Kwei Quartey - Murder at Cape Three Points

“But not Ezile Bay, because there are people there at the resort.”

“But remember the spot Mr. Cardiman took us where we had a view of Ezile to the left and a second bay to the right?”

“Yes, yes,” Chikata said nodding.

“The second bay is mostly deserted-remember, Cardiman said only occasionally does someone walk along the beach between Cape Three Points village and Akwidaa. We need to go there. Call Baah and tell him to get down here quick.”

AFTER THEY HAD CALLED Baah, Dawson had a brain wave that they should borrow Abraham’s 4×4 to tackle the unpaved section of the road to Cape Three Points. He was glad they did because Baah drove at a speed that would have split his taxi in two over the treacherous surface. In spite of his making it in record time, evening was fast approaching the way it always does at the equator. They reached the sign pointing to Ezile Bay Resort, and Dawson instructed Baah to keep going west.

“Slow down, though,” he said. “We’re looking for some kind of access on the left-hand side that someone could use to get to the beach.”

They went past an unbroken sequence of impenetrable bush.

“I don’t see any way you can get through this to the beach,” Chikata muttered.

They came to the crest of a hill, below which they could see Cape Three Points village in the distance.

“That means we’ve gone too far,” Dawson said, looking at the dashboard clock. It was almost five thirty. “Let’s go back, Baah. Maybe we missed it.”

They turned around in swirling red dust and slowly retraced their course.

“Oh, there,” Baah said, the first to spot a gap in the bush that hadn’t been visible from the opposite direction.

“Good work,” Dawson said. “Let’s turn in.”

Not a constructed road, it was more a vehicular path with a track for the wheels on either side of a crest of grass. The three men were silent, not sure what to expect.

“I can go small-small,” Baah said, slowing down, “but the bush start to make thick.”

Chikata drew in a breath as, after another 300 meters, the shell of a house appeared on the right side of the path as if it had sprung from the bush like a mushroom.

“Look at that,” Dawson said, almost not believing it.

The roof was in place, but the doors and windows were unfinished and the brickwork was raw and unpainted. It wasn’t uncommon in Ghana to come across a random, unfinished house in a relatively uninhabited area, but this was especially isolated.

“Let’s park and walk,” Dawson said. “I want to get to the beach first, before it gets dark, and then we’ll come back and look at this house.”

Wispy clouds glowed orange as the sun began to set. They followed the footpath that led away from the house, noticing mangroves and hearing the sound of crashing waves as they got closer to the beach. They emerged abruptly onto the shore, surprised at how close the water was. The tide was evidently cresting. A few more meters and their ankles would have gotten a soaking.

The beach arced gently, terminating at each end with a peninsula. Dawson pointed to the promontory on their left. “On the other side of that is Ezile Bay, where we were. Cape Three Points village is over the peninsula on the right. This bay here is secluded, and it would be perfect for the killers to launch out to the oil rig in secret.”

The three men stood for a while, looking around. No one was in sight, only the beach with its cresting waves, coconut palms and mangroves-undeniably powerful yet soothing. But somewhere here, Dawson thought, a heinous crime may have been committed, the waves washing away the bloody evidence in the sand. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get back to that house.”

The sun was disappearing and light was fading. Both Dawson and Chikata switched on their flashlights as they walked around the rustic building, picking through scratchy brush. All the windows were frameless, open gaps. The interior was empty, although they could deduce which space would become the kitchen, dining area, sitting room, and the two bedrooms in the rear.

The cement floor was dusty. Dawson was intrigued by how engaged Baah was. He had taken out his cell phone and was using its small but respectable flashlight to shine into the window of the smaller of the bedrooms.

“Please, Inspector,” he called out, just as Dawson was about to move on. “Come and see.”

Dawson and Chikata joined him at the window. Baah’s flashlight beam caught three plastic water bottles tossed on the floor. They had a good coating of dust, meaning they had probably been there for a while. That wasn’t what had attracted Baah’s attention. It was a glint of metal in the right-hand corner of the room.

“What’s that?” Dawson said, craning forward. He focused on it with the light.

“It might just be something that fell from the ceiling.” Chikata said.

“No be earring?” Baah said. “Those ones which make like big ring.”

“An earring,” Dawson whispered. He vaulted through the window and crouched down by the object to examine it more closely. Chikata and Baah followed.

“Well done, Baah!” Dawson exclaimed.

“What’s special about the earring?” Chikata asked.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Dawson said excitedly. “Fiona Smith-Aidoo was missing one hoop earring on autopsy. I bet you this is it. This is a real find, thanks to my man Baah. I think this is where the Smith-Aidoos were taken. If so, we might be able to track down the killers.”

IN THE MORNING, Dawson and Chikata went to the charge office at Takoradi central police station and asked the desk constable for access to the Smith-Aidoos’ personal effects. The constable took them down a corridor to the musty exhibit storeroom, where he checked the rows of shelves containing labeled boxes and plastic bags. He located the Smith-Aidoos’ box and brought it down to a table in the front part of the room. He opened up the exhibit register to record that the box was moving from its position for examination of the contents.

The constable took out the labeled bags containing Fiona’s and Charles’s bloodstained clothes, and from the bottom of the box, a silver hoop earring in its evidence bag. Dawson placed it alongside the earring they had found the night before. The two were identical.

“The same,” the constable commented.

“Yes,” Dawson agreed, looking at Chikata triumphantly.

THE INSPECTOR AND sergeant had a vigorous debate all during their drive to the Lands Commission on Sekondi Road. Dawson thought that there was a chance that the house belonged to or was in some way associated with the killers.

“But it could be anybody’s empty house that the killers knew about and just used for their purposes,” Chikata pointed out, leaning forward to gesticulate in the space between the front passenger and driver seats.

“So what?” Dawson challenged, turning to Chikata. “Are you saying it’s not worth a try?”

“No, I’m saying we might be on the way to arresting the wrong person.”

“Like that doesn’t happen all the time,” Dawson said dryly. “Look, whatever we find, we’ll look at it carefully and consider the next steps. We’re not going to rush into anything stupid.”

After a few minutes, he added, “At least, I hope not.”

Chikata guffawed from the back seat.

BAAH PARKED IN the shaded lot of the Lands Commission. Dawson and Chikata weren’t sure which of the four buildings to approach, but they tried the one with the sign LAND REGISTRY DIVISION. The young clerk at the front desk looked up as they walked in and put away the phone he had been texting on.

“Good morning, sir.”

Dawson told him he was looking for the owner of an area of land near Cape Three Points. The clerk went to the back and returned with an older man who introduced himself as Nicholas and took Dawson and Chikata into a hot, cavernous room with row upon row of paper files.