Murder at Cape Three Points (6 page)

He held a hanky to Hosiah’s nose and he made a reasonable effort.

“That’s better,” Dawson said. He kissed him on the forehead. “Now what’s wrong?”

Hosiah spoke haltingly as he fiddled with his father’s fingers. “I don’t want you to go to look for the
juju
man.”

“What
juju
man?”

“The one who makes people’s heads come off. Sly told me that’s why you’re going to Takoradi.”

“I see,” Dawson said. “You’re scared that there’s a
juju
man who might hurt Daddy?”

Hosiah nodded, his face beginning to crumple again.

“No, no,” Dawson said, forestalling another teary performance. “No more crying. Listen to me. What Sly saw isn’t because of
juju.
You know I catch bad people, right?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Okay, so this bad man is just the same as all the other ones I
catch. He’s afraid of me, so he’s not going to try to cut off my head. In fact, you know what he’s going to do when he sees me?”

“What?”

“He’s going to run away.”

Hosiah looked at him with a glimmer of encouragement creeping to his face.

“And then you know what’s going to happen while he’s running away?” Dawson asked.

“What?”

“He’s going to run right into the
kenkey
woman at the market and trip over all her balls of
kenkey.
”

Hosiah looked at him for a second of bewilderment and then giggled at the unexpected, conjured image of the starchy, solid balls of fermented corn meal flying all over the place. “No, he’s not, Daddy.”

“He is,” Dawson insisted, grinning.

“And then he’s going to get all stuck in the
kenkey
balls,” Hosiah laughed, his imagination sparked, “and the
kenkey
woman will say, ‘Hey, what are you doing in my
kenkey
balls?’ And then he’ll have
kenkey
balls all over his body, and she’ll make him pay for them, won’t she, Daddy?”

“Yes, exactly right. And that will be the end of that. Then Sergeant Chikata and I will take him to the police station. What do you think?”

Hosiah nodded uncertainly once and then with more conviction. Dawson glanced at Christine, who was smiling but still looked concerned.

“Has he had lunch?” he asked her.

“He didn’t have as much as he usually does.”

“Are you hungry now?” Dawson asked Hosiah.

He nodded enthusiastically and Christine took his hand. “Come along. I’ll get you some more to eat.”

D
AWSON RESTED HIS
hand on Sly’s shoulder and guided him outside to the backyard. The boy was shaking and Dawson knew why. A sound beating was the only kind of punishment he had known while in the care of his ill-mannered uncle. Now he was fearful that his new father was about to continue the tradition.

“Tell me what happened,” Dawson said as they took shelter from
the sun under an awning he had constructed a couple of years ago. “Start from the beginning.”

His gaze shifting around guiltily, Sly recounted how he had come home with Mama on Saturday while Dawson was next door helping the neighbor. He had noticed the folder on the sitting room table and, without giving it a second’s thought, had flipped open the cover. The picture of the severed head was the first and only thing he saw before he hurriedly closed the folder.

Today, after the boys had returned from the hospital with Mama and she was making lunch, Hosiah and Sly were talking about what time Daddy would be going to Takoradi. Sly had remarked that maybe he had already left because he had to keep it a secret that he was going to look for a
juju
man who was making people’s heads get chopped off.

“He asked me what did I mean,” Sly continued, “and I said I had seen that picture of the man’s head on a stick in your papers. My uncle always told me that if you see someone with his head cut off, it means a
juju
man or a witch is punishing him for doing something wrong. So I thought you were going to Takoradi to find the
juju
man who did it. I’m sorry I made Hosiah cry. I didn’t know he would get scared.”

“He’s not as tough as you,” Dawson said, lifting Sly’s chin to hold his gaze. “He’s your little brother, so you have to think before you tell him certain things. Now I know your uncle used to tell you about witches and
juju
and all that, but you mustn’t believe him. You remember last year when those people from Agbogbloshie were killed?
Juju
didn’t make that happen. Murder never happens because of
juju.
It’s just a man or a woman who gets so angry, jealous, or greedy, that he or she wants to kill another person. Understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Now I made a mistake too. I’m not supposed to leave my work around the house because Mama and I don’t want you and Hosiah to be looking at that kind of thing. I’m sorry you saw it, but you have to remember that when you see anything in the house belonging to Mama or me, you leave it alone. You don’t go into our business unless we tell you to, you hear?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Come here.” Dawson brought Sly close and put his arms around him. “You know Mama and I love you and Hosiah both the same, right?”

He nodded. “You’re not going to beat me?”

“No. That wouldn’t make you learn your lesson any better, would it?”

Sly thought about that for a moment and then shook his head.

“You still need to do something, though,” Dawson said. “You need to go to Hosiah and hug him and say you love him and you’re sorry you scared him.”

“Okay,” Sly said happily, his zest for life restored. He made a dash for the backdoor of the house.

“But don’t hug him too hard,” Dawson added. “Remember, his chest is still sore.”

Gazing at the door long after Sly had disappeared through it, a thought struck him and he smiled. The boy had more insight than he probably even realized.

I
N THEIR BEDROOM
with the door shut, Christine insisted that Dawson show her the picture that had caused all the trouble.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s terrible.”

“I know it’s terrible, but I have to know what we’re dealing with.”

Reluctantly, he opened the folder and extracted the photo. She looked at it for not more than a second, gasped, and turned her head away.

“Oh, Darko,” she said furiously. “How could you leave something so horrible lying around?”

Dawson sat down heavily on the bed. “I don’t know,” he said hopelessly.

“You’re usually so careful.” She shook her head and grimaced. “That’s Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s uncle?”

“Yes, Charles Smith-Aidoo. He was the director of corporate affairs at Malgam Oil.”

“Poor man.” Christine frowned. “Wasn’t there another oil company executive who was murdered not long ago? The one who was shot dead at his home?”

“You’re right. Lawrence Tetteh, CEO of Goilco, the government’s oil company. Shot execution-style in the head in June about a month before the Smith-Aidoos were murdered. They arrested and charged Tetteh’s stepbrother, a guy called Silas. He’s awaiting trial now. Some people think he was framed.”

“What do you think?”

“There are still questions. Everybody agrees it was a professional job, but this Silas was definitely not a professional killer.”

“Hmm. Well, regardless of who killed Tetteh, do you think the Smith-Aidoo murder could be related?”

Dawson gave her an impressed look. “That’s what I’ve been wondering myself. Tetteh and Smith-Aidoo were both in the oil industry, both shot in the head, and only about a month apart.”

“Who’s handling the Tetteh killing?”

“Some kind of political monkey business went on at the top, and the Bureau of National Investigations took it over from CID. I know Chief Superintendent Lartey was incensed over losing the case. He doesn’t get along with the BNI director. Anyway, I’m still going to keep the Tetteh murder in the back of my mind while I’m investigating the Smith-Aidoo case. One big difference between the two cases, though: the beheading.”

Christine shuddered. “Why cut someone’s head off and then display it on a stick tied to a canoe?”

“Sly said something that made me think. He said his uncle had always told him that when you see a body part severed, it means it has something to do with witchcraft or
juju.
”

“And you, Darko Dawson, believe that a witch did this?” Christine said disbelievingly. “Come on, I know you better than that.”

“No, I don’t, but maybe the
murderer
wanted people to think so, in order to shield the real motive behind it. That’s what I have to find out: the real motive.”

Chapter 6

O
N THE
S
TATE
T
RANSPORT
bus to Sekondi-Takoradi, Dawson squeezed in between the window and a large woman with no boundaries. Christine and the boys had seen him off at the house and Hosiah had been close to tears, which brought a lump to Dawson’s throat. Christine was right. Brave as their son was, he needed his father to be with him right now. Emotionally and physically, he was still fragile.

Gazing out his window, Dawson tried to stop his brooding as the bus sped along the George H. Bush Highway. He turned his thoughts to his destination, the twin city of Sekondi-Takoradi. It was the capital of the Western Region (WR); Sekondi was the administrative section, while Takoradi was more commercial. Dawson’s father, Jacob, had grown up in Takoradi and moved to Accra as a young man. In Accra, he met Dawson’s mother, Beatrice, an Ewe woman. Although Jacob seldom if ever visited Takoradi these days, he still had family there, including a nephew called Abraham, or “Abe.”

Dawson had called his cousin to ask if he could possibly stay with him while in town. The Ghana Police Service (GPS) was so unlikely to pay for accommodation or transportation costs that submitting receipts for expenses was a waste of time.

Abraham, who lived above his stationery store in downtown Takoradi, had told him that with his two teenage children at home, there was no space. But he had a better idea. He was remodeling a small family bungalow a mere ten minutes away. Hoping to profit from the boom in the hospitality industry spurred by the discovery of oil,
he planned to rent the bungalow once he completed it. If Dawson didn’t mind the state of incompletion of the place, Abraham had said, he was welcome to bunk there. It was an offer Dawson would have been a fool to refuse. When he had visited Takoradi as a teen, Abraham had been in his early twenties. It had been a long time since the two had seen each other, but that didn’t matter. Family was family, and Abraham was more than happy to help.

On the open road, the bus passed Weija Lake on the right. It was the beginning of November, and although heavy rainfall was over for the year, the landscape was still verdant and rich. Deep green foliage covered the hills and hugged the roadsides. Soon, the dry season would arrive with its persistent Harmattan haze: fine particles of dust blown down from the Sahara from November to March.

Immediately after they’d passed Cape Coast University in the Central Region, the beach made its appearance on their left. The blue-green of the sea looked like a painting with the foamy white of the waves breaking at the shore, and the coconut palm fronds, atop spindly trunks that grew off vertical. It all looked freer and wilder than Accra’s beaches. Dawson shuddered at the thought of swimming in the sea. He had not spent much time at the beach as a child, and he could barely swim. On the few occasions he’d ventured into the surf at Labadi Beach, he’d been frightened by the strong undertow.

After passing through the town of Sefwi, they went through a checkpoint and entered the Western Region. An hour later, they were on the final approach to Takoradi. Flame trees lined the roadside into town, reaching to form a leafy arch that would turn scarlet when the flowers bloomed. It was around 5:30, and the sun had become oblique and softer. They came to a roundabout called Paa Grant, the greenest and most luxuriant circle Dawson had ever seen.

Dawson dialed Abraham’s number. It went through and a man answered.

“Abraham?” Dawson said.

“Darko! Are you around?”

“Yes, we’re coming into the city now.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Abraham’s voice was smooth but dense, setting off a reaction in Dawson. Voices triggered his sense of touch—he could feel it in his hand or fingers, mostly on the left side, but as Dr.
Biney had explained to him, what was happening was entirely inside his brain. Synesthesia was the name of the phenomenon in which the stimulation of one of the senses leads to an automatic experience in another sense. Dawson, a synesthete, had vocal sound-to-touch synesthesia. He could never predict what might set it off—a voice as rough as sandpaper or as sweet as a musical instrument. Sometimes, it acted as a lie detector when a change in vocal tone set off his synesthesia, but it wasn’t infallible. Good liars could sneak past Dawson.

He could recall experiencing it as far back as the age of two. His mother, Beatrice, increasingly noticed him staring at one or both hands, usually his left. The first time Darko ever said anything to her about it was when he was four. He told Mama that when his nursery school teacher was talking, it made “his hand tickle.” She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about then, but as he grew older, Mama came to learn that it was a real phenomenon even though she didn’t understand it. She warned him repeatedly not to talk about it with others outside the close family.