Murder at Cape Three Points

by Quartey, Kwei

  “Meanwhile, Smith-Aidoo went to Cardiman to tell him that if Chief Ackah-Yensu agreed to move, Malgam Oil would likely annex the Cardiman’s Ezile resort as well, in order to build more chalets. Cardiman leases the land from the Akwidaa village so he would have no legal right to stop it.”

  “The prospect of losing Ezile Bay was probably terrifying for him,” Dawson said. “It would give Cardiman a strong motive. Could he have followed the Smith-Aidoos and ambushed them on the road from Ezile?”

  Hammond shook his head. “They left Ezile around twelve thirty, and we have confirmed that Cardiman did not leave for Takoradi until one o’clock. The Smith-Aidoos would have been long gone by then, and Cardiman could never have caught up with them.”

  “Maybe he had an accomplice who delayed them until Cardiman arrived.”

  “Maybe this, maybe that,” Hammond said, with a sardonic smile. “We can’t operate on maybes. At the end of the day, there is no evidence whatsoever that Cardiman was involved.”

  Discussion over, Dawson thought. He moved on. “I found an old phone in Mr. Smith-Aidoo’s study. Were you aware of it?”

  Hammond looked at Seidu and then shook his head. “No, we didn’t find anything like that in his desk, and his niece didn’t mention it.”

  “It was buried in a box of old equipment and cables,” Dawson said.

  “What about it?” Hammond asked.

  “I saw some text messages from Charles Smith-Aidoo to a Lawrence Tetteh.”

  Hammond’s rocking stopped abruptly in the forward phase and he almost hurtled off his chair. “Did you say Lawrence Tetteh?”

  “Yes. I wonder if this is the same Lawrence Tetteh who was murdered.”

  “Why do you think that?” Hammond asked tensely.

  “Could there be a connection between the murder of Tetteh and the killing of the Smith-Aidoos?” Dawson asked coolly. “That’s the question I’ve been wondering myself the past few days.”

  Hammond squinted at him. “Do you have the phone with you?”

  Dawson took it out of his top pocket and switched it on. He took the screen view to the text message section before handing it to the superintendent.

  Seidu went around Hammond’s desk so he could watch as the superintendent scrolled through the messages.

  “Okay,” Hammond said, but it came out huskily and he cleared his throat. “I see what you’re saying.”

  “Shall I take it to Vodafone to see if they can trace the number, sir?” Seidu asked.

  “No, I can take care of it,” Hammond said. “I know one guy over there very well, and he can check it very quickly.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dawson said, pleasantly surprised by Hammond’s apparent willingness to participate.

  “Not at all.”

  Dawson stood up. “I’m going to look for Kwesi DeSouza at the STMA offices, sir.”

  “As I told you,” Hammond said, his coldness returning, “we have looked carefully into his alibi already. Nothing is there. I don’t think it’s necessary to go back to him.”

  “Just routine,” Dawson said lightly. “For my own records. You know Chief Superintendent Lartey—he scrutinizes every detail.”

  Hammond’s cheek twitched, probably resenting Dawson’s invoking a superior officer, because he couldn’t very well challenge it.

  “Also,” Dawson said, “I think I forgot to mention that my assistant, Detective Sergeant Chikata, will be joining me from Accra to help with the investigation.”

  Hammond nodded. “Yes, Chief Superintendent Lartey has informed me of that.”

  As Dawson was leaving, he kept feeling he had forgotten something, and it was as he was opening the door that he remembered.

  “One more thing, sir,” he said, turning with his right hand still on the doorknob. “Mr. Smith-Aidoo’s laptop was never found, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Hammond said. “We believe whoever ambushed his vehicle also stole his laptop.”

  Dawson suppressed a wince as a quick stab of pain shot through the palm of his left hand. “I see,” he said, catching his breath. “Thank you.”

  Dawson left stunned, because he knew decisively that Superintendent Hammond had just lied about the laptop. The timbre of his voice had changed, not in a way Dawson could consciously define, but enough to trigger his synesthesia and reveal that his superior wasn’t telling the truth. The laptop hadn’t been stolen. The question was, where was it, and what was Hammond trying to hide?

  Chapter 12

  THE STMA WAS AN old, two-story building painted an odd green and subdivided into three sections bordering the car park in a semicircle. A blue-uniformed guard directed Baah to an available parking space. Dawson got out and entered one of the ground floor departments, where a woman directed him upstairs to Kwesi DeSouza’s office. Marked with a sign that read CHIEF EXECUTIVE, it was the very last room at the end of the verandah. Dawson knocked and went in, welcoming the pleasant blast of cold from the air conditioner.

  The secretary at the desk told him that DeSouza was in a meeting and Dawson could wait if he had a half-hour to spare. He sat down where she had indicated and used the time to check his phone, replying to a text from Christine asking how he was doing.

  He also saw that Dr. Smith-Aidoo had sent him her aunt’s number.

  DeSouza’s door opened. Two men came out laughing over a shared joke. DeSouza, burly, bespectacled, and shaved completely bald, was dressed in a short-sleeved white linen shirt with Ghanaian embroidery down the front. After shaking hands with DeSouza, the visitor left.

  “What’s next, Susana?” DeSouza said to the secretary.

  “Please, there’s someone here to see you.”

  Dawson stood up and introduced himself.

  “Yes, sir,” DeSouza said. “How can I help you?”

  “May I speak with you for a few minutes?”

  DeSouza appeared curious and wary. “Come in,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  He ushered Dawson into the inner sanctum and then shut the door behind them. It was even colder in there than in the front office.

  Dawson chose one of the two chairs in front of the desk and DeSouza went to his on the other side. His office wasn’t opulent, just comfortable.

  “So, Inspector, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m in Takoradi investigating the murder of Charles and Fiona Smith-Aidoo. CID Headquarters was petitioned to look into the killings.”

  “What, is this a different investigation from Superintendent Hammond’s?”

  “It’s complementary to it, I would say.”

  “I’ve been questioned by both Hammond and his assistant, and now you want to do the same,” DeSouza said in annoyance. “I’m tired of you guys showing up at my door in the middle of my work. I mean, what is it you’re digging for? I didn’t murder the man or his wife. This should be more than obvious to you by now.”

  “I apologize for the repeated intrusions, sir. I realize how irritating it must be, and that isn’t my intention. However, I’m reviewing their investigation, and I have to be thorough. I have no choice.”

  DeSouza heaved an exasperated sigh. “All right. What is it you want to know?”

  “Just to confirm, Fiona Smith-Aidoo succeeded you as chief executive officer of the STMA in April this year, is that correct?”

  “Yes, yes. Isn’t this information already in your files?”

  “But once she was dead, the position reverted to you?”

  “Look, after her death, I was designated acting chief from July to October, and then a special election was held and I was re-elected.”

  “Did you get along well with Mrs. Smith-Aidoo?”

  “Oh, here we go again.” DeSouza closed his eyes for a tortured moment. “There are all kinds of stories about the rivalry between Fiona and me, but it’s much ado about nothing, and the notion that I might have plotted and executed her demise just to get this job back is just so ridiculous.”

  “You were on the radio—”
r />   “Yes, I know. I was on that Skyy FM program, and I said this and that. Maybe I was a little heated, but it was theatrics, that’s all it was.”

  He was theatrical—Dawson gave him that. “I was curious about this letter that I found among the Smith-Aidoos’ belongings”—he opened the folder he had brought and took the letter out, sliding it across the table to DeSouza—“signed in your name. Did you write it?”

  “Yes, I did,” he said, with an impatient glance. “And what about it? In fact, rather than anything nefarious, this letter expresses my true sentiments. ‘Based on your assurances, I believe you are an honorable woman’ is what I wrote and what I meant.”

  “What lead to this letter being written?”

  “Between January and April, Fiona was campaigning aggressively for the chief executive position,” DeSouza said, sounding somewhat like he was explaining to a child. “At the time, some people accused me of raiding the STMA coffers in order to build a luxury home. I don’t know where this blatant lie originated, but there was a rumor that Fiona was responsible.”

  “But you never had any evidence that the rumor was true.”

  “Correct.”

  “Is it possible that someone bore malice against Fiona Smith-Aidoo and tried to ruin her reputation by making it appear that she was creating the rumor?”

  “I have no idea,” DeSouza said, gesturing with impatience. “You’re asking me an impossible question. I can tell you that I did confront Fiona about it. She was quite insulted by the notion that she was responsible for this ‘gossip,’ as she called it. Obviously, she wanted her objection and denial recorded in black and white, so she sent me a letter to that effect, and I accepted it and replied with this one.”

  “Do you remember where you were on Monday, the seventh of July, the day Charles and Fiona were killed?”

  “Again, for the fourth or fifth time,” DeSouza said, as if this questioning was torture, “I am here in my offices every Monday from morning till early evening. Every Monday night, I prepare for the IT class I teach at Takoradi Tech on Tuesdays. That Tuesday, we had an STMA meeting in the evening. When I got here, it was around five thirty or so, and everyone was there except Fiona. It was unusual for her to be late or absent. We were scheduled to debate the issue of Sekondi-Takoradi city planning in response to the influx of people into the area. We even had the director of the Ghana Tourist Board present as well.”

  DeSouza’s phone rang, and he snatched it up, listened for a second, and then told the person on the line that he’d call him back. “So, yes—what was I saying?”

  “The meeting,” Dawson prompted him.

  “Right—Fiona was very late. We waited a little longer and tried to reach her by phone, but after about fifteen minutes or so, I offered to chair the meeting and we went ahead. About an hour later, one of the STMA members got a phone call from his wife, who works at the Effia-Nkwanta hospital, saying that Fiona and her husband were dead.”

  “How did your colleagues react?”

  DeSouza turned his palms up. “What do you expect? Disbelief. Shock. That doesn’t even sum up the totality of what we felt.”

  “At that time, what did you know about the cause of death?”

  “No one knew anything. The meeting came to a standstill and everyone was on the phone calling all over the place.”

  He stared at his desk for a while, evidently picturing the chaos and shock of that evening.

  “Did Fiona have any enemies among the STMA members?” Dawson asked, allowing a pause.

  “Not that I know of.” DeSouza pressed his lips together. “I cannot tell you how to do your job, but the likelihood of finding anyone on the STMA with motive enough to kill not only Fiona but her husband as well is very small. Disagreements occurred, yes, but this is entirely normal on a board such as this. In fact, it would have been odd if we didn’t have any divergence of opinion.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Do you know what I don’t get, Inspector Dawson?” he said, looking exasperated. “I don’t understand why you don’t target obvious suspects instead of coming here over and over to ask these tedious questions.”

  “Obvious suspects like whom?”

  “Take the simple example of that madman Reggie Cardiman at Ezile Bay,” DeSouza said with a backward flap of the hand. “He hated Smith-Aidoo’s guts. He was the one person who would suffer from some of the development plans that Malgam Oil had in mind, and Charles was driving those plans. Wouldn’t you want to get rid of the man if you were Cardiman? And what about the rumor that Fiona was having an affair? Have you followed that lead?”

  Dawson sat up straight. “An affair with whom?”

  “You’re investigating this case, and you don’t know this?” DeSouza said in disbelief. “I have no clue with whom she was supposed to be having an affair, Inspector. That’s for you to find out, for goodness’ sake. And even if I knew, I wouldn’t want to sully the person’s name.”

  “Well, you’ve at least partially sullied Cardiman,” Dawson pointed out dryly. “You might as well keep going.”

  Too late, he realized that the last comment wouldn’t go down well.

  “Are you quite finished?” DeSouza said icily. “I have work to do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dawson said, standing up. “Thank you very much for your help. Apologies for taking up your time.”

  DeSouza grunted and didn’t get up. At the door, Dawson turned. “One other question, sir. Did you hate Fiona Smith-Aidoo?”

  He gave Dawson a cold stare. “After all that we have said, you have the utter gall to ask me such a thing? I will not dignify it with a response. Please be sure to shut the door behind you.”

  Nice man, Dawson thought sardonically as he left. Not a pleasant interview at all. Nevertheless, what DeSouza had had to say was interesting. First, the chief executive had pointedly drawn attention to Cardiman’s animosity toward Charles, which Dawson had already realized, and then he had remarked upon a rumor that Fiona had been having an affair, which Dawson was hearing for the first time. Spurned lovers are no joke, he reflected. Adultery was fertile ground for a vicious murder in any number of directions.

  Dawson wondered about DeSouza’s motive in planting these “suspicions,” and it raised at least a soft alert in his mind.

  Baah had been chatting with the security guard as Dawson approached.

  “Where now, sir?” Baah asked as they got back into the car.

  “It’s time for lunch. Can we go somewhere to chop?”

  “I know a good place at Market Circle.”

  “Good. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  Chapter 13

  AFTER LUNCH, BAAH TOOK Dawson to his meeting with Jason Sarbah. The steel and glass Malgam building resembled its counterpart in Accra, but it was smaller. Baah drove up to the double gates at the entrance and waited for the armed sentry to come out and grant them clearance. Baah entered the large car park at the center of which was a circular lawn with perfectly tended grass and a rotating triangular prism bearing the Malgam logo on each face.

  Dawson hopped out, signed in at the sentry box, and went to the entrance. The lobby was spacious and quiet with a small bubbling fountain in one corner, large potted plants, and a waiting area with low-set leather seats. Dawson stopped at the front desk where two lovely young receptionists were sitting.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” one of them said.

  He liked her full red lips. Her manicured fingernails were the same color.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “Inspector Dawson to see Jason Sarbah.”

  “Please sign in and take a seat. I will let his office know.”

  She called up while Dawson wrote down his information in the large logbook on the countertop.

  “You can go up now, sir,” the receptionist said. “Here is your temporary ID badge. Please wear it in plain view around your neck during your entire visit and return it at the end. Security will escort you up.”

  Th
e security man released the barrier arm and held it open. The lift took them to the fifth floor and another reception area behind a pair of automatic glass doors.

  “Please have a seat,” the pretty but ice-cold receptionist said. “Mr. Sarbah will be with you in a moment.”

  Jason Sarbah came out a few minutes later. He was late thirties, athletic, of medium height and skin tone, dressed in a light beige suit and matching tie, clean-shaven, and very good-looking.

  “Inspector Dawson?” He smiled, but barely. “Pleased to meet you. Come this way and we can chat.”

  He followed Sarbah down a carpeted corridor with glass-enclosed offices on either side. Printed boldly on Sarbah’s door was his title: DIRECTOR OF CORPORATE RELATIONS.

  The office was spacious. His desk was glass-topped. He had a leather sofa, a water dispenser, a mini-bar, a coffee machine, and a bowl of fresh fruit.

  “Do have a seat,” he said, indicating the chair in front of the desk and sitting down in his executive leather chair on the opposite side. “So. Sekondi police have put out an SOS to help solve the Smith-Aidoo murder, is that it?”

  “Yes. A petition was submitted. As the detective assigned to the case, I do have to go over territory that may already have been covered by Superintendent Hammond, so I apologize in advance if some of my questions have been asked before.”

  He nodded and appeared very willing. Not a shadow or a frown passed over his expression. “No problem, Inspector. I’ll try to be of as much assistance as I can.”

  “If I’m correct,” Dawson began, “up until his death, Charles Smith-Aidoo had the job which you now hold.”

  “Yes, that’s right. He had been Corporate Relations Director at Malgam for almost two years.”

  “How did your filling his position come about after his murder?”

  “When the position for corporate relations director was first advertised, I applied for it and was interviewed. I didn’t get it—Charles did. I met Mr. Calmy-Rey at Charles’s funeral, and we chatted. He invited me here to talk some more.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, when I told him I had been after Charles’s position, he promised to talk to some members of his team. They invited me back for another interview, and after about a week, they offered me the job.”