There was no doubt in Fiti’s mind that Samuel had killed Gladys. He just had to get that confession out of the boy.

Bubo knocked and put his head in.

“He’s ready.”

Fiti nodded. “Let him be there for a while.”

The more uncertain and anxious Samuel became, the better. It was only a matter of time before he broke down.

On the way into the interrogation room, Inspector Fiti called Constable Bubo to assist. The man was not as good a constable as Gyamfi, but he was big and intimidating and useful for generating fear when needed.

Fiti sat down opposite Samuel at the interrogation table, but Bubo stood behind Samuel, deliberately just within peripheral vision. It was more nerve-racking that way.

Samuel had become gaunt. His eyes were oversize full moons in his face, and his cheekbones were knife-sharp ridges.

“Samuel,” Fiti said softly, “I want to talk to you about what you did to Gladys Mensah.”

“Please, sir, I didn’t do anything to her.”

“Listen to me. Someone saw you go into the forest with her, and that was the last time she was seen.”

Samuel sat up straight. “Who said that? It’s a lie.”

“Stop calling people liars and tell the truth yourself. If you continue to lie, the gods will curse you and something bad will happen.”

“Who is the person who said he saw me with Gladys? Let him come here and say that to my face.”

“We know what happened. After Mr. Kutu chased you away from following Gladys, you came back and accosted her as she was on her way to Ketanu. Not so?”

“No, Inspector. You have to believe me, please.”

“And then you made her go inside the bush with you.”

“No, no, no.”

“You wanted her to be your girlfriend, we know that already, and you tried to force yourself on her, and when she refused, you killed her.”

Samuel put his face in his hands and groaned over and over, as if in physical pain.

“Look at me, Samuel,” Fiti said. “Stop covering your eyes and look at me.”

Bubo stepped behind Samuel and pulled his hands away from his face. His cheeks were moist with tears.

“He’s crying,” Fiti said to Bubo. “Crying like a girl.”

Bubo laughed.

Fiti pushed a pen and a sheet of paper in front of Samuel.

“If you sign this, we will stop questioning you and you will feel better.”

Samuel frowned at it. He could read and write English, but this thing they were showing him was beyond his comprehension.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“It just says everything that happened. You only have to sign on the bottom.”

Samuel shook his head.

“If you don’t sign it,” Fiti said, “I’ll throw you in jail and keep you there until you rot. But if you sign it, I can tell the judge who takes your case to pardon you and then they will set you free.”

Fiti could see Samuel was thinking hard about what to do. He looked confused and afraid, which was perfect.

“If you don’t confess and sign this paper,” the inspector went on, “I will have to go to your father and tell him how you killed Gladys.”

Samuel stiffened, and his brow twitched at the thought. “I beg you,” he whispered. “Don’t tell my father.”

“Then sign the paper.”

“I can’t sign it, Inspector.”

“You can’t write your name? We can help you.”

“Yes, I can write my name, but…”

“But what?” Fiti handed him the pen. “Just write your name there on the bottom. You’re not really signing-just writing your name.”

Samuel held the pen for a moment, but then he put it down. “No.”

Fiti glanced at Constable Bubo, who delivered such a hard blow to the back of Samuel’s head that the boy was thrown forward and his face bounced against the table. Bubo planted a foot in Samuel’s side and sent him hurtling to the floor.

Fiti stood. He would not be staying for this. As Bubo picked Samuel up by the neck, the inspector said, “When you are ready to sign your name, just tell the constable.”

As he returned to his office, Fiti heard the heavy thuds of Bubo’s blows and the crash of Samuel’s body against the walls of the small room as he screamed and begged for mercy After each round, Bubo could be heard asking the boy if he would sign the confession. He would not, and so the next round of beatings began. The boy would confess. He had to.

TIMOTHY SOWAH ASKED THAT his lawyer be present during his interrogation, but it turned out that counsel was in Lagos and wouldn’t be able to make it to Ho before the next day at the earliest. So Timothy would be spending the night in jail, and Dawson decided to find somewhere to stay overnight in Ho rather than go back to Ketanu. He called Chances Hotel but found their prices were far beyond his reach. Hence the name, he thought wryly. Chances are you can’t afford it. He should have known. That hotel was every tourist’s first choice when visiting the Volta Region.

He found another place called Liberty Hotel, an establishment of dubious credentials, but he wasn’t that bothered. After filling up with a meal of yam and fish stew, Dawson spent some time in his hotel room looking over Gladys’s diary and the two letters from Timothy that she had kept with it. The more Dawson read, the more it became clear that Gladys was smitten with the kind of infatuation that makes a person blind to reason and reality. The more she closed in on Timothy, the more he drew back in alarm, and that hurt Gladys, as it always does in these cases. Pain quickly turned to anger.

Something troubled Dawson, though. It was Timothy who had pressed for a detective from Accra because he doubted the abilities of the CID man stationed at Ho. If Timothy was the murderer, why would he have done that? Wouldn’t he have wanted a less competent investigator, to increase the chances that the case would go unsolved and he’d get off scot-free? The question didn’t blow Dawson’s case apart, but it did make him uneasy.

The mobile signal was strong in Ho, and Dawson called Christine to let her know how things were going. Hosiah was doing fine and spoke to Dawson briefly before his bedtime story. Six-year-old boys are short on phone conversation. After he had hung up, Dawson had a smoke and felt good, and then he played his kalimba. Marijuana made his fingers more nimble. He took a shower and then turned in to bed. He was bone tired.

Reindorf Bannerman, Timothy Sowah’s lawyer, was supposed to arrive by nine o’clock in the morning but did not show until almost noon. While he was waiting, Dawson bought the Daily Graphic from a newspaper boy. On the second page he came across a small article that made him curse with disgust.

Madina Traditional Healer Released

ACCRA-Well-known herbalist and traditional healer Augustus Ayitey has been released from Madina police custody. Charges of assault on a child being treated for illness have been dropped. Chief Superintendent Theophilus Lartey of the Criminal Investigations Department, stated that an investigation would be carried out as to whether Mr. Ayitey was improperly detained.

One of the Ho police constables came up to Dawson. “Please, sir, Mr. Bannerman has arrived and we are ready.”

They went into the interrogation room. Timothy was seated at the table next to Bannerman. He was tense and did not look like he had had much sleep. Nervousness had replaced his self-assured air, but Bannerman, despite his resemblance to a squat bulldog, had a warm voice and a calming effect on his client.

“You’ll be all right,” he said quietly to Timothy, touching his arm.

He shook hands with Dawson and said, “Are you ready to proceed?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Bannerman. Good afternoon, Timothy.”

Dawson wasn’t going to take any chances that the suspect might get off on a technicality, so he was careful to recite verbatim the police advisory statement, known to some as the Judge’s Rule, that cautioned Timothy that he didn’t have to say anything, but that what he did say could be used in evidence against him.