Murder at Cape Three Points (5 page)

G
EORGE
F
INDLAY PICKED
up the call almost immediately. Dawson introduced himself and told him he was taking on the Smith-Aidoo case.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” Findlay said. He had a light Scottish accent and a pleasant voice. “We need someone to solve it once and for all.”

“Do you have a moment to answer some questions?”

“No more than about ten minutes. I’m at Kotoka Airport getting ready to leave for Glasgow.”

“I’ll be quick, then. By the way, what does your job entail as an oil installation manager?”

“I’m the most senior manager on the rig, ultimately responsible for day-to-day operations and safety of everyone on board. For example, that morning the canoe with the dead bodies drifted into the rig area, it broke everyone’s focus on their jobs, and it was my responsibility to marshal everyone back to work. There could have been a breach of safety and security.”

“I see,” Dawson said. That gave him a clear picture.

“People were coming up to the pipe deck to see the spectacle,” Findlay continued. “Eventually, Michael Glagah, our safety officer put a stop to that, but in the midst of all the confusion, Dr. Smith-Aidoo came up from the medic room to see what the commotion was about. The tragedy is that I had no idea that it was her aunt and uncle in the canoe, so I let her use my binoculars to get a better look. She stared for a wee bit and then let out a strange cooing noise,
rather like a pigeon, and then she fainted. Fortunately, someone was right next to her to catch her. She seemed to recover somewhat a few seconds later, but she was still staring glassy-eyed as though in shock, and I couldn’t understand why Michael took another look in the binoculars and said something like, ‘Oh, my God,’ and whispered to me that the corpses looked like Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo. He had met them before, but I had not.”

“Do you think the display was aimed directly at her?”

“If so, it takes a diabolical mind to conceive of and execute something as gruesome and abhorrent as that.”

Dawson could not have said it any better. “What happened next?”

“We took Dr. Smith-Aidoo downstairs to rest and radioed to shore for an emergency chopper to come in and take her back to the mainland.”

“She will never forget that horrible day,” Dawson commented.

“Never,” Findlay agreed. “To see her beloved uncle decapitated … I can only begin to imagine how awful that was.”

“What was Mr. Smith-Aidoo’s role at Malgam? What does a corporate relations director do?”

“It’s a delicate job of juggling government and public affairs, media relations, internal relations, liaison with the CEO and the board, response to external pressures, managing company image, and so on.”

“Not easy, in other words.”

“Not at all. I don’t know how he did it.”

“Do you think he made enemies?”

“Maybe he did; I don’t know, but even if that was the case, I find it difficult to imagine
anyone
, enemy or otherwise, doing something this vicious and cold-blooded to him and his wife. From what I heard about him, he was well-liked.”

“Still,” Dawson said, “the job description sounds like every once in a while, he would have had to tell people things they didn’t want to hear.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Findlay said, “but companies like Malgam always try to stay on a positive note and make a favorable public showing—you know, refurbishing a school here or building a hospital there, repairing a stretch of road or roundabout, and so on.”

Dawson heard the airport announcer in the background over the
phone. “Sounds like they’re calling your flight, sir. I appreciate your time. Have a safe journey.”

B
EFORE RETURNING HOME
,
Dawson rode the short distance from CID headquarters to a district of Accra called Osu, where his older brother, Cairo, owned a curio shop. Besides trying to stop by to see Cairo at least once a week, Dawson made it a rule to do his best to visit anytime he was going out of town. He supposed it was a kind of superstition that if anything happened to him on the road, Cairo would at least be able to look back and say that he had spent time with his younger brother, Darko, not long before he died.

Cairo had been a paraplegic since he was a teenager. In a tragedy that had occurred in just a few seconds but would affect him for the rest of his life, a car had hit him as he crossed the street on the way to buy some provisions. Flying up over the roof of the car and down the back, he had severed his spine and become paralyzed from the waist down.

In years past, he had relied heavily on the care of others, but the Cairo of today was fiercely independent, far from helpless, and doing very well for himself. His curio shop was located along the tourist trap, clustered around Oxford Street. It was packed with souvenir vendors, restaurants, hotels, nightclubs, banks, and telecom giants like Vodafone. During the global economic downturn, Cairo had fallen on a rough time, as had other merchants, but he had survived and trade had picked up again. Until only a couple of years ago, he had been single, but now he was married to Audrey, a gem of a woman, and they had one daughter.

The shop, Ultimate Craft, was air-conditioned and filled with the sweet smell of wood and leather goods. Recently Cairo had expanded, buying out the neighboring shop and annexing it. Georgina, his faithful store manager, greeted Dawson and told him his brother was in his office.

Dawson poked his head around the door. “Busy?”

Cairo looked up and grinned. “Darko, come in! Not really. I’m only pretending.”

Dawson laughed and leaned down to hug his brother. “How are you?”

“Fine—just going over the books,” he said, waving at the laptop on his desk. “You know how that is.”

He was three years older than Dawson and had the same closely shaved hairstyle. They resembled each other in the face, but the physiques differed. Cairo, athletic as a boy before the accident, was now chunkier than his younger brother, although he had recently lost weight on the orders of his doctor.

He swung his lightweight wheelchair around to face Dawson as he took a seat. “So, what’s up, little brother?”

“I’m off to Takoradi on Tuesday,” Dawson said.

“Oh? What’s going on there?”

“New case. Don’t know if you ever read about the murder of Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo off Cape Three Points.”

Cairo searched his memory for a moment and shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. What’s the story?”

Dawson gave him a quick rundown, explaining that the case came to CID via petition.

“Hope it goes well for you,” Cairo said sincerely. “You know we all like to have you right here in Accra. It’s a pity you have to leave Hosiah right now.”

“I know,” Dawson said, shaking his head regretfully. “I hate it myself, but Lartey is in no mood to be messed with, and I’m coming up for promotion soon.”

“Audrey and I will have Christine and the boys over at the house or drop in to see them,” Cairo offered.

“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.”

There was a slight pause.

“I saw Papa yesterday,” Cairo said quietly.

Dawson leaned his cheek against his knuckles and fixed his gaze at the floor. “And?”

“He asked for you.”

Dawson grunted noncommittally, and Cairo cleared his throat awkwardly. “Darko, I know there’ve been hard feelings between the two of you, but he’s getting old now, and he’s not going to live forever. I’m just saying maybe it’s time to not so much forget, but to forgive. He does love you.”

Dawson snorted. “You don’t hit the people you love, and whether
Papa used his hand or a cane, he hit me a lot. It was never the same for you, since you were his favorite, so maybe you don’t understand, but I didn’t deserve to be treated that way just because I was attached to Mama and a skinny boy who wasn’t good at sports.”

“I think I do understand, Darko.” Cairo sighed heavily, rubbing the fist of his left hand slowly against the palm of his left as he contemplated this still unresolved family predicament. “Papa had a violent streak and he scapegoated you, that’s for sure, but …”

“But what?”

“Isn’t this something of a case of ‘he who is without sin cast the first stone’?”

Dawson looked at him in surprise. “I have never once hit my wife or my kids, and God strike me down if I ever do.”

“I know that,” Cairo said reassuringly. “I’m not talking about your family. You are a caring husband and father, but you haven’t been without violence in your
work.
A few years ago, especially up until the time you found out the truth about Mama, you were almost out of control—beating suspects up, losing your temper, remember?”

Dawson nodded reluctantly. It was true, and he wouldn’t deny it.

“So, just give it some thought, little bro,” Cairo said with a smile. “That’s all I’m asking. You’re a better person than years ago, so why not add reconciliation with your father to your achievements?”

Dawson took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.”

They chatted for a while about less weighty things, and then Dawson stood up to leave. “I have to get going.”

“Okay. I’ll see you out.” Cairo wheeled himself beside his brother to the entrance of the shop, and they embraced one more time.

“Be careful in Takoradi,” Cairo said. “We want you back safely.”

D
AWSON RODE BACK
to his Kaneshie neighborhood home at No. 10 Nim Tree. Cream-colored with olive trim, the house was very small, but it was far superior to the dilapidated police barracks where even officers above Dawson’s rank stayed because they couldn’t afford housing elsewhere in the city. He and Christine were simply lucky that their landlord was a member of her extended family.

The house was deserted since Christine was still out with Sly. Dawson sat on the sofa of the sitting room that adjoined the kitchen and looked through the docket. He made a couple of notes to keep the record up to the minute. He left the folder on the table as he got up to answer a knock on the door. His neighbor needed help unloading some building materials, so Dawson went next door with him and left the docket on the sitting room table. That would turn out to be a terrible mistake.

Chapter 5

O
N
T
UESDAY MORNING
,
WHILE
Christine went off to get Hosiah from the hospital, Dawson spent a few hours at CID tying up loose ends before he left. He was to take the State Transport bus to Takoradi, and he didn’t want to start out too late. However, it was past noon by the time he was heading home on his motorbike, negotiating the clogged, asphyxiating traffic on Ring Road West.

When he finally got home, Christine’s little red car was parked in front, meaning she had returned with the boys. He was eager to see Hosiah back at home from the hospital, and he could spend a little time with him before leaving, but the day was already getting old. At this rate, he might not reach Takoradi before nightfall on one of State Transportation’s chronically late, lumbering buses.

Once inside the house, he sensed something was wrong. Sly was sitting by himself on the sofa looking forlorn.

“What’s wrong?” Dawson asked. “Where are Mama and Hosiah?”

“In the bedroom,” Sly answered, in barely a whisper.

Dawson put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s angry with me.”

“What happened?”

Sly bowed his head even further and wrung his fingers. It didn’t look like the answer was forthcoming, so Dawson proceeded to the bedroom. On most occasions, these upsets were minor.
Maybe not this time
, he thought, as he heard Hosiah crying. He stopped in the doorway. Christine was sitting on the bed holding her son close as
he whimpered and sniffled against her chest. For a panicky moment, Dawson thought perhaps something had gone wrong with his heart condition, but then they would have kept him in hospital, surely?

Dawson’s appearance apparently unleashed a fresh round of tears from Hosiah. He sat on the bed next to his son, who promptly launched into his arms and held on tight. Dawson raised his eyebrows questioningly at Christine. He wished someone would tell him what was going on.

“On Saturday when you went next door,” Christine told him quietly, “you left your docket on the sitting room table. Apparently Sly opened it and saw the picture, and today he told Hosiah about it and frightened him.”

Dawson drew in his breath sharply and closed his eyes for a moment in the painful realization of what had happened. The cardinal rule was that his sons never see any autopsy or murder photographs.

He rubbed Hosiah’s head gently back and forth. That usually comforted him. “
Shh
. It’s okay. Are you scared?”

The boy nodded. Dawson shifted him to his knee so they were facing each other.

“Tell Daddy why you’re afraid. You have to stop crying, though. Here, blow your nose.”