“What’s that?” Dawson said, craning forward. He focused on it with the light.
“It might just be something that fell from the ceiling.” Chikata said.
“No be earring?” Baah said. “Those ones which make like big ring.”
“An earring,” Dawson whispered. He vaulted through the window and crouched down by the object to examine it more closely. Chikata and Baah followed.
“Well done, Baah!” Dawson exclaimed.
“What’s special about the earring?” Chikata asked.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Dawson said excitedly. “Fiona Smith-Aidoo was missing one hoop earring on autopsy. I bet you this is it. This is a real find, thanks to my man Baah. I think this is where the Smith-Aidoos were taken. If so, we might be able to track down the killers.”
IN THE MORNING, Dawson and Chikata went to the charge office at Takoradi central police station and asked the desk constable for access to the Smith-Aidoos’ personal effects. The constable took them down a corridor to the musty exhibit storeroom, where he checked the rows of shelves containing labeled boxes and plastic bags. He located the Smith-Aidoos’ box and brought it down to a table in the front part of the room. He opened up the exhibit register to record that the box was moving from its position for examination of the contents.
The constable took out the labeled bags containing Fiona’s and Charles’s bloodstained clothes, and from the bottom of the box, a silver hoop earring in its evidence bag. Dawson placed it alongside the earring they had found the night before. The two were identical.
“The same,” the constable commented.
“Yes,” Dawson agreed, looking at Chikata triumphantly.
THE INSPECTOR AND sergeant had a vigorous debate all during their drive to the Lands Commission on Sekondi Road. Dawson thought that there was a chance that the house belonged to or was in some way associated with the killers.
“But it could be anybody’s empty house that the killers knew about and just used for their purposes,” Chikata pointed out, leaning forward to gesticulate in the space between the front passenger and driver seats.
“So what?” Dawson challenged, turning to Chikata. “Are you saying it’s not worth a try?”
“No, I’m saying we might be on the way to arresting the wrong person.”
“Like that doesn’t happen all the time,” Dawson said dryly. “Look, whatever we find, we’ll look at it carefully and consider the next steps. We’re not going to rush into anything stupid.”
After a few minutes, he added, “At least, I hope not.”
Chikata guffawed from the back seat.
BAAH PARKED IN the shaded lot of the Lands Commission. Dawson and Chikata weren’t sure which of the four buildings to approach, but they tried the one with the sign LAND REGISTRY DIVISION. The young clerk at the front desk looked up as they walked in and put away the phone he had been texting on.
“Good morning, sir.”
Dawson told him he was looking for the owner of an area of land near Cape Three Points. The clerk went to the back and returned with an older man who introduced himself as Nicholas and took Dawson and Chikata into a hot, cavernous room with row upon row of paper files.
“You say Cape Three Points?” he asked Dawson. “Do you mean Cape Three Points village?”
“No, east of that—between there and Ezile.”
Nicholas grunted and sifted through giant folders hanging vertically on horizontal tracks. After some searching, he pulled one up and rested it on a table, slowly turning the large pages until he came to the correct area map. He leaned over it, studied it for a while and then pointed to a spot.
“Somewhere here?” he asked.
Dawson peered at it.
“I don’t know. The map is a little confusing.”
“The bay is here,” Nicholas said, his finger outlining the area. “This is Cape Three Points village west of the bay. This is Ezile to the east of it.”
“Okay, then yes. That’s the area I mean.”
“You’re sure?” Nicholas said, scrutinizing Dawson.
“Yes.”
Nicholas nodded and put the map away. “Please, can you wait here one minute? Let me go and check the records.”
“Okay.”
He was gone for about ten minutes, during which time Dawson and Chikata began to pour with sweat. Despite the open windows, air was barely circulating.
Nicholas returned shaking his head. “No record of any land title there.”
Dawson put his arms akimbo, surprised. “Then how is someone building on it?”
Nicholas snorted. “It happens all the time. The Land Title Registry won’t register a tract of land without a concurrence certificate from the Lands Commission. The Commission too won’t issue the certificate if it doesn’t get approval from Town and Country planning. T and C won’t give the approval without a confirmation map from the survey department, who says they don’t have enough funding for the mapping, and on it goes. Then who knows? Two brothers may be fighting over the land, neither of them has registered it, but one of them is building a house so he can claim the land is his. Utter confusion.”
Dawson frowned. “So can you investigate this any further?”
“Investigate what?”
“Who owns that land, and who is building a house on it?” Dawson said, a little impatiently, feeling his endeavor slipping away by the second.
“Well, I can try. It will take several weeks.”
Dawson’s eyes popped. “Weeks! I’m investigating a murder case—I don’t have weeks.”
Nicholas gestured with a sweeping motion of the hands. “Do you see any computers around here?”
“No,” Dawson said flatly.
“Exactly,” Nicholas said, with a sardonic smile. “I will have to cross-check old files and dig through paperwork from as far back as I don’t know when. And don’t think yours will be the only case I’m working on. I mean, you are a CID detective. You must understand my situation.”
Dawson puffed his breath out through his cheeks in resignation. “Okay,” he said disappointedly. “Take my phone number. Please, if you find anything, call me.”
“I will do that.”
Outside, Dawson shook his head. “What a waste of time,” he said, irritated. He was probably more annoyed that his brilliant plan hadn’t worked.
“We keep hitting on things that we think will bring us closer to a solution,” Chikata said, as they got back into the car. “The earring, Smith-Aidoo’s pen drive … what next?”
“I don’t know,” Dawson said heavily. On impulse, he called Christine just to say hello.
“You don’t sound so good,” she said.
“We’re stuck,” he replied glumly.
“That means you’re about to have an epiphany,” she said encouragingly. “Happens every time.”
“I hope you’re right.” He told her he missed her and that she should kiss the boys for him and then hung up. A few minutes later, he gasped and buried his face in his hands.
“Massa, what’s wrong?” Chikata said, leaning forward with concern.
“Awurade, something is the wrong with me,” Dawson moaned.
“What?” Chikata said in alarm. “Are you feeling sick?”
Dawson turned to him. “Don’t you see? It’s not Smith-Aidoo’s pen drive we need, it’s Tetteh’s.”
Chapter 33
BAAH GOT DAWSON AND Chikata to Accra in two hours. He didn’t know the big, messy capital at all, so they directed him to Labone Estates. The houses here were large and gated. The schools nearby, like Ghana International School, were posh and top of the line. They were looking for 27 Labone Crescent, Lawrence Tetteh’s address. After a bit of wandering around, they found it—a relatively short, curved street with a T-junction at either end. Between 17 and 23, no house numbers were evident, but 25 popped up all of a sudden and Baah overshot number 27. Dawson got out and walked back, gazing up at the high security wall, which was painted in rich tangerin
e. He pushed the button at the side of the sturdy double gate, and after a few moments, a woman cracked it open. She was slight, mid-thirties with coarse features, and hair singed by cheap relaxants.
“Good afternoon.” He greeted her with the smile he used when he thought the person he was addressing might prove useful.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“I’m looking for one Charity. Is she here?”
“Yes? I’m Charity.”
“Oh, very good. Mepaakyew, my name is Darko Dawson. You were Mr. Tetteh’s housemaid, not so?”
“Yes, please,” she said, a little warily.
“Can I talk to you about what happened to him?”
Fear moved across her face like a quick wave. “Please, are you from the police?” she whispered, glancing surreptitiously behind her.
“I work at CID.”
She seemed unsure exactly what that meant. “Please, they told me not to talk about it to anyone.”
“Who told you?” he asked gently.
She swallowed and shook her head, backing up slightly. She had already said too much.
“I know you worked for him for many years,” Dawson said quickly to avoid losing her. “You were faithful to him until the end, and I admire you for that. We should keep caring about him, even though he is dead. We have to find out who really killed him.”
A woman’s voice yelled from the house, “Who is it, Charity?”
“Please, I’m coming,” she called back and then leaned toward him to whisper, “The Madam is calling me. I can’t talk now. I will close at six o’clock to go to my sister’s house in La. Wait for me near the Morning Star School, and I will come there.”
She shut the gate quickly.
Dawson trotted back to the car to report. Six o’clock was another four hours from then, so they went to the corner and bought some roasted corn from a vendor. They stood under the shade of a frangipani tree.
“Have you noticed,” Chikata said, munching hungrily, “that rich neighborhoods always look deserted?”
Dawson nodded, demolishing the last of his corn. “It’s because they’re all inside counting their money. Come on, let’s go to the Internet café.”
On the way there, they passed the highly rated Morning Star School, where they were to meet up later with Charity. Dawson prayed she would show up. He and Chikata entered the Danquah Circle Busy Internet and paid for an hour each of computer time. The gigantic, air-conditioned room was full of people furiously surfing at row after row of computer cubicles, including, no doubt, dozens of Sakawa boys, the infamous young Internet swindlers who could make as much as two thousand dollars in a good month. Dawson mentally shook his head at the thought of making that kind of money. He logged onto one of the machines while Chikata used the in-house Wi-Fi on his laptop.
Dawson did a search on Lawrence Tetteh and came across a You-Tube conversation between Tetteh and TV host David Ampofo. At the time, Tetteh had just taken over as CEO of Goilco after having worked for oil companies in Dallas for a number of years. He looked distinguished and professorial in wire-rimmed glasses and a dark suit. He had a stubborn jaw and a pendulous bottom lip. He said he planned to make Goilco a world-class oil and gas organization. In doing so, he was committed to transparency and honesty.
“Do you believe you have an equitable relationship with your partners—Malgam Oil, for example?” Ampofo asked him with his legendary intensity. “And with your counterpart Mr. Roger Calmy-Rey?”
“Yes, I do. I believe that Mr. Calmy-Rey and I share similar values and goals.”
Standard party line, Dawson thought, a little disappointed. He had expected something less conventional, more radical, from Tetteh. He looked up Roger Calmy-Rey and found a short Wikipedia biography.
Roger William Calmy-Rey (born 1950) is the son of the late Ulysses Calmy-Rey, founder of Malgam Oil, one of Europe’s largest businesses.
Career
Educated at Harrow School in Harrow, northwest London, and London University where he studied Political Science. He joined Malgam Oil in late 1973 at the urging of his father. He became the CEO in 1987 on the death of his father, Ulysses Calmy-Rey.
After that, Dawson found multiple interviews with and profiles of Roger Calmy-Rey by online publications like the Independent.co.uk. Calmy-Rey believed strongly in the future of oil in Africa, he said. He wanted his company to be in the continent for decades to come, while building relations of mutual respect between Malgam and its African host countries like Ghana and Uganda.
Dawson was now on a searching streak. He tried “Sarbah” and got a GhanaWeb.com article about Jason Sarbah’s appointment as Malgam Director of Corporate Relations, replacing the deceased Charles Smith-Aidoo. Other links to the Sarbah name were of no importance.
Dawson stared at the screen and brooded as doubts lingered about what he and Chikata were venturing into. How dangerous might it be to delve into a corruption scheme involving the BNI and people in high positions? If Tetteh and Charles were killed for what they knew, was Dawson setting himself up for the same fate? Most of his panic had to do with his family. Was he being overdramatic in thinking he might be about to endanger the lives of Christine and the boys? He didn’t think so.
He got up, signaling he was stepping outside to Chikata, who was showing a pretty girl how to log on as she coyly feigned ignorance. Dawson went to the far brick wall of the car park to call his mentor, Daniel Armah, but he didn’t pick up. Armah had long retired from the police service, and now ran a private detective agency in the city of Kumasi.
Dawson was tempted to call Christine as well, but she would be able to tell from his voice that he was worried about something, and that would inject anxiety into her. He wanted to see her, but this was not the time.
He caught a whiff of smoke and immediately recognized its sharp sweetness. Someone was puffing on marijuana in the alley behind the wall. Dawson had an intense desire to smoke some himself. He went back inside the Internet café to get away from temptation.
STANDING NEXT TO Baah’s taxi, Dawson waited at the north end of Morning Star School. He had sent Chikata to the opposite side of the building when it had occurred to him that he didn’t know which of the two approaches Charity would use. It was six o’clock. The schoolchildren were all gone for the day. Four staff cars remained in front of the building. No sign of Charity yet. He called Chikata. “Nothing?”
“Not yet.”
By 6:30, Dawson was becoming doubtful that she would show, and by 7:00, he was losing hope. He buzzed Chikata again and told him they would wait until 7:15 and call it quits if Charity did not show up.
Ten after seven, Dawson saw her hovering uncertainly at the corner of Labone Avenue and Cantonments Road. She spotted him and hesitantly began to walk in his direction. He closed the space between them and met her halfway.
“Hello, Charity. Thank you for coming.”
“Yes, please.”
She was jumpy and kept looking around. Taking a guess, Dawson asked her if she was a Ga. She said yes, and Dawson switched from English to Ga to help her feel more at ease. “Where do you want to talk?”
“Not here,” she said firmly. “Rather, let’s go to my sister’s house.”
“I have a taxi.”
They swung around to pick Chikata up, and Dawson introduced Charity to him, reassuring her that he could be trusted. Charity suggested Baah avoid the congested Ring Road and directed him through the twists and turns of the side streets, some of which were in a terrible, potholed state. Along the route, vendors sold Kelewele—ripe plantain crisply deep-fried with ginger, red pepper, and other spices—by fluorescent light or smoky kerosene lamps.
Charity’s neighborhood was relatively close to the beach, separated from it only by Labadi Road. She told Baah where to stop and Dawson asked him to wait, giving him a couple of cedis to get something to eat.
It was pitch dark as they made their way to the house, and although Charity knew every inch along the route, Dawson and Chi
kata thought it best to use their flashlights as they navigated clogged gutters and undulating terrain with sharp outcroppings of rock.
In her own environment, Charity seemed less diffident. Her sister’s house was small and square with a corrugated metal roof and hole-ridden mosquito netting on the windows. Outside, a young woman in her early twenties was crouched on her haunches frying fish on a charcoal stove by lantern light. Three small children ran up to Charity to hug her before going back to playing.
“My grandchildren,” she told the two men with a smile. “That’s my daughter who is cooking. Please, let’s go inside the house.”
In the sitting room dimly lit by one anemic bulb, a boy of about thirteen was sitting on a lopsided couch watching a small TV with grainy reception. He got up immediately without prompting and turned off the set before leaving with a respectful “good eve’ng” to the two guests.
Charity pulled up some plastic chairs, and the three of them sat down at a slight angle to each other.
“Thank you for bringing me to your house,” Dawson said in Ga. “I told you I’m trying to find out what happened to Lawrence Tetteh, and I hope you can help me.”
“Yes, please.”
“Can you tell me a little bit about him?”
“He was a good man. He always tried to help me. I stayed in the servant’s quarters, but every Sunday, he told me to take the day off to go to church and visit my family.”
Dawson sat forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a more relaxed pose, which tended to put people more at ease. “Who is living in his house now?”
“His uncle and his aunt, their son, and the son’s wife. And another woman too, but I don’t even know who she is.” She shook her head as if she was talking about a den of thieves.
“How did Mr. Tetteh treat you?”
She clasped her hands together, and her face took on heavy sorrow. “He respected me and trusted me even more than his own family.”
“What about his wife?”
“He married some woman when he was in States. She doesn’t live in Ghana.” Charity looked down at her fingers. “Different women always used to come and visit him.”
Murder at Cape Three Points Page 25