Death at the Voyager Hotel

by Kwei Quartey

  The office door was shut for privacy. He had helped himself to a chair, but Paula had remained standing. For the moment, the schoolchildren were in the playground oblivious to the tragedy. Paula knew that she would soon have to call assembly to break the horrifying news, and she dreaded the prospect.

  “Did you see her over the weekend?” Agyekum asked Paula. His voice was thin, like a river reed. He had a plodding air, and could have been either a dullard or a genius.

  “No,” she said. “We seldom got together on Saturdays or Sundays unless we had a special school event.”

  “I see.” He studied her. “The last time you saw her was Friday afternoon, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was she acting normally?”

  “The same Heather we always knew. Happy, laughing, cracking jokes, helping the students in the classroom. They loved her. We all did.”

  As the DCI jotted down his notes, Paula gazed out of the window. She felt as if her chest had been hollowed out. The day had taken on a nightmarish quality. Heather had drowned to death. How could that be?

  “Do you know if Miss Peterson could swim?” Agyekum asked, breaking into Paula’s thoughts.

  “Yes, very well,” she said emphatically. “She often swam in the Voyager pool or at the beach, which is why I don’t understand how she could have drowned. What exactly happened, Chief Inspector? Do you know?”

  He finished what he was writing before answering her, as if he didn’t like to do two things at once. “The medical examiner will have the final word when he does the postmortem, but our first impression is that it was an accident. Maybe she wasn’t such a good swimmer after all and found herself unable to handle the deep end of the pool.”

  “But she was a good swimmer,” Paula protested. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  He shrugged. “Even good drivers have car crashes.”

  Paula fought the impulse to roll her eyes. “How deep is the pool?”

  “About two meters. At least, that’s what the hotel manager told me.”

  “How long was she in the water before she was found?”

  “We don’t know yet,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Did Miss Peterson drink alcohol or use drugs?”

  “She drank beer and wine on occasion, but not heavily, and she definitely did not use drugs.”

  “All right.” He stared at Paula again for a moment, as if pondering something. “I would like to talk to”—he looked at his list—“Diane Jones. Please have her come in.”

  While he was waiting for Miss Jones to come in, Detective Chief Inspector Agyekum went over his notes. With years of experience under his belt, he knew that suspicious deaths were not always what they at first seemed. Apparent suicides could really be homicides, for example, but in this particular case, his strong impression was that this poor young lady, Heather Peterson, had gone swimming under the influence—probably of alcohol—and drowned as a result. The sad fact was that alcohol was a cause of a very high percentage of accidental drowning deaths. Still, Agyekum knew it was good practice to proceed with this investigation with all possibilities in mind—at least until the results of the autopsy were in. He was a good detective, and he felt confident that the autopsy would confirm the scenario he suspected.

  Miss Jones seemed dazed as she entered. Looking completely deflated, she collapsed into a chair. When prompted by Agyekum, she gave him her full name and contact information in a soft monotone as she stared at the ground.

  “When was the last time you saw Miss Peterson?” he asked her.

  “Saturday afternoon at the Voyager,” she said, quietly. “I stay there too.”

  “Seems like that hotel is very popular with the staff here,” he commented.

  “Paula arranges for all the teacher’s aides to get a discount,” she informed him.

  “Ah, I see,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile. “So, on Saturday, you spent time with her?”

  “We were together for a couple of hours by the pool. When it started to get dark, we went back to our rooms.”

  “Did she tell you about any plans for the night?”

  “She said she would probably be going out.”

  The inspector perked up. “To where?”

  “She didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”

  Not like a woman not to ask, he thought. “Was she going to meet someone?”

  Diane hesitated slightly. “She didn’t say.”

  He pursed his lips and studied her. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  A fly had gotten into the room and he swatted at it as it zigzagged around his head. “Did you and Heather swim while you were at the pool on Saturday?”

  “She did, mostly,” Jones said. “I dipped my legs in at the shallow end, but that’s as far as I go. I can’t swim at all. ”

  He jotted down, Jones – can’t swim with an asterisk. “Was Heather in the habit of swimming late at night?”

  “Sometimes, yes—to cool off. She didn’t like to use the a-c because it bothered her sinuses, so on hot nights, she went to the pool for about thirty minutes.”

  “This is March,” he pointed out. “Every night is hot in Ghana around this time. Did Miss Peterson go to the pool every night?”

  “I’d say often,” Jones said uncertainly. “If not every.”

  “You didn’t see her go to the pool last night, or hear her swimming?”

  “No. You can’t hear anyone from the rooms—at least I can’t, especially with the air conditioner on. Plus, at night the windows are shut to keep out the mosquitoes.”

  “Did Heather swim naked sometimes?” he asked, interested to observe Jones’s reaction.

  She was visibly startled. “What?”

  “Naked. Did she swim naked?”

  “No,” she said, looking offended. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because that’s how she was found in the pool—naked.”

  “Oh, my God.” She put her hand to her mouth and tears welled up. He could see she was genuinely upset.

  “Sorry,” he said, regretting his bluntness, although he thought it was plausible that an American woman would do something like go swimming in the nude. He’d heard that people did that in the US. Apparently they had special beaches where you could walk around naked. Appalling, he thought. He waited a moment before continuing. “What time did you go to bed last night, Miss Jones?”

  She thought back briefly. “About midnight.”

  “Between the time you were with Miss Peterson on Saturday afternoon,” he said carefully, “and the time you went to bed last night, did you see her anywhere or have any contact with her?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Did you wake up at any time during the night?”

  “No—not for any significant period, at least.”

  “Did Miss Peterson drink?”

  “She had a beer every once in a while, but not that afternoon. Why, did someone say she was drunk?”

  “Did you ever see her intoxicated?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  She frowned. “No.”

  “What about drugs—marijuana, cocaine, and so on—did Miss Peterson take any?”

  Diane shifted in her seat, clearly annoyed. “She wasn’t that kind of person. Why, are you suspecting her of drugs or something?”

  “No, Miss Jones, I am not,” he said, a trifle impatiently. “Did Heather have a boyfriend?”

  Her eyes fluttered slightly. “Well, I guess she and one of the teachers here were dating.”

  “Which teacher?”

  “Oliver Danquah.”

  Agyekum hadn’t spoken to Mr. Danquah yet. “Did he and Heather get along well with each other?”

  She shrugged. “They were dating, so they must have been, right? I didn’t stick my nose in her business.”

  Agyekum was skeptical of that claim, because he’d never met a woman who minded her own business.

  “Where was Miss Peterson from?” he asked.
<
br />   “Portland, Oregon.”

  “How long had she been at High Street Academy?”

  “Four months. She was going to stay a total of six.”

  “And yourself? How long?”

  “I’ve been here seven months and I’ll be staying another two. It’s my second visit to Ghana.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He smiled at her. “Thank you, Miss Jones.”

  He held the door open for her.

  Oliver Danquah, powerfully built and stylishly dressed, looked morose and tense.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Agyekum said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I understand she was your girlfriend.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yesterday.” A faraway look came to his eyes as he recalled. “After church, I went to meet her at the hotel around noon. We went to the Accra Mall to see a movie, and then to Shoprite. After that, we ate at one of the restaurants.”

  “Was that all you did?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did she plan to swim in the evening?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, clenching his jaw. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you go back to the Voyager Hotel with her after leaving the mall?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And then?”

  Danquah looked puzzled. “And then what?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you,” Agyekum said with a one-sided smile. “After you and Heather returned to the hotel, what did you do?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “How nothing? Mr. Danquah, if you had sex with her, just say so. If you watched TV with her, then say it. None of this is a crime. Why are you evading my questions?”

  “But I didn’t have sex,” he protested. “We talked, that’s all.”

  “Okay,” Agyekum said resignedly. “When is the last time that you saw her alive?”

  “I left her around eight thirty to go to Korle Bu Hospital. My father is sick in the fever unit.”

  “You stayed with him for how long?”

  “About one hour.”

  “And then where did you go?”

  “Home. To sleep.”

  Agyekum eyed Danquah a moment. The man didn’t only seem grief-stricken, he seemed nervous as well. “Where do you live?”

  “Teshie.”

  “Can someone confirm that you went home and stayed there through the night?”

  “My roommate was there, but he was sleeping by the time I came in and he left the house for work by four in the morning.”

  “Do you sleep in the same room?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was the door of your room open?”

  “No, I always close it so I won’t be disturbed when he gets up.”

  “So he could not have seen that you were sleeping in your room and he can’t vouch for you.”

  “Yes, sir. He can’t.”

  Agyekum paused his questioning to write a few items down in his notebook.

  “Okay, so what time did you wake up in the morning?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Were you having any problems with Heather? Any arguments or quarrels?”

  Danquah’s eyes darted to one side. “No, sir. Everything was fine.”

  “You say everything was fine? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Agyekum’s eyes narrowed. “Please, Mr. Danquah—you need to answer my questions fully.”

  “I am,” Danquah said, a defiant edge creeping into his voice.

  “All right. Did you used to swim together in the pool with Heather?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Did she swim well?”

  “Very well.”

  “What about you? Do you swim well?”

  “Not so much.”

  Agyekum finished his notes. “Thank you very much. That’s all for now.”

  Agyekum watched the handsome young teacher leaving the room and wondered if perhaps he had been too harsh with him. He had, after all, just lost his girlfriend.

  When the chief inspector had left, Paula held a meeting in the office with the staff to discuss how they were going to break the news to the children. It was decided to divide them up by age group and assign each cluster to a teacher. That would be more intimate and personal than Paula simply standing in front of the assembly and making an announcement.

  “Okay,” she said to the teachers finally, when the plan had been worked out, “go out there and be strong for our kids.”

  They filed out of the office, leaving Paula to reflect for a moment on what was happening. It felt unreal.

  “Madam Djan?”

  Paula turned at the soft voice at the door. It was Ajua.

  “Madam Djan,” she said again. “What has happened to Miss Heather?”

  “Come,” Paula said, beckoning.

  As she approached, Ajua’s chin quivered and her eyes welled up in advance of the first tears that would break the dam. Somehow, she knew something was terribly wrong. Blessed or cursed, she possessed that kind of intuition. Paula held her tight as the girl began to weep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At the end of an awful day of shock and grief, Paula was drained, but she felt that she had one more duty before heading home: she had to talk to Oliver alone. She called him into the office and shut the door. He still looked shattered as he slumped into the chair at the side of her desk.

  “How are you doing?” she asked him softly. “Will you be okay tonight?”

  He gave a tiny shrug.

  “Maybe you should stay with a family member,” Paula suggested, “so you’ll have someone to talk to?”

  He nodded. “I’ll be going to my brother’s house.”

  “Good.” She paused. “I’m so sorry, Oliver. I know Heather meant a lot to you.”

  He was staring vacantly at the wall. “I don’t know what to think…what to say.”

  “Did you see her yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she seemed okay?”

  “She was fine,” he said dully.

  Paula sensed this wasn’t the time to ply him with questions. Maybe later. His head was in a fog right now.

  “Shall I drop you at your brother’s place?” she offered.

  “No, thank you. I’ll be okay.”

  “You can take the rest of the week off, if you like.”

  “It’s better I work,” he said, shaking his head. “It will keep my mind occupied.”

  “All right, then. But if you want some time, just let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow. Call me if you need to.”

  “Thank you.”

  He got up slowly, as if he had aged decades in just one day.

  When she got home, Paula tried to phone Heather’s father, Michael Peterson, in Portland, but he didn’t pick up. She left a message. Heather had often spoken about her father, and in glowing terms. On the single occasion she had mentioned her mother, she had revealed that Glenda Peterson suffered from debilitating multiple sclerosis. It had appeared to Paula that it was a painful topic for Heather.

  By the time Paula’s husband Thelo got in from work, she had put their eight-year-old twins Stephan and Stephanie to bed after reading to them. Paula and Thelo had been secondary school sweethearts who had never considered marrying anyone else but each other. A year younger than his thirty-five, she was a social worker by training while he was an ex-detective sergeant with the Criminal Investigations Department, a division of the Ghana Police Service.

  In his eighth year on the force, disaster befell Thelo as he and two other detectives pursued a car being driven recklessly by a fugitive wanted for murder. Rounding a sharp corner, the suspect ditched the car and the police vehicle came around too fast to avoid a collision. It flipped onto its side and rolled twice. The constable who had been driving and the chief inspector accompanying Thelo were both killed. The murderer
got away, although he was later captured in another city.

  As for Thelo, his lower right leg had been crushed under the weight of the overturned vehicle. Several times in the following months, he had come perilously close to an amputation, which was averted only by a determined doctor who refused to give up. In the end, Thelo kept his leg, but the trauma resulted in loss of bone and left him with a limp that had improved only somewhat over the years.

  The physical scar was ultimately not as deep as the psychological one. Thelo grieved for his dead fellow officers. He felt guilty that they had died while he had escaped with his life. He had repeated nightmares of the crash. When he returned to police work, he found he had a difficult time concentrating. He was physically deconditioned, and at times his right leg flared up with red-hot pain.

  He was also frustrated by having to stay in the office; going out to the field had always been his means of escape from the stifling bureaucracy of the CID. Depression hung around his spirit like a damp mist off the Atlantic. At the time, Paula was pregnant with the twins and she found herself despairing of Thelo’s downward spiral. Then, one day, in a flash of inspiration, he turned to her and said. “I have to leave.”

  “Leave? Leave what?”

  “The police service. God has been sending me a message, but I’ve been ignoring it.”

  What was Thelo planning to do? He had been following the 2007 discovery of substantial oil reserves off Ghana’s coast and the promise of potential prosperity. He founded Tropical Expeditions, a full-service tourist company. In the early days of Thelo’s business when revenue was barely trickling in, life was a struggle, particularly with two small children.

  Now, however, he was doing very well with an office in Accra and a second one in Takoradi. He and Paula owned a four-bedroom house and two cars in the upscale airport residential area, and their daughters went to one of the best private schools in Accra.

  Paula could have lived a life of leisure, shopping and dining all day the way many of her wealthy friends did, but she suffered from consumer’s guilt, as she called it: acquiring much from the world but not giving anything back. She had to do something besides merely indulging herself. Four years ago when she’d heard that the High Street Academy was looking for a director, she interviewed for the post and got it.