“No please,” Emma said hurriedly. “Everything is fine.”

Laryea nodded. “I asked Inspector Kuma about you and he said you are a diligent worker.”

Emma’s heart fluttered. Maybe Kuma wasn’t so bad after all. “Thank you, sir.”

“I will approve your transfer to Homicide,” Laryea said. “As a matter of fact, they do need some female presence, and so that will be good.”

“Thank you, sir,” Emma said, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Was there a but coming?

“But,” Laryea said, “the final decision lies with Commissioner Andoh.”

“Yes please,” Emma said, her elation beginning to dissipate.

“I’ve discussed it with him already.” Laryea looked at his watch. “It may be too late, but let me see if he’s in the office and if he can see you now.”

Emma’s disquiet spiraled into outright terror. She was to meet Commissioner Andoh in person? For a junior officer like her, the director-general was God himself.

Laryea got on his mobile and after a few seconds said, “Yes, sir. I have interviewed her. Yes, I believe she is, but of course, it is ultimately your decision. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He put away his phone and looked back at Emma. “He says you can go up now.” Laryea must have detected her anxiety. “Don’t be fearful, Djan. The director would never summon you if he wasn’t open to your request. You should understand that.”

“Yes please,” she said, slightly reassured but no less nervous.

“Just be yourself, as you have been with me and you’ll be okay.”

“Yes please. Thank you very much, sir.”

Like an anxious mountain climber, Emma went up two flights to the seventh floor, the summit of the CID building. Sergeant Thelma Bright, Commissioner Andoh’s decades-long assistant, showed Emma into the room. It was, as she had expected, larger than any other she had seen at CID. The carpet was plush. Pictures of the commissioner—one a full portrait by himself, the others with various luminaries including Ghana’s president—adorned the walls.

Andoh’s desk was dark, polished, and massive. Half a dozen chairs were arranged in a line about three meters away from it. Part of the director-general’s role was to give audience to select members of the public who had a particularly serious matter or grievance to bring to his attention.

In size, the commissioner matched his desk and the large, leather executive chair that supported his heft. Resplendent in a dark blue uniform with impressive insignia on his chest and epaulets, he was writing something, and he didn’t look up.

“Sit down there, please,” Bright said to Emma, indicating one of the chairs.

Emma didn’t make a sound as she took a seat. She realized she was holding her breath. Bright remained standing with her hands respectfully behind her back.

After a short while, the commissioner glanced up at her, but not at Emma. “You may go, Thelma. Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Thelma left, closing the door quietly behind her. Andoh continued to write as if Emma were not there. Then he capped his pen, leaned back, and looked her over. Like Laryea, he was graying, but his face was much pudgier, with heavy jowls. “Yes, Constable Djan. How can I help you?”