Kwei Quartey - Murder at Cape Three Points

He walked quickly back into the house, returning about five minutes later to open the gate so that Baah could pull into the front yard. The one-story house was a decent size with a white exterior tarnished by the red dust of the unpaved road outside. Within the compound, someone had been working on a water pipe in a deep hole underneath the wall that enclosed the property. A toolshed stood in the corner of the compound.

“Like I told you before,” Forjoe said, as Dawson followed him in, “the fishing business is not paying enough these days, so I do extra work as a watchman. I’ve been knowing Mr. Sarbah since I was a small boy. He’s a good man-something like an uncle to me.”

“I see,” Dawson said. “So is he the one you mentioned to me who is helping you with your daughter Marvelous?”

“Yes, please.”

“How is she doing?”

Forjoe was visibly troubled. “Not so well, but I pray that God will continue to help us.”

Dawson hoped the prayers were answered. He understood the kind of anguish the man was going through.

Forjoe showed Dawson into a dimly lit, stuffy sitting room.

“Please, you can have a seat. He will come just now.”

Dawson chose a pair of old angular wooden armchairs with square cushions. They didn’t make furniture like this anymore. Now it was all overstuffed sofas and chairs in imitation leather. He looked around the room. It was clean, if a little shabby. The building was obviously much older than the structures that now populated New Amanful. Some old family pictures sat on a bookcase, a small TV in one corner, a worn rug on the linoleum floor. The mosquito netting on the windows needed renewing.

He heard a soft sound and turned to see Richard Sarbah entering the room. He was of average height but exceptionally solid in the chest and shoulders. His hair was jet black, and Dawson thought he must dye it. If his son, Jason, was in his mid to late forties, Richard had to be in his early seventies, at least. On the other hand, he appeared youthful in posture, and his age was difficult to place from his appearance alone.

“Mr. Sarbah?” Dawson rose from his chair.

“Yes, please. You say your name is?”

“Dawson. Inspector Darko Dawson.”

“Ah, I see.” He had a slightly hoarse voice, but it didn’t trigger Dawson’s senses. They shook hands.

“Please, have a seat.” Sarbah sat in a facing chair. “I don’t usually accept visits from strangers, especially at this time of the night, but Forjoe tells me you’re a friend.”

“Yes,” Dawson said, going along with it. “I’m investigating the murder of Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo.”

His face revealed a flicker of interest. “So what can I help you with?”

“Jason Sarbah at Malgam Oil is your son, is that correct, sir?”

“Yes. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Dawson said pleasantly. “Just checking that I have the right Sarbah. As part of my investigation, sir, I’ve been looking into the Smith-Aidoos’ and Sarbahs’ past. I understand Tiberius and Bessie were your parents?”

“Yes.”

“Your father was once accused of killing Bessie and Robert, is that correct?”

Sarbah closed his eyes and rubbed his brow slowly, as if he had a headache. “Please, Inspector Dawson, this is not a memory I enjoy discussing.”

“I understand it must be painful,” he said gently. He was going to be empathetic, but he wouldn’t let Richard evade any questions either. “However it’s important. I was ordered here by CID Headquarters to assist the Sekondi police with the investigation, so that’s what I must do. Any details you can provide are much appreciated, Mr. Sarbah.”

“And if I choose not to?”

Dawson remained polite. “Then there are one or two options. I can return daily to question you, which will become quite tiresome-for you, not for me. Or would you prefer to join me at the police station for interrogation?”

“Very well.” He sighed. “My father Tiberius married Bessie Smith in England in 1925. They had two children-my sister, Abigail, and me. I never knew her because she died of meningitis in 1932, and I was born in 1938. Bessie and Tiberius divorced each other in 1940.”

“By that time,” Dawson said in a neutral a tone as possible, “your mother was already having an affair with Mr. R.E. Aidoo, is that correct?”

Sarbah looked resentful. “Yes, that is so,” he admitted.

“I’ve been wondering,” Dawson said measuredly, “what tore your parents apart and drove your mother to R.E.”

“I don’t know for sure. No one actually told me, and I don’t remember. I was only two years old at the time, after all-too young to understand. In retrospect, irreconcilable differences and my father’s drinking, perhaps.”

“He was an alcoholic?”

Sarbah grimaced. “Yes. I’m not sure how severe it was at the time of the divorce, but in later years the alcohol became lethal.”

“I’m sorry,” Dawson said quietly. “R.E. and your mother had Simon and Cecil, your half brothers?”

“Yes, R.E. had returned to Takoradi with my mother and me in 1942. Simon was born in 1943 and Cecil in 1945.”

“Did you get along well with your half brothers?” Dawson asked gently, fearing that he may be treading on sensitive ground too soon.

“Let’s just say things could have been better and leave it at that,” Sarbah said, tensely tapping the side of his thigh.

“What about Tiberius?” Dawson asked. “When did he come back to Takoradi from the UK?”

“In 1948.”

“I’m sure he wanted to see you,” Dawson said encouragingly.

“Of course he did. I was his son, and I wanted to see him too, but…”

Sarbah shifted his weight and Dawson waited.

“But R.E. and Bessie conspired to prevent us from being with each other.”

Dawson could feel the bitterness that Eileen had ascribed to Sarbah. He had a seething anger. “Why do you think that?”

He shrugged, but it was unresolved pain he was expressing, not nonchalance. “R.E. and Bessie hated my father. I remember hearing how R.E. once humiliated Daddy in public-called him a ‘drunken failure.’ ”

“How old were you at the time?”

“Twelve, thirteen-something like that. Two years before the murder. I presume you’ve been told about that?”

“Yes-1952?”

“Yes, sir. I was fourteen, Simon was eleven, and Cecil was nine. The three of us slept in the same room at one end of the house, R.E. and Bessie at the other. In the middle of the night, someone stole in through the screen window of their bedroom, butchered their bodies, and slashed their throats. Bessie screamed before she was slain, and Simon heard her. He woke me up and we ran to the room and saw it…” Sarbah shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” Dawson said with feeling. “A child should never see anything like that. Cecil too?”

Sarbah shook his head. “I wouldn’t let him go into the room.”

“Good man,” Dawson said approvingly.

“At first I couldn’t understand what had happened,” Sarbah went on, anguish on his face. “I saw blood, so much of it everywhere-on the bed, on the floor, on the walls-and then I saw my mother’s eyes were still open, looking at me and begging me to save her. I’ll never forget that. I saw red spraying from her neck, and I heard a gurgling sound and realized she was breathing through a gash in her throat. I remember saying, ‘Mama’ several times as I went to her and tried to lift her up in my arms, but her head fell back…”

Sarbah stopped talking. He was gulping down air in an apparent effort to control the grief that must have been as fresh as it had been that horrific night when he was only a young teenager. Dawson got up from his chair and kneeled down beside him.