He put Sly over one shoulder and Hosiah under his arm and took them writhing to the sitting room, where they had a wrestling match—two children versus one adult. Dawson marveled at how Hosiah’s vigor was already returning to normal. Nevertheless, he kept the play to only fifteen minutes, at the end of which the kids declared victory.
“Next time I’ll finish both of you off,” he warned to their hilarity. “Okay, time to go and get ready.”
“Where are we going today?” Sly asked.
“Cape Three Points.”
Hosiah wrinkled his nose. “What’s that?”
“It’s the most southern part of Ghana. There’s a nice beach there. Uncle Abraham and Auntie Akosua will take us.”
Excited, the two boys rushed to the bathroom to wash up.
“There’s a water shortage,” Dawson warned them, “so use what’s in the buckets and don’t waste it, you hear?”
ABRAHAM DROVE HIS 4 × 4 Toyota with Dawson beside him in the front passenger seat and Christine, Akosua, Sly, and Hosiah in the rear. There was no room for Chikata, so he followed them with Baah in the taxi. Once out of Takoradi’s city limits, it was thirty minutes to the turnoff at Agona-Nkwanta, where aggressive vendors swarmed their vehicle. Abraham didn’t stop, turning onto the left branch off the central roundabout. They enjoyed the paved route for another fifteen minutes up to the right-hand junction to Cape Three Points. There, the dirt road began, winding ahead like a meandering serpent. It was potholed and bumpy in spots, but the Toyota handled it easily. On the other hand, trailing behind in the taxi, Chikata and Baah were having a rough time of it.
A left-pointing arrow indicated the final turn into Ezile Bay, a grassy pathway worn down by vehicle traffic. The two vehicles bounced over the remaining few meters and parked. Several small thatch-roofed, sandstone-colored chalets were scattered over a wide area, nestled among coconut palms, ferns, and trailing bougainvillea plants. Directly ahead, the aqua sea stretched to the horizon, rolling onto the off-white sand with soft wave breaks. Fishing canoes in the distance with their signature flags were clear silhouettes against a cloudless sky.
Hosiah hopped up and down with anticipation as everyone alighted. “Daddy, can we go in the water now?”
“Let’s go to the edge and then Uncle Abe will go in with you later.”
Sly walked alongside Hosiah, who skipped in the sand as he tugged and swung on his father’s hand. He had no fear of the sea, whereas Dawson eyed the waves with some unease. He couldn’t let his sons sense that, however. They went as far as the dissolving trail of the receding waves. Dawson guessed that the tide was low. Gleefully, Hosiah splattered the wet sand with his bare feet. Sly, who hailed from landlocked northern Ghana and was unaccustomed to beaches, was more restrained.
Dawson realized that this was the most serene setting he had ever experienced. Accra was hell, and Ezile was paradise. This place had no crowds or blaring horns, only a young white woman and a Ghanaian man having fun in the water. He was laughing as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and her legs around his waist, pressing her crotch into his. Dawson shifted his gaze eastward about 500 meters to a village that was subdivided into two sections by a lagoon formed by the meeting of the Ezile River and the sea. He had done his homework and knew this was the village of Akwidaa.
“Okay,” he said to the boys. “Let’s go back.”
They returned up the slight incline, and Hosiah scooped up a little sand and let it flow from his hand in the breeze.
“Daddy, did you catch the bad man yet?” he asked unexpectedly. “The man who cuts off people’s heads?”
“No, not yet. Are you still scared he’ll hurt Daddy?”
Hosiah’s response was an uncertain shake and nod of the head—no, and yes.
“Anyway, Daddy can beat that man in a fight,” Sly declared, executing a left jab and right uppercut. The boy still had the ways of the street in him.
Thanks for the confidence, Dawson thought with some amusement. “I’m only going to catch him,” he said, putting an arm around Sly’s shoulders, “not fight with him.”
“Oh,” Sly said, looking a little disappointed. He looked at Hosiah. “I’ll race you to the coconut trees.”
They took off, Sly holding back somewhat so that he wouldn’t beat Hosiah by a great margin. Dawson rejoined Christine and the others near a set of chairs and tables in the shade of the coconut palm, where they had a perfect view of the bay formed by two forested promontories on either side.
“This is the life,” Christine said. “I could live here.”
“Me too,” Akosua said.
“Fine,” Abraham cracked. “When we depart, we’ll leave you ladies both behind.”
“Hmm,” Akosua said. “Who’s going to cook for you?”
A white man in shorts and slippers approached them at a leisurely pace. He was of average height with a rotund belly, a fiery head of red hair, and a hircine beard streaked with grey.
“Mr. Cardiman?”
“Yes, and you must be Inspector Dawson. Welcome, sir!”
His voice resembled paper clips rattling in a tin, which suggested to Dawson a man who enjoyed an unfettered, somewhat jumbled life.
“This is a beautiful place,” Dawson said as he shook hands.
He introduced Chikata, the three other adults, and the two boys. Cardiman bent forward and playfully rubbed their heads.
“I’m sure you lads can’t wait to get into the water, eh?”
“You are reading their minds correctly,” Dawson said.
“Well, it’s low tide and will remain so for a few hours yet,” Cardiman said jovially, “so it’s a perfect time to go in.”
“My cousin can go in with them while we talk,” Dawson said.
“Come on, boys,” Abraham said. “Let’s go and change.”
Sly and Hosiah raced off excitedly in front of their uncle.
“Shall we go to my office, gentlemen?” Cardiman said to Dawson and Chikata.
“See you ladies later,” Dawson said.
Lazing in the lounge chairs, neither woman was paying much attention to him.
A ROOM IN Cardiman’s house served as the office. His desk, a muddle of papers crowding out two laptops, confirmed Dawson’s first impressions: the man was a little scattered, but happy with it. Facing Cardiman, Dawson and Chikata sat down in a pair of cushioned chairs along the wall. A pleasant cross breeze passed through the two mosquito-screened windows.
“I know you are anxious to talk about the Smith-Aidoo murders, Inspector,” Cardiman said.
“Did you know them well?”
“I knew Charles as well as I wanted to, but I met his wife only once, and that was when they visited me here at Ezile on that fateful Monday.”
“What was the purpose of their visit?”
“Whenever Charles Smith-Aidoo was here,” Cardiman said, leaning back and resting his hands on the promontory of his belly, “it was to talk to Akwidaa’s chief, Nana Ackah-Yensu; myself; or both. Charles had a vision in which the two bays formed by the three peninsulas—the three points, so to speak—could become residential areas. Housing for low and mid-level workers in the oil industry would start some distance back from the beach and be built progressively inward. Luxurious chalets and mansions for rich people would be right on the beach.”
Distress now passed across Cardiman’s face like a shadow. “Have you seen the majesty of this place? A swampland with superb mangroves is just a short walking distance from here. Akwidaa is on the east side of the bay, and beyond that, you’ll find the ruins of an ancient German fort. Later on, I’d like to show you the bay on the other side of mangroves—simply lovely. Unparalleled forest and wildlife thrive along the three peninsulas for which Cape Three Points is named. The oil companies are already destroying marine life and habitat, and now they want to add land to their conquests and get rid of Ezile Bay Resort. Over my dead body.”
Or Smith-Aidoo’s, Dawson thought. “I read the minutes of the mee
tings you attended at the STMA. You strongly oppose the oil people.”
“What happens when multinational companies invade a developing country like Ghana to set up extractive industries like gold or diamonds, or oil?” Cardiman demanded, thrusting his hands out. “They ruin the country, that’s what happens, Inspector. We all know about the chaos in the Niger Delta, where oil spills occur practically every day.”
“Has there been an oil spill off Ghana’s shores?” Chikata asked, and Dawson thought it was an excellent question.
“We had one just six months ago, and yet no one said a word,” Cardiman said, folding his arms in indignation. “Not one word, gentlemen. No government announcement, nothing in the papers, and precious little on the radio. Can you imagine that?”
“How did you hear about it?” Dawson asked.
“I know one of the Malgam helicopter pilots who takes workers to and from the rig. He saw the sheen over the water surface. It obviously wasn’t a large spill, but it was a spill just the same. I’m convinced that there’s been more than one but I believe that there’s been a hush imposed on the media. Fish populations are down, whales have been washing up dead on Western Region beaches—”
“Whales?” Dawson said in surprise. “Ghana has whales?”
“Oh, yes!” Cardiman exclaimed with a smile. “And dolphins and endangered giant sea turtles. They didn’t teach you all that in school, did they?”
“No,” Dawson said. “Although it’s possible I slept through that class.”
Cardiman laughed, the stern expression on his face softening a bit.
“Let’s say a very large spill occurs,” Dawson said, “who pays for it?”
“Malgam will pay for the cleanup, but that’s as far as they’re obligated.”
“They wouldn’t be fined?”
“No,” Cardiman said, shaking his head with vigor. “Even worse, they don’t pay restitution to fishing communities should their livelihoods be adversely affected. They can get away with murder, and that’s not an exaggeration.”
“And whose fault is that?” Dawson asked.
“Our government’s, that’s who!” Cardiman said, as if it should have been obvious. “A pusillanimous bunch who can’t stand up to these multinationals or resist the money that gets deposited in their Swiss bank accounts, not to mention the all-expenses-paid jaunts to Europe.”
“You’re saying gifts in exchange for keeping regulations at a minimum,” Dawson said.
“Do you think this lack of oversight of the oil companies is accidental?” Cardiman asked heatedly. “Don’t believe it for a moment.”
Dawson wondered if the man was being over-cynical, but he didn’t know enough to challenge him.
“Where did Charles Smith-Aidoo fit into all of this?” he asked.
“Here’s the problem,” Cardiman said with authority. “Charles served two masters—Malgam Oil, and himself, and sometimes it was a conflict of interest. His duties to Malgam included presenting the best face of the company to outside agencies, and to the public. However, at the same time he was setting up moneymaking ventures for personal gain. So, for instance, while he’s representing Malgam in their PR move to rebuild Akwidaa, he gets the bright idea that Akwidaa should trade their beachfront property in return for electricity and running water at another location, and he’s thinking about what’s in it for him and his developer friend.”
“What developer friend?”
“Peter Duodo. Savvy man—owns Duodo Enterprises in Accra. It’s in the Price-Waterhouse Building near Kotoka Airport.” Cardiman seemed to relish supplying information. “The two of them had some kind of informal scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours arrangement.”
“I see.” Dawson was thinking about all Cardiman had said so far. “Do you think Malgam would really finance the relocation of an entire village?”
“Let me tell you exactly how it would go,” Cardiman said knowingly. “Malgam officially collaborates with the government on the project to move the village back from the beach while allowing them access to the sea via the Ezile River and the lagoon. Malgam promises a certain amount of money to support pipe-borne water and electrification, on the condition that the government completes the housing. That’s because Malgam isn’t stupid, and the crafty devils know that the government will start the buildings, partially complete them, the village people will move in, and the Ministry of Interior will maybe put in a community tap at most, with promises of electricity to come. The MP gets a little pocket money from Malgam in return for the project dragging or coming to a complete stop.”
Cardiman looked from Dawson to Chikata and back. “You follow? Okay, the opposition party comes into power four or eight years later, parliament defunds the project and it collapses. In the end, Malgam gains beachfront property to develop, they’ve paid a sum of money that’s a drop in the bucket for them, the government hasn’t spent that much either, and the people of Akwidaa are left with a less than half-finished village with reduced access to the shore, no electricity, and one lousy community tap.”
“So now that Charles Smith-Aidoo is dead, a scheme like that is also dead?” Dawson asked.
“Oh, yes—for now,” Cardiman said with undisguised satisfaction. “Not that I’m glad Charles is dead, but there you have it. The new man, Jason Sarbah, is not keen on all this development stuff, but don’t be surprised if it all resurfaces at some point.”
“What happened that day Charles and his wife came to visit you?”
Cardiman sighed, rested his palms on his knees, and collected himself for the account. “They arrived around eleven. Charles mentioned that they had come from a meeting in Axim that morning. Fiona sat at the beachside while Charles and I talked in the restaurant. He offered me a stake in a development along the Cape Three Points shoreline, including the Ezile Bay and Akwidaa locations. He showed me the plan, the expected revenue, the environmental impact assessment, and so on. And I said no. Full stop. No. I said I didn’t want to lose this place at the hands of some faceless moneymaking venture. I don’t operate this resort for money—in fact, I don’t make much money from it at all. I do it for the love of it.”
“What did Smith-Aidoo say to your answer?” Dawson asked.
“He accepted it, and we more or less left it at that. I had lunch with him and Fiona, and we parted on amicable terms.” Cardiman smiled. “Look, I’m no fool, Inspector. I know you’re looking for a murderer and that I was one of the last persons to see the Smith-Aidoos alive. So, yes, I accept that I could be a suspect, but let me assure you of one thing: Although Charles and I had fundamental disagreements in outlook, I did not hate the man. In fact he was really a nice, personable chap.”
Dawson shook his head. That wasn’t good enough. “It’s not a matter of hate, Mr. Cardiman, it’s rather his threatening the way of life you love. This place represents your very reason for living in Ghana, or am I wrong?”
“You are not, and I appreciate your clarity of perception, but …”
“Let’s go over this again,” Dawson interrupted, dissatisfied with the way the discussion was going. From the corner of his eye, he saw Chikata carefully watching Cardiman. “What time did Charles and Fiona leave Ezile Bay?”
“Around twelve thirty. I was due in Takoradi that afternoon, so I left at about one. I came across their vehicle at the roadside about twenty or twenty-five minutes later. The front doors were wide open. I took a look inside the vehicle without touching anything, I looked around, called out their names several times, but nothing.”
“Did you see anyone in the vicinity or any sign of another vehicle?” Chikata chimed in, to Dawson’s approval. He wanted more of that from his sergeant.
“No one and nothing,” Cardiman said firmly. “It’s not a highly traveled road, as you yourself must have noticed on your way in. It’s usually several miles before you see anyone else either in a car or on foot, and for the most part that’s near the two or three villages along the way—women carrying firewood and so on.”
Which makes it a very convenient place to kill someone, Dawson thought. “Do you own any firearms, Mr. Cardiman?”
“No!” He looked baffled. “Come on, Inspector. I didn’t kill the man any more than you did. How could I have ambushed their vehicle if they left at twelve thirty, and I left almost thirty minutes later? By that time, they would have been close to the Agona Junction. I couldn’t possibly have caught up with them.”
Dawson admitted to himself that Cardiman was right. He took a few minutes to jot down notes in his book and then looked at Chikata. “Did you have any more questions?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“Would you do us a favor, Mr. Cardiman?” Dawson said. “We’d like go to the spot you discovered the Smith-Aidoos’ Hyundai and look around a little bit.”
“Certainly. I can drive you there right away.”
Chapter 19
DAWSON OBSERVED THAT RESORT ownership must not have been treating Cardiman too badly. He owned a late edition Land Rover SUV, which he drove at breakneck speed. Dawson sat beside him with Chikata in the rear.
“I know every centimeter of this road,” Cardiman said, swerving violently to avoid a pothole. “At the height of the rainy season when everything turns to mud, it’s bloody awful.”
“Is this the only route to and from Ezile by car?” Dawson asked him.
“The only civilized way, so to speak.”
They passed a creek into which several laughing kids were jumping from the bridge overpass. The children waved and cheered as the Land Rover sped past.
About twenty minutes later, they had reached their destination. The thick vegetation came right up to the sides of the dirt road, so Cardiman let the two detectives down first before pulling over into the bush and out of the way. He heaved himself out of the Land Rover with a grunt and joined them.
“So their vehicle was right about here, where we’re standing,” he said, indicating a stretch of a few meters on the same side he had parked.
It was hot and eerily quiet, but Dawson gradually became aware of birdcalls piercing the silence. He looked up and down the road. The spot was situated directly after a slight incline and a particularly rocky and potholed section, which meant the Smith-Aidoos would probably have had to slow down a little bit as they approached, making it easier to flag them down. Who, besides Cardiman, knew that the Smith-Aidoos would be on the road from Ezile?
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