Gifty would always remember that moment. The world turned dark and cold as she realized what had happened. Sometime during the struggle, Hosiah had struck his head against the metal pan. Now she saw the gash in the soft skin of his scalp, and from it rivers of blood flowed down his face like bright red paint.

WHEN DAWSON AND FITI got to Bedome, chairs were being set up in an open area, apparently in preparation for some kind of ceremony.

“It may be there’s a durbar today,” Fiti said. “Or maybe a new trokosi is to be given to Togbe Adzima.”

Bedome was a village indeed. The ground was uneven and reddish in color. The houses were really huts made out of mud brick and covered with thatched roofs. It intrigued Dawson that Bedome should be so far behind booming Ketanu, just on the other side of the forest.

A few children were playing with one another, running about and rolling around while goats munched placidly on whatever it was they ate and chickens pecked at invisible nourishment on the ground.

As they passed through the village, Dawson and Fiti greeted anyone who eyed them with curiosity. All the women seemed to be doing something-sweeping or carrying water in large bowls on their heads-but there was a good supply of men sitting languidly around doing nothing in the “life is boring” kind of way, not the “life is good.”

But one of them redeemed himself and got up to approach Dawson and Fiti. He was thirtyish, with a broad, open face and huge eyes, dressed in a button-down teal shirt and dark trousers.

“Ndo,” he said in greeting, but he switched to English. “Good morning, Inspector Fiti.”

“Good morning, John.”

They shook hands, and Dawson wondered how they knew each other.

“Welcome, sir,” John said. “You have come to see Togbe?”

“Yes. This is Detective Inspector Dawson from Accra.”

“Oh, yes. Good morning, sir. You are welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“Please, come with me.”

They followed John. He gestured ahead. “There is the house.”

Though small, Togbe Adzima’s house was the only one in the village made out of cement blocks. It was dirty brown with a single badly framed window.

“Please, wait here for one moment,” John said. As he turned to go into the house, a rap tune sounded from his pocket and he fished out a mobile and flipped it open to his ear. Dawson blinked. A mobile phone in the middle of a village with no electricity or running water. Amazing.

“Who is John?” he asked Inspector Fiti.

“He does different things in Ketanu-odd jobs, carpentry, selling mobile phones, and so on, and he also acts as an assistant to Togbe.”

“I see.” Enterprising man, obviously.

John came back out. “Please, he says you should wait a little.”

“Thank you.”

John disappeared for a while and then returned with two women, one carrying a stool on her head and the other a large animal skin, probably that of a gazelle. They put the stool down and the animal skin in front of it. Evidently Togbe Adzima was to take his “throne” there. Two more women brought a wooden chair each for Dawson and Fiti to sit directly opposite the priest.

A small, curious crowd had quickly gathered. The adults stared, and the children fidgeted and giggled. Unlike in a jaded big city like Accra, the smallest distraction was of intense interest in a village. Dawson had forgotten that. This public assembly wasn’t exactly what he had envisioned.

“We won’t be able to question Togbe Adzima closely with this kind of audience,” he commented to Fiti.

“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

Adzima finally emerged, and Dawson realized he had been expecting a bigger, heartier man. In fact, the priest was quite average in stature. He was dressed in traditional cloth wrapped around the chest and thrown over one shoulder, and he wore an odd straw hat shaped like an upside-down tumbler.

He took his seat on the stool and arranged himself and his cloth. Only then did he look up. He wasn’t in good shape. His eyes were bloodshot, and several teeth were missing or decaying behind slack, pendulous lips stained red with kola nut.

John formally introduced Dawson and Fiti, taking much longer than an introduction needed to. Then he came over to Dawson, which was the cue to present the drinks. Dawson gave up the Beefeater first, and then the schnapps, and John chanted something in Ewe and raised each bottle skyward, presumably so God or the gods could take a good look, after which he stood the bottles on a small table to Adzima’s side. He opened the schnapps, poured a little out in a shot glass, and presented it to Adzima, who took a sip and handed it back. Now it was Fiti’s turn, and then Dawson’s, both taking a swig from the same glass. Dawson tried not to pull a face as the schnapps seared his mouth and sent a shot of fire down his throat. The stuff was ghastly. If only he had some Malta to wash it down.

Still in Ewe, John asked them the standard question on Adzima’s behalf: “What is your mission here?”

“We are investigating the death of Gladys Mensah,” Fiti said. “Detective Inspector Dawson here has come from Accra.”

John recited this to Adzima, who rendered the reply back through John. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Togbe Adzima,” Fiti began. “We understand Gladys Mensah used to visit Bedome on occasion.”

Again through John and back.

“Yes. Correct.”

“And we understand she was here on the evening before she was found dead,” Dawson said.

“Maybe so. I don’t know what evening that was.”

“Friday.”

“She was here many times.”

“Do you remember speaking with her on Friday evening?”

Adzima signaled John, who came over and held a whispered conversation with him. John nodded, turned, and abruptly asked the crowd to leave. They looked sullenly at him for a moment and then reluctantly straggled away. They had evidently been hoping to witness the entire exchange.

Once everyone had left, Adzima beckoned Dawson and Fiti to come closer, and then he dispensed with the formality of speaking through John, although John stayed close by. This was where Dawson’s ability to speak Ewe came in handy, because he could address the priest without an interpreter and catch any subtle shades of meaning.

“So back to my question,” Dawson said. “Did you have any kind of discussion or argument with Gladys on Friday evening?”

Adzima shook his head. “Why should I argue with her?”

His voice was like the warty, slimy surface of a toad’s back. Dawson was not enamored of toads.

“Did you have any problems with her?” he asked.

“What kinds of problems?”

“She told you she didn’t like the way you treat your wives, isn’t that true?”

Adzima shrugged. “And so? I paid no attention to her.”

“She was against you and against the trokosi tradition.”

“Yes, and that’s why she has died.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told her, I warned her-if you try to go against this tradition that has been in Ghana for so many thousands of years, if you try to stop it, the gods will take action against you. And you see now? Look at what has happened.” Adzima shook his finger at Dawson. “Don’t play, I say, don’t play with the words of a High Priest in his shrine. If I warn you about something, take heed.”

“Did you tell Gladys that on Friday evening?”

“Not just that evening, sir. Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you? I told her a hundred times! Every time she was here, I tried to warn her. I told her, look, the gods do not like this. Be careful. We have a peaceful life here, Inspector Dawson. We have no problems. We don’t need anyone to come and tell us how to live.”

“Togbe Adzima, when Gladys left to go back to Ketanu, did you follow her?”

Adzima looked genuinely surprised. “Follow her for what?”