and strong. He was looking downward with heavily lidded eyes, and he seemed to be wishing for something-maybe that he could find Mama, maybe that the world would not be so cruel so much of the time.

In the end, Armah never did find her. He kept in touch, yes, but time passed and the trail grew cold. He began to visit less and less frequently, and Darko could see he was more despondent each time. Almost a year to the day after he had first appeared at the doorstep, he came for the last time and announced that he was being transferred to Kumasi.