Kwei Quartey - Murder at Cape Three Points

“Both of you went through a terrible ordeal.”

“As terrible as it was, life goes on. Have you spoken to my son?”

“I have. I can tell he is still in pain.”

“He is. I feel for him.”

“And maybe you were angry enough with Charles to hire two or three men to kill him?”

Sarbah snorted derisively. “If I ever decided to kill someone, Inspector, you can be sure that I wouldn’t hire anyone to do it.”

Dawson watched him carefully. “Mr. Sarbah, can you tell me where you were on Monday, the seventh of July and the following day, the eighth, when the bodies of the Smith-Aidoos were found?”

“That Monday Forjoe and I went to Tarkwa to look into buying some gold. We stayed overnight and returned Tuesday evening. Everyone was talking about the Smith-Aidoos when we got back. You’re welcome to check with Forjoe about the trip. He’ll confirm it.”

Dawson stood up. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“Not at all. I’ll see you out.”

After Sarbah had said goodbye, Baah pulled out of the front yard.

“Drive slowly just a little bit and then stop,” Dawson told him.

He got out and walked quietly back to the house, listening for a moment for any conversation between Sarbah and Forjoe. He heard none. That’s what Dawson wanted-to talk to Forjoe alone.

“Forjoe!” he called out softly. “It’s me, Dawson.”

“Yes, sir?” Forjoe said from the other side. He opened the gate again a crack.

“I forgot to ask you something. Do you remember the day those people, Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo, were kidnapped and then killed? It was the seventh of July, and they were coming from Ezile Bay.”

“Hmm,” Forjoe said, considering. “Eh-heh, yes, I remember now.”

“It was a Monday. Do you remember where you were that day?”

“Yes, I went with massa to Tarkwa. We were looking into setting up some gold business, and we came back on Tuesday evening. I remember because when we came back, everybody was talking about what happened.”

Dawson nodded. “Okay, thanks.”

He trotted back to the car, satisfied. Richard Sarbah was not on his list of suspects.

AFTER DINNER, DAWSON PLAYED his mbira for a while until the electricity abruptly cut. He heard the drone of the Stellar Hotel’s generators as they automatically switched on.

“Oil City, no lights,” he muttered, sitting at the side of the bed. He had a strong desire to smoke some marijuana, or “ wee ,” as it was popularly known. He wondered where one could get some in Takoradi. The wife and kids weren’t around. This was a good time to do it. He growled at himself for thinking about it and then began to bargain with himself. If he smoked some wee , he might see things in this murder case more clearly. That’s what had happened to him in the last investigation.

Stupid. He gave himself a mental slap across the face. You are not going out to hunt for marijuana. It disturbed him that he was even contemplating the idea. What he needed right now was some light, some noisy TV, and a couple of boisterous kids to keep him busy and banish these cravings. It was too dark, too quiet, and he was lonely.

His mind swung back to the investigation. Multiple locations were involved in the Smith-Aidoo murders. Dawson needed to see the site of the presumed ambush and kidnapping a few kilometers away from Ezile Bay. The killers might have shot their victims there, but he doubted that. He believed they had taken them to some secluded beach and murdered them there. That too, if Dawson ever found it, would become a crime scene. After that, they had been launched out to sea, ending up at the Thor Sterke oil rig sixty kilometers offshore. Dawson would be able to investigate the ambush area when he visited Ezile over the weekend, and in time, he hoped to find the location of the beach from which the canoes launched. He propped himself up on his elbow. What about the perimeter around the Malgam oil rig where the canoe had drifted bearing the two dead bodies? It was analogous to a situation on land in which someone is murdered in one location and their body is dumped in another. Therefore, the area surrounding the oil rig had been a crime scene. The importance of thoroughness was not lost on Dawson. Neither Hammond nor any of his team had gone out to the rig, but as a good detective, Dawson felt he had to do everything in his power to get there, especially if he was one day to appear in court to testify against the Smith-Aidoos’ murderer. Dawson had seen too many detectives go down in flames as the defendant’s solicitor made a mockery of the fact that they hadn’t familiarized themselves with the crime scene.

As Dawson drifted off to sleep, he thought eagerly about the next day, Friday. Chikata, his detective sergeant, would be coming up to Takoradi, and later in the day-best of all-Christine and the boys. Dawson could hardly wait.

AT 6:45 FRIDAY morning, Dawson received a call from Chikata that he and the driver were already on the road and should be in Tadi within two hours.

Oh , Dawson thought, he has a driver while I got the cramped, smelly State Transport bus.

“Very good,” he said. “Do you have accommodations while you’re here?”

“Yeah,” Chikata said lightly. “My uncle knows one of the managers at Stellar Hotel, so I’ll be staying there for free.”

Dawson was stunned. While he had had to find his own accommodations, his junior officer would be staying in a fancy hotel? For free ? This is the royal treatment you get when your chief superintendent was your doting uncle.

“I hear say some beautiful women dey,” Chikata said, switching to his beloved pidgin.

“Maybe, but they are all escorts for the white oil engineers,” Dawson said bluntly. “They’re not interested in the likes of you and me. Anyway, you’re coming here to work, not play.”

“Yes, massa,” Chikata said, humbly, but Dawson could hear the mischief in his voice.

IT WAS PAST nine when he phoned Dawson again. The police drove notoriously fast, so it was no surprise Chikata had made such good time.

“I’ve arrived at the hotel,” he said. “Room Three Eleven.”

“All right. I’ll be there soon.”

Dawson walked across the street and went up the staircase to the third floor. Chikata opened the door to his knock and blinked in amazement. “Massa, how did you get here so fast?”

Dawson smiled enigmatically. “Magic. No actually, I’m staying right opposite the hotel on the other side of the street.”

“Oh, I see.” Chikata laughed. “You are welcome. Come in.”

Natural light illuminated the room through a large window that looked out onto the landscaped grounds. Two large beds faced the widescreen TV, which Chikata had tuned to a movie channel. He had set his laptop on the writing desk. The whisper-quiet air conditioner high up on the wall had the room deliciously chilled.

“Enjoying life, eh?” Dawson said with a hint of envy.

Chikata laughed again. At twenty-nine years old, he consistently turned women’s heads with his powerful build and bold, granite-chiseled facial features.

“Would you like a Malta?” he asked, knowing his boss’s favorite well.

“For sure,” Dawson said, brightening.

“I ordered some for you from the restaurant.”

He got a bottle out of the mini-fridge and tossed it to Dawson, who caught it with one hand. Chikata took a bottle of water for himself. If he couldn’t drink beer, he drank water.

“Okay,” Dawson said, “turn off the TV and let’s get started.”

He sat in the desk chair while Chikata perched on the love seat in the corner to listen to the briefing. The sergeant had seen the now infamous picture of the impaled head, but he knew very few other details. At Dawson’s account of his meetings with DeSouza, Chikata gave a one-sided smile.