Murder at Cape Three Points (9 page)

“So,” Hammond said with a tense, one-sided smile, “you’re here to show us how to solve a case, is that right?”

“Pardon?” Dawson said.

“The Western Region has had thirty-four homicides this year,” Hammond continued in a flat tone. “Headquarters won’t give us a regional crime lab, we don’t have enough crime scene technicians, and there’s a hiring freeze. Our resources are stretched to the limit, yet we’re expected to clear up all these cases in record time. Just four months on the Smith-Aidoo case and already Headquarters is breathing down my neck and sending a junior officer to supervise me.”

Stunned, Dawson struggled to find the right words. “Sorry, sir, but Chief Superintendent Lartey has sent me here in response to a petition and in assisting capacity only, not to disgrace or embarrass anyone, sir.”

They eyed each other in silence for a moment. Hammond heaved a sigh, as if he would rather not be bothered. “I see you have the docket with you. Do you have any questions?”

“Okay, thank you, sir,” Dawson said, now uncertain where to start. “I met Dr. Sapphire Smith-Aidoo last week in Accra. She told me about Jason Sarbah. When you spoke to him, did he blame the doctor or her uncle for the death of his daughter, Angela?”

The superintendent seemed wearied by the task of having to explain all this to Dawson. “Sarbah didn’t say that directly, but I know he is very bitter about the events that led up to Angela’s death.”

“Was he your prime suspect, sir?”

“At the beginning, yes, but his alibi is solid. The day of the ambush of the Smith-Aidoo’s vehicle, he was working at his real estate business. Two other people in the office confirmed that.”

Dawson had allowed his eye to stray as he tried to gauge what kind of man Hammond was. A folder with papers was in front of him, as well as a pen the superintendent had apparently been using to write some kind of report. His fingernails were medium long and cut square across, but like his hair, not that recently. His desk was piled with documents, but it was neither excessively jumbled nor chaotic. One drawer of a metal filing cabinet in the corner behind the superintendent was half open. Dawson decided Hammond was probably smart enough, but maybe not meticulous.
He might be a little burned out too
, Dawson thought.
Or else I’ve burned him out because he’s just so disgusted to see me.

“What about a contract killing?” Dawson asked. “Sarbah hiring someone to do the job? Is that a possibility?”

Hammond appeared uninspired by the question and shook his head. “The signature—dumping these bodies in the canoe, the beheading, and all that, doesn’t seem like a contract murder. It looks more personal.”

“I see, sir.” Dawson paused. This was not a conversation. It was a question and answer session in which one party was uninterested in talking to the other. “The pocket watch in Mr. Smith-Aidoo’s mouth—what did you make of that?”

“It’s a very old watch. We took it to a watchmaker and he told us it was made in England in the nineteenth century. We don’t know if the killer was trying to communicate something. I asked Dr. Smith-Aidoo if she had ever seen her uncle with the watch, or knew that he owned one. She said no. Her uncle liked modern gadgets, nothing old like this.”

Dawson nodded respectfully. “Still, it might have been some kind of family keepsake. Maybe the murderer is saying something about family generations.”

“Yes, I know.” Hammond barely raised an offhand palm off the desk and let it fall again. “But we haven’t discovered anything in that regard.”

“What about at Malgam Oil? Did Mr. Smith-Aidoo have any enemies there, perhaps?”

“We interviewed several people, including the CEO, Roger Calmy-Rey. He appeared to think very highly of Smith-Aidoo.”

“Where is Mr. Calmy-Rey from?”

“I understand he’s half Swiss and half English. He spends most of his time in England, coming to Ghana every so often.”

“Is he in town at the moment?”

“I’m not sure. My ASP will know.”

Superintendent Hammond fished around for his mobile, found it under a stack of papers, and called the assistant superintendent.

“Seidu, come downstairs to meet Inspector Dawson when you are finished. He has arrived from Accra.” Hammond dropped the phone on his desk.

“And Mrs. Smith-Aidoo?” Dawson asked. “Did she have enemies?”

“The closest we could find to that was Kwesi DeSouza, whom she defeated in the STMA elections. He might have been bitter about that, but that motive doesn’t seem to match the brutality of the murder. And if DeSouza disliked Mrs. Smith-Aidoo, why would he behead her husband? It doesn’t make sense.”

Someone knocked on the door and stepped in. He was younger than Hammond, short and stocky with a clean-shaven head and smooth, coal-black skin.

Hammond introduced him. “This is ASP Seidu. He’s been working on the case with me.”

Seidu shook hands with Dawson and took a seat.

“Inspector Dawson was asking if Mr. Calmy-Rey is around,” Hammond told him.

“I believe he’s still abroad,” Seidu responded in a marvelous baritone. “I can email him to find out.”

Dawson’s phone vibrated, and he checked it.

“From Dr. Smith-Aidoo,” he told the other two. “She wants me to meet her at the Raybow Hotel. Where is that?”

“It’s not far from the Africana Roundabout in Takoradi,” Seidu said. “It’s not far from Shippers Circle.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dawson stood up. “I’ll go there now.”

“Okay,” Hammond said. “We’ll talk later, then.”

Seidu rose from his chair with conventional courtesy, but Hammond stayed right where he was. As Dawson walked back outside, he reflected that the superintendent seemed to be stuck in resentment thick as tar. He appeared to be taking the intervention of CID
Headquarters as a personal insult.
There’ll be little or no help from him
, Dawson thought.
In fact, he might be a hindrance.
Dawson would have to be on his guard and ready for a fight. He was up to it, but he would prefer not to have to do it.

Chapter 8

A
S
B
AAH DROVE TO
the Raybow Hotel, he showed Dawson more evidence that the oil industry was profoundly affecting Takoradi. The skeletal necks of building cranes dotted the skyline. The sprawling Best Western Atlantic Hotel with luxury chalets and hundreds of rooms had superseded the old military barracks on Officers’ Mess Road.

“What do you think of all this construction?” Dawson asked Baah. “Are the locals better off because of the oil?”

Baah sucked his teeth. “They say one day we will all see benefit, but I think they are telling us lies. Someone like me will never get any oil money. Only the
oburonis
, the white people, and those big businessmen and the ministers of parliament will get plenty money, buying Benzes and houses for their girlfriends. You watch. Just now when we get to the Raybow, you will see them—old men with young, young girls.”

Baah, who lived in a section of Takoradi called Kwesimintsim, said that although his own rent of twenty
cedis
a month had not gone up, he knew of people evicted after their landlords had suddenly doubled or tripled their rent as higher paying customers arrived from other parts of Ghana and neighboring Côte d’Ivoire.

They turned into the driveway of the Raybow, a three-story, ivory-colored hotel with arched columns and a bronze
cembonit
roof. Baah pulled up at the portico entrance, and a uniformed doorman stepped forward to open Dawson’s door.

“Morning, sir.”

The doorman directed Baah where to park and then held open the entrance door for Dawson. He went into the lobby, which had subtle lighting, gleaming wood floors, and a spiral staircase to the left. He stopped at the receptionist counter where a young man and woman greeted him.

“Morning. I’m Inspector Dawson, here to meet Dr. Sapphire Smith-Aidoo.”

The name on the woman’s badge was Violet. She was pretty, with a baby-smooth complexion.

“Oh, yes,” she said, flashing him an infectious smile. “The doctor is expecting you. Please, come this way.”

Violet came around the counter and led him across the lobby, opening the door onto a wide patio with cream and sienna mosaic tiling. A white woman and her two children were dog paddling in the shallow end of the pool and a white man was turning a violent pink as he baked himself in the sun on a reclining beach chair.
So strange, white people and their constant sunbathing
, Dawson thought.

“The doctor is sitting over there in the corner, Inspector,” Violet said, pointing across the pool to a restaurant area with a low thatched roof and open sides.

“Thank you, Violet.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good day and please visit again in the future.”

If I weren’t happily married
, he thought, stealing a quick look at her derrière as she retreated.

He crossed the patio, and as he approached, Dr. Smith-Aidoo spotted him and waved from the far side of the restaurant, which was mostly empty. The waiters were standing around chatting.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he said as he got to her table.

She smiled, and he was struck by how glad she seemed to see him. In a cream-colored trouser suit, she was luminescent in the sunlight reflected off the pool.

A male waiter who had been hovering in the background came to their table.

“Good morning, sir. Please, will you like to have something?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Please, Inspector,” Smith-Aidoo said. “I insist.”

“All right,” he said, surprised. “Do you have Malta?”

It was his favorite drink. Non-alcoholic, rich with malt and hops, and deadly sweet.

“Please, we have two kinds,” the waiter said. “Guinness and Schweppes.”

“Only the original,” Dawson said. “Guinness.”

“Yes, sir.” He went away.

“I’ve just been with Superintendent Hammond discussing the case,” Dawson told her.

She leaned forward with eagerness. “What is your next step?”

“I’ll be re-interviewing several people. They may not like that.”

The waiter returned with the Malta, pouring it in a glass.

“Doctor,” Dawson asked after taking the first delicious sip, “please may I ask what you have done with your aunt’s and uncle’s belongings at their home?”

“I’m still going through their documents, trying to organize them.”

“Do you mind if I look through them?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. We can go now if that’s convenient for you. I don’t need to be at the hospital until after lunch, so we have some time.”

“That would be perfect.”

Something or someone behind Dawson drew Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s attention, and he turned to follow her gaze. A middle-aged man in a dark suit was coming into the restaurant accompanied by a young, smartly dressed, full-figured woman.

“That’s Terence Amihere,” Dr. Smith-Aidoo said quietly. “Minister of Energy. Do you know him? The director of the BNI is his brother.”

“Ah, I see,” Dawson said. “I didn’t know that. The BNI director and my boss are always at each other’s throats.”

A waiter showed the minister and the woman to a table that was quite close to Dawson and the doctor, and now Amihere noticed them.

“Doctor Smith-Aidoo!” he exclaimed, coming to their table. “How nice to see you!”

She turned on a brilliant smile for him. “Good morning, Mr. Amihere. How are you?”

“I’m doing well, by His grace, thank you. I hope all is well with you.”

“Yes, thank you. Please, meet Inspector Darko Dawson from Accra CID. He’s helping in the investigation of the death of my aunt and uncle.”

“Oh, excellent.” He turned to Dawson. “Good morning, Inspector.”

Dawson rose slightly to shake hands.

“Let me express my condolences to you once again, Doctor,” the minister said. “Tragic, just tragic.”

“Thank you,” she said graciously. “Is your wife doing well?”

His face lit up. “Yes, by His grace, and we are both very grateful for your taking care of her so diligently.”

She dropped her head slightly in a modest bow. “I was honored to do it, sir. What brings you from Accra to Takoradi?”

“We have a meeting with Malgam Oil, the STMA and some of the local chiefs this afternoon in Sekondi. I’m briefing my secretary prior to proceeding there.”

Smith-Aidoo’s eyes went very briefly to the secretary and Dawson thought he saw a twinkle in them. “I understand. Then let me not take any more of your time. You’re a busy man.”

They both laughed the Ghanaian laugh that could express so many things—pleasure, mirth, embarrassment, and even respect.

Dawson took in Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s slightly amused look as she watched the minister rejoin his attractive young companion. He guessed she was thinking,
that’s not his secretary.

She returned her attention to him. “Shall we go now, Inspector?”

“Yes. I have a taxi, so we can follow you.”

H
ER CAR WAS
a deep, metallic blue Jaguar XF. Baah followed at a respectful distance, as if afraid he might accidentally rear-end the beautiful machine.