Kwei Quartey - Murder at Cape Three Points

“Do you believe you have an equitable relationship with your partners-Malgam Oil, for example?” Ampofo asked him with his legendary intensity. “And with your counterpart Mr. Roger Calmy-Rey?”

“Yes, I do. I believe that Mr. Calmy-Rey and I share similar values and goals.”

Standard party line , Dawson thought, a little disappointed. He had expected something less conventional, more radical, from Tetteh. He looked up Roger Calmy-Rey and found a short Wikipedia biography.

Roger William Calmy-Rey (born 1950) is the son of the late Ulysses Calmy-Rey, founder of Malgam Oil, one of Europe’s largest businesses.

Career

Educated at Harrow School in Harrow, northwest London, and London University where he studied Political Science. He joined Malgam Oil in late 1973 at the urging of his father. He became the CEO in 1987 on the death of his father, Ulysses Calmy-Rey.

After that, Dawson found multiple interviews with and profiles of Roger Calmy-Rey by online publications like the Independent.co.uk. Calmy-Rey believed strongly in the future of oil in Africa, he said. He wanted his company to be in the continent for decades to come, while building relations of mutual respect between Malgam and its African host countries like Ghana and Uganda.

Dawson was now on a searching streak. He tried “Sarbah” and got a GhanaWeb.com article about Jason Sarbah’s appointment as Malgam Director of Corporate Relations, replacing the deceased Charles Smith-Aidoo. Other links to the Sarbah name were of no importance.

Dawson stared at the screen and brooded as doubts lingered about what he and Chikata were venturing into. How dangerous might it be to delve into a corruption scheme involving the BNI and people in high positions? If Tetteh and Charles were killed for what they knew, was Dawson setting himself up for the same fate? Most of his panic had to do with his family. Was he being overdramatic in thinking he might be about to endanger the lives of Christine and the boys? He didn’t think so.

He got up, signaling he was stepping outside to Chikata, who was showing a pretty girl how to log on as she coyly feigned ignorance. Dawson went to the far brick wall of the car park to call his mentor, Daniel Armah, but he didn’t pick up. Armah had long retired from the police service, and now ran a private detective agency in the city of Kumasi.

Dawson was tempted to call Christine as well, but she would be able to tell from his voice that he was worried about something, and that would inject anxiety into her. He wanted to see her, but this was not the time.

He caught a whiff of smoke and immediately recognized its sharp sweetness. Someone was puffing on marijuana in the alley behind the wall. Dawson had an intense desire to smoke some himself. He went back inside the Internet café to get away from temptation.

STANDING NEXT TO Baah’s taxi, Dawson waited at the north end of Morning Star School. He had sent Chikata to the opposite side of the building when it had occurred to him that he didn’t know which of the two approaches Charity would use. It was six o’clock. The schoolchildren were all gone for the day. Four staff cars remained in front of the building. No sign of Charity yet. He called Chikata. “Nothing?”

“Not yet.”

By 6:30, Dawson was becoming doubtful that she would show, and by 7:00, he was losing hope. He buzzed Chikata again and told him they would wait until 7:15 and call it quits if Charity did not show up.

Ten after seven, Dawson saw her hovering uncertainly at the corner of Labone Avenue and Cantonments Road. She spotted him and hesitantly began to walk in his direction. He closed the space between them and met her halfway.

“Hello, Charity. Thank you for coming.”

“Yes, please.”

She was jumpy and kept looking around. Taking a guess, Dawson asked her if she was a Ga. She said yes, and Dawson switched from English to Ga to help her feel more at ease. “Where do you want to talk?”

“Not here,” she said firmly. “Rather, let’s go to my sister’s house.”

“I have a taxi.”

They swung around to pick Chikata up, and Dawson introduced Charity to him, reassuring her that he could be trusted. Charity suggested Baah avoid the congested Ring Road and directed him through the twists and turns of the side streets, some of which were in a terrible, potholed state. Along the route, vendors sold Kelewele -ripe plantain crisply deep-fried with ginger, red pepper, and other spices-by fluorescent light or smoky kerosene lamps.

Charity’s neighborhood was relatively close to the beach, separated from it only by Labadi Road. She told Baah where to stop and Dawson asked him to wait, giving him a couple of cedis to get something to eat.

It was pitch dark as they made their way to the house, and although Charity knew every inch along the route, Dawson and Chikata thought it best to use their flashlights as they navigated clogged gutters and undulating terrain with sharp outcroppings of rock.

In her own environment, Charity seemed less diffident. Her sister’s house was small and square with a corrugated metal roof and hole-ridden mosquito netting on the windows. Outside, a young woman in her early twenties was crouched on her haunches frying fish on a charcoal stove by lantern light. Three small children ran up to Charity to hug her before going back to playing.

“My grandchildren,” she told the two men with a smile. “That’s my daughter who is cooking. Please, let’s go inside the house.”

In the sitting room dimly lit by one anemic bulb, a boy of about thirteen was sitting on a lopsided couch watching a small TV with grainy reception. He got up immediately without prompting and turned off the set before leaving with a respectful “good eve’ng” to the two guests.

Charity pulled up some plastic chairs, and the three of them sat down at a slight angle to each other.

“Thank you for bringing me to your house,” Dawson said in Ga. “I told you I’m trying to find out what happened to Lawrence Tetteh, and I hope you can help me.”

“Yes, please.”

“Can you tell me a little bit about him?”

“He was a good man. He always tried to help me. I stayed in the servant’s quarters, but every Sunday, he told me to take the day off to go to church and visit my family.”

Dawson sat forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a more relaxed pose, which tended to put people more at ease. “Who is living in his house now?”

“His uncle and his aunt, their son, and the son’s wife. And another woman too, but I don’t even know who she is.” She shook her head as if she was talking about a den of thieves.

“How did Mr. Tetteh treat you?”

She clasped her hands together, and her face took on heavy sorrow. “He respected me and trusted me even more than his own family.”

“What about his wife?”

“He married some woman when he was in States. She doesn’t live in Ghana.” Charity looked down at her fingers. “Different women always used to come and visit him.”

“What happened that day when he was killed?” Dawson asked her gently. In the corner of his eye he saw Chikata watching with his usual stress-free pose, arms open, legs apart. “It was a Sunday, correct?”

“Yes please,” she said, nodding. “He had been in Côte d’Ivoire since Monday of that week, returning on Friday night. He spent the whole of Saturday at home writing something on the computer. On Sunday morning, I came to him to ask him if he needed anything.” Charity rubbed her hands back and forth over the top of her thighs, revealing the stress she was feeling telling the story. “He said no and told me I can go to church and spend the day with my family. That was the last time I saw him alive.” Charity’s bottom lip began to tremble. “When I returned in the evening, I went to check on him and found him dead in the sitting room.”