Kwei Quartey - Murder at Cape Three Points

The refrigerator door closed and the light went out again. Dawson heard Richard shuffle back to bed, but he stayed where he was for a while to be safe and then moved out from the tight space, his nose tingling from the dust. It was mind over matter not to sneeze.

It was time to get out. He returned to the sitting room window, opened it carefully, and slid out.

To his left stood the toolshed he had noticed the first time he had been here. He kept low while running to it. Shielding his flashlight beam, he examined the door. A padlock hung carelessly open on the latch. He pulled on the door and opened it slightly. It whined and he swore under his breath. His heart was banging hard and fast in his chest. He went in, pulling the door closed behind him and swung his flashlight from right to left. The beam went past something, and he brought it back. A few meters away, a small tarpaulin draped over a bulky object on a wooden stand. He lifted the tarpaulin and looked underneath. An outboard motor.

Dawson put the tarpaulin on the floor. Made by Suzuki, it was a 25 hp model, adequate for a medium-sized canoe. It was old, but it appeared to be well oiled and in good shape. Dawson was about to put the tarpaulin back when the door behind him squeaked. He jumped and turned around. The light came on. Richard Sarbah was standing in the doorway with a raised revolver.

“What are you doing here?” he asked coldly.

“Is this the outboard motor you used on the canoe to take the Smith-Aidoos out to sea?” Dawson said.

“Kneel on the floor with your hands crossed behind your neck.”

Dawson got down slowly, his heart thumping, blood rushing through his head.

“How did you get in?” Sarbah asked.

“The dug-out hole under your wall.”

“I ought to shoot that worthless Forjoe.”

“You shoot a lot of people, don’t you?” Dawson remarked.

Richard’s lip curled. “You’re stupid if you think you’ll make it out of here alive.”

“Superintendent Hammond knows where I am,” Dawson said with confidence, but his legs were trembling. “You’ll be facing three counts of murder.”

“Three? Where do you get the other two?”

“Count one, Charles Smith-Aidoo. Count two, his wife, Fiona.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“The silver pocket watch with the onyx center that was stuffed in Charles’s mouth and scratched with the message, ‘blood runs deep’ belonged to your father Tiberius. You put it in Charles’s mouth.”

Richard froze then tried to recover. “Lies. Inspector Dawson, you’re a liar looking for a scapegoat.”

“You loved that pocket watch, remember?” Dawson said, raising his eyebrows. “Remember how your father used to dangle it in front of you when you were a boy?”

Richard swallowed hard. “You’re going to die, and Forjoe and I are taking you out to sea tonight. Forjoe will do anything for me because he is a fool. He believed me when I told him that his daughter would get better if we offered Charles’s head to the sea god.” He laughed. “Thank heavens for superstition. He was so petrified that I , the old man, had to do the shooting and the beheading.” He clicked his tongue disapprovingly and shook his head. “These young folks nowadays. Cowards, the whole lot. It was only Forjoe’s annoying weeping that stopped me from removing Charles’s second eye-even though I knew very well that you should never let a dead man see what you are doing to him, or they will bear witness to the gods when they reach the other side.”

Richard came forward and pressed the revolver to his head. “This is going to be just like Charles and Fiona-except there will be no second canoe.”

“Why did you do it?” Dawson asked hoarsely.

Richard giggled and stroked Dawson’s cheek with the gun barrel. “I like to see you shaking. You’re not such a big shot now, are you?”

“Why did you do it?” Dawson insisted. If he was going to die, and there was a good chance he was, he wanted to know Richard’s motive before death came.

“I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to, Inspector,” Richard said, grinding the muzzle against Dawson’s head. It was clear that it gave him pleasure to do so. “Suffice it to say,” he continued in a smug fashion, “that now the score between the Smith-Aidoos and the Sarbahs is settled. After generations of their maltreating us, you don’t conspire to kill my granddaughter, Angela, and not expect me to take action. Jason would certainly never do it, so I did it for him. I love that boy. He never deserved the loss of his beloved daughter. Say goodbye now, Inspector Dawson. It’s all over for you.”

SUPERINTENDENT HAMMOND WAS CARRYING his pistol, but he hoped he would not have to use it because he was badly out of practice. The front gate of Richard Sarbah’s house was open and the yard was clear. Ahead, Hammond saw the light from the shed doorway. His stomach plunged when he heard the gun blast. He sprinted, gasping. Oh, God. Dawson.

In the doorway, he brought up his pistol and crouched, ready.

Dawson swung around and raised his hand. “Don’t shoot, sir!” He breathed again as Hammond lowered his weapon. Forjoe stood next to Sarbah’s dead body, looking down at it as if numb. In the few moments before Hammond’s arrival, Forjoe had relinquished his firearm to Dawson and offered his wrists for handcuffing. Dawson did not do it.

Forjoe heaved a big sigh. “I heard everything he said. A man like that doesn’t deserve to live.”

Hammond circled around the growing pool of blood. It was a fatal head wound from Forjoe’s weapon at close range.

Hammond looked at Dawson. “Are you okay?”

He checked himself. “It seems so, sir.”

“Why was he trying to kill you?”

“Because I found out that he murdered Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo.”

“Richard Sarbah did?” Hammond said, surprised.

“Yes.” He gestured at Forjoe. “And this man saved my life. I would have been dead by now if not for him. Sarbah was just about to shoot me in the head.”

Hammond looked at Forjoe. “Thank you, my friend. God bless you.”

As he shook hands with the superintendent, Forjoe looked at Dawson with a question on his face. Dawson shook his head imperceptibly. Do not say anything. You are, after all, a hero, Forjoe. Keep your mouth shut, and I will do the same. No one will ever know the role you played in the death of Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo.

“PLEASE, UNCLE,” CHIKATA HAD said to Lartey in his well-practiced dejected voice, “Dawson has captured not one, but two murderers. Can we be nice to him and bring him home in a nice vehicle instead of him traveling in a State Transport Bus?”

Lartey, who could not resist his nephew’s sad eyes, had agreed, if somewhat reluctantly with a lot of grumbling.

Now a satisfied Chikata sat in the back seat of a shiny, dark blue air-conditioned police BMW, respectfully waiting for Dawson as he embraced Abraham and Akosua in preparation to leave the lodge.

“Don’t be such a stranger, Darko,” Abraham said, shaking his finger with mock sternness. “Come back and see us often and bring Christine and the boys.”

“They already want to come back,” Dawson said.

“Are they doing okay now?” Akosua asked. “No more nightmares?”

Dawson smiled. “No more nightmares.”

He got into the back seat with Chikata and buckled up as the driver started the softly purring engine. The car smelled of sweet, pristine leather.

A glossy, Jaguar pulled up, blocking their exit.

“Wait just a second,” Dawson said, alighting.

He walked over to the Jaguar as Sapphire got out. She smiled at him.