Kwei Quartey - Murder at Cape Three Points

“Did you ever see Fiona again after this incident?”

“No, I didn’t. After that meeting, I realized what a terrible mistake I’d be making to go any further. I felt stupid and ashamed. However, Fiona kept calling me to talk. I was avoiding her, not returning her calls, and so she came to the shop. That was a frightening moment, because I thought she was going to make a scene and then the whole story would be out. Fortunately, she didn’t do that, but I got the feeling my shop assistants suspected something might have been going on between Fiona and me.”

Dawson wondered if a leak by one of the assistants had been responsible for the rumor that Fiona was having an affair with a businessman in town.

“It was at that visit to the shop that I went outside with her and told her that we had to end the relationship,” Abraham said. “She never called me again.”

He reached across the table and slipped his meaty palm into Dawson’s lean one.

“I hope you believe me and trust me, Darko. I had nothing to do with Fiona and Charles’s murder. I bore no malice to either one of them. I did something stupid, but it doesn’t make me a murderer.”

Dawson squeezed his cousin’s hand. “Yes, I do believe you, Abe.”

His mind very much eased, Dawson ordered a second bottle of Malta to celebrate. His cousin had now been pulled safely away from the brink of the suspect list. With that, Dawson would be able to concentrate on finding the true murderer without having to worry about family conflicts.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Dawson’s phone rang as he was headed to the bathroom. Emmanuel was calling.

“ Chaley , time to give up MTN and switch to Vodafone,” he sang.

Dawson’s heart leapt. “You’ve got my info?”

“The number that the Goilco CEO, Lawrence Tetteh, had is the same one you’ve got: zero-two-zero one-five-six four-six-seven-six. It’s now out of service, however. He purchased a new phone and changed his number.”

“My man, you’re the best. Thank you.

“When you get back to Accra, come and see me so we can switch you over to Vodafone. Do you have the latest iPhone?”

“You must be crazy. I can’t afford that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll hook you up with a deal, complete with Internet, email, voice mail, everything included.”

Dawson laughed. “Always the salesman.”

“I’m serious. A CID detective should have only the best.”

“I wish CID thought that way. Thank you, Emmanuel.”

As Dawson ended the call, he switched from smiling to sober. Emmanuel had now confirmed that the Lawrence Tetteh who had been murdered and the one listed in Smith-Aidoo’s phone were the same man. Why had Hammond pretended the opposite? Was he involved in a conspiracy to hide a connection between the murders of Charles Smith-Aidoo and Lawrence Tetteh, and if so, why?

Dawson thought back to the details of Tetteh’s case. Reportedly, the day of the Tetteh shooting, his stepbrother, Silas, had stopped by one afternoon to see him at his home in Accra’s affluent Labone Estates. Charity, his faithful housekeeper, who knew Silas from previous visits, had opened up the front gate for him. Silas had told her he preferred to leave his car parked on the street. After darkness had fallen, Charity was in the servants’ quarters when she heard a gunshot. She looked out of the window, which faced the driveway, and saw a man she identified as Silas fleeing down the driveway.

Fearing the worst, Charity ran inside the house and found Tetteh lying on the sitting room floor in a pool of blood with a devastating head wound. At the pending trial, Silas’s defense lawyers were likely to cast doubt on the housekeeper’s reliability and truthfulness. Could she clearly have identified the man running out of the house from where she was in the servants’ quarters? It had been dark, and eyewitness testimony could be notoriously inaccurate. Since she usually took Sundays off to visit family, why had she stayed at home that particular Sunday?

What bothered some people, and Dawson agreed, was that Silas appeared to be a scatterbrain-a marginal man barely conducting his own affairs. He didn’t fit the profile of a murderer who had executed this quick, clean killing. Moreover, if he had come to see Tetteh with a plan to shoot him, why did he stay so long, arriving late afternoon and leaving after dusk?

Dawson tried Dr. Cudjoe again, the pathologist who had done the Smith-Aidoos’ autopsy. This time he got through and a male voice answered.

“Are you Dr. Hector Cudjoe?” Dawson asked

“Yes, I am.” He had an air of self-importance. “Who is speaking, please?”

“Doctor, my name is Inspector Darko Dawson. I’m investigating the murders of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Smith-Aidoo. I believe you did the postmortem, is that correct?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I read your report. It mentioned a gunpowder burn around the bullet entry wound of the man, but not around the woman’s entry wound.”

“And what is your question, Detective?”

I thought it was obvious , Dawson thought. “Sorry, I didn’t make myself clear. The report does not state either way: yes, a powder burn is present, or no, none is present. The reason I ask is that if no powder burn was evident, it could mean a single assailant shot the man at close range and then shot the woman from some distance. It could also mean that the primary intended victim was the husband and not his wife.”

“If I did not mention any soot,” Cudjoe said crisply, “then there was no soot. I don’t understand this line of questioning, Detective. It doesn’t seem very useful.”

Dawson felt like rolling his eyes. Another pompous one. “I apologize for troubling you, but by any chance, do you have any photographs available from the autopsy?”

“No. I don’t usually photograph my postmortems.”

“I see. Thank you, Doctor.”

He was about to end the call when Cudjoe added, “However, in this case, someone did take some photos-a doctor visiting from the US at the time I was doing the postmortem. His name is Dr. Taryque. He asked permission to take some postmortem photos.”

Dawson stood up straight. Now he was getting somewhere. “What was he going to do with them?”

“He is a forensic pathologist with thousands of photographs from all over the world,” Cudjoe explained. “He’s working with Korle Bu Hospital in Accra to increase the number of forensic pathologists in Ghana.”

“Did Dr. Taryque offer to send the pictures to you at a later date, Doctor?”

“We had some discussion to that effect, but I didn’t hear from him.”

“Is he still in the country?”

“I don’t think so. He told me he was going back to the States shortly.”

Dawson’s spirit dropped. “Do you have his phone number or email so I can get in touch with him?” he asked hopefully.

“I have his email and both his Ghana and United States numbers.”

Dawson’s heart leapt. Maybe Cudjoe wasn’t so bad after all. He jotted the information down and recited it back to be sure he had them correct. “Thank you very much, Dr. Cudjoe. You’ve been very helpful.”

He tried the Ghana mobile number first. It rang multiple times and then stopped abruptly. Dawson tried the US number. After five rings, a sleepy male voice answered.

“ ’llo?”

Dawson introduced himself and the man muttered in barely a whisper, “I’m in Philadelphia. Do you know what the time is here?”

Dawson felt like a fool. He had forgotten about the four-hour time difference.

“I’m very sorry,” he stammered. “I will call you back later.”

Kicking himself, he hung up. Perhaps he would try emailing first, and if Dr. Taryque didn’t reply, Dawson would call again, this time at a sensible hour.