“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
AS BAAH 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 The sprawling Best Western Atlantic Hotel with luxury chalets and hundreds of rooms had superseded the old military barracks on Officers’ Mess Road.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.”
HER 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.
Dawson’s phone rang. It was Christine.
“Hi, love,” he answered. “How’re you?”
“Good. How are things going over there?”
“Just getting started, really. How are the boys?”
She told him Sly was at school while she stayed at home with Hosiah, who was doing well. He was spending less time in bed and more time constructing his toy cars and rockets.
“There’s a little problem, though,” she said. “Sly had a nightmare last night.”
“A nightmare? About what?” But Dawson knew already instinctively. “The beheading?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no.” Dawson let out a long sigh. “Poor kid. I underestimated how much this was going to affect him. How is Hosiah reacting?”
“He seemed to be fine after you gave him the talk yesterday, but he heard Sly yelling out in his sleep before I did, so that has thrown him off again.”
“I’m sorry, Christine. If only I hadn’t been so careless.”
“No point crying over spilled milk,” she said briskly. “What’s done is done. Now we have to fix it. Any ideas?”
Something occurred to Dawson. “What about you and the boys coming to spend the weekend with me? Seeing me alive and well will go a long way to reassuring them, don’t you think?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, her voice taking on new energy. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
“I’ll ask Abe if it’s okay with him for you to stay with me in the lodge. Don’t tell the kids about our idea until I confirm with him.”
“There’s not much petrol in the car, though,” she said, “and I’m low on cash until next pay day. I’ll have to borrow a little money from someone. Mama can probably give me something. Alternatively, we can go there by tro-tro to save some money.”
“No, never,” he said in alarm. Tro-tros, the ubiquitous, privately owned minivans that transported the masses from point A to B, were often in a dangerous state of disrepair. Like his mother, who had had a mortal fear of tro-tros, Dawson saw them only as deathtraps. “Just get some cash, and I’ll pay back whatever money you borrow when you get here.”
Hosiah was waiting to talk to his dad. Dawson immediately detected the increased energy in his son’s voice when he came on the line, and gone was the slight underlying breathlessness he had had before.
“When are you coming back, Daddy?” he asked.
“As soon as I can. You sound much stronger, Champ.”
“Yes, I am. Soon I’ll be able to play soccer again, won’t I, Daddy?”
“Yes, I’m sure you will.” He was going to tell Hosiah that he still needed to take it easy, but he had said that enough times. The boy was intuitive about his body and knew by now how far he could push himself.
Dawson ended the call as they reached the affluent neighborhood of Beach Road. After a few minutes, the Jaguar turned in at a gated entrance. Dr. Smith-Aidoo pumped her horn once and waited for the watchman to open up. He was a wizened little fellow, early sixties, dressed in a pair of shorts and an old orange T-shirt. With his knotted knees, bowlegs, and feet as broad as planks, he would likely remain physically durable well into his eighties, doing the same work he had done for most of his life. He saluted and smiled as they drove through and parked in the circular driveway.
“Wait for me, please,” Dawson said to Baah. “I’ll be here at least one hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dawson alighted as the watchman hurried to open Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s door.
“Good afternoon, madam. You are welcome.”
“Afternoon, Gamal,” she said, getting out of the car. “How are you?”
“Please, I’m fine, Madam.”
“This is Inspector Darko Dawson from Accra. He is here to help with the investigation. Answer any questions he may have of you.”
“Yes, Madam. No problem.”
“We will be here for about one hour. Wash the car, eh? Let’s go inside, Inspector.”
A luxuriant lawn with bougainvillea and hibiscus bushes flanked the maroon, two-story brick home on both sides.
“This is a beautiful place,” Dawson said.
“Thank you. The garden is all Gamal’s hard work. He’s been with us for about fifteen years.”
She opened up the front door. “It took me several weeks before I was able to face coming into the house.”
“I can understand. Did your aunt and uncle have children?”
“Yes, Paul and Paula, my cousins. They’re in college in the States. They went back about a month after the funeral.”
She switched on the light in the hallway and turned on the air with a remote lying on a glass table. Polished mahogany in the hallway, marble in the sitting room with white leather armchairs and sofas, expensive paintings on the wall—for Dawson, it was both impressive and too much. A slightly recessed area held the dining room, and the kitchen was beyond that.
“I have all their papers in the study upstairs,” she said, leading him up a spiral staircase to the second floor. “I might as well tell you that he left me some money as well as his house in Accra. Paul and Paula get this house.”
“No other beneficiaries?”
“No. Nothing went to their siblings on either side.” She stopped for a moment at the banister, looking down at the sitting room. “My uncle’s mother, Granny Araba, was killed in a car crash in 1994. After the wake, I overheard Uncle Charles say something strange to Auntie Fio about a curse on the family. He said, ‘First my grandparents and now my mother.’ Later, when I asked him what had happened to his grandparents, he was evasive. Always made me wonder if there was some dark secret.”
“Maybe the aspect of the grandparents goes along with the planted pocket watch,” Dawson said.
She looked at him, puzzled. “What pocket watch?”
“I thought you knew,” he stammered.
“Knew what? What are you talking about?”
“An old-fashioned silver pocket watch with a black onyx inlay was found with your uncle. Someone had scratched the words, ‘blood runs deep’ on the inside of the cover.”
“What?” She looked baffled. “My uncle never owned anything like that. Where was the watch found?”
“In his mouth,” Dawson said quietly. She recoiled. “I’m sorry, Doctor. To have to tell you that.”
“Oh. No.” She looked away, her expression between angry and revolted. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this? Why?”
He stayed quiet.
“Blood runs deep,” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Referring to family ties, maybe? What about your grandfather, Araba’s husband?”
“Grandpa Simon. He’s alive, but demented, poor man—lives with my aunt, Eileen Copper, who is Uncle Charles’s older sister.” Smith-Aidoo’s expression turned sardonic. “Auntie Eileen fancies herself the family researcher and genealogist and tries to come off as scholarly.”
She might be very useful, Dawson thought. “Can I speak to her?”
Smith-Aidoo shrugged. “Sure, if you like. I’ll text you her number.”
“Thank you.” He followed her the rest of the way to the study. He was hopeful that he would be lucky and discover something that would break the case open and neatly tie it up. Of course, it never worked out that way.
Chapter 9
THE CARPETED STUDY WAS stifling, but the doctor switched on the AC, and the room began to cool off. Dawson saw she had been making an effort to sort out her uncle and aunt’s papers. Stacks of loose pages on the floor surrounded half-filled boxes labeled STMA, Malgam, Personal, Legal, and Misc, and the desk and file cabinet held more documents still.
“I apologize that it’s such a mess,” she said. “Superintendent Hammond and his guys looked through the paperwork, but as far as I know, they didn�
��t find anything useful. Maybe you’ll have better luck or a keener eye.”
“Thank you.” Dawson looked around the room, realizing something was missing. “There’s no computer. Didn’t your uncle use one?”
“He did have a laptop, which has disappeared. Hammond thinks possibly the killers stole it during the ambush.”
Dawson nodded. That would make sense, but he made a mental note to ask the superintendent about it.
“There’s something I want you to look at,” she said, sitting down on the floor in front of the STMA box with her legs folded under her. He followed her example, sitting opposite her.
She picked through the box and extracted a folder, from which she selected a typed letter. “See what you think of this.”
He read it.
15th February
Dear Madam Fiona Smith-Aidoo,
I have received your letter from 5th February. I appreciate your candid thoughts and agree how unseemly that these rumors arose. Based on your assurances, I believe you are an honorable woman who had nothing to do with the accusations. Regarding the radio broadcast in which I was involved, I apologize for and retract any inflammatory statements I made.
As we move into a new year, I hope to preside as chief executive over one of the most prosperous periods for our beloved Sekondi-Takoradi, and I look forward to your support.
Yours faithfully,
Kwesi DeSouza
“Is this about the allegation that DeSouza embezzled STMA money to build a house?” Dawson asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking a little surprised. “How did you know?”
“I have a cousin who has lived in Takoradi all his life and follows local politics, and I was talking to him last night.”
“Ah, I see.”
“He told me that Fiona and Kwesi DeSouza were rivals at the STMA.”
“Yes, they were.” She pulled a face. “DeSouza’s a nasty man. He was expecting to be reelected for a second term as chief executive of STMA, but Auntie Fiona beat him solidly. He was stunned. And I was glad.”
“Do you believe your aunt would have started the rumor about the embezzlement in order to discredit DeSouza?”
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