They turned into the driveway of the Raybow, a three-story, ivory-colored hotel with arched columns and a bronze cembonit roof. Baah pulled up at the portico entrance, and a uniformed doorman stepped forward to open Dawson’s door.
“Morning, sir.”
The doorman directed Baah where to park and then held open the entrance door for Dawson. He went into the lobby, which had subtle lighting, gleaming wood floors, and a spiral staircase to the left. He stopped at the receptionist counter where a young man and woman greeted him.
“Morning. I’m Inspector Dawson, here to meet Dr. Sapphire Smith-Aidoo.”
The name on the woman’s badge was Violet. She was pretty, with a baby-smooth complexion.
“Oh, yes,” she said, flashing him an infectious smile. “The doctor is expecting you. Please, come this way.”
Violet came around the counter and led him across the lobby, opening the door onto a wide patio with cream and sienna mosaic tiling. A white woman and her two children were dog paddling in the shallow end of the pool and a white man was turning a violent pink as he baked himself in the sun on a reclining beach chair. So strange, white people and their constant sunbathing, Dawson thought.
“The doctor is sitting over there in the corner, Inspector,” Violet said, pointing across the pool to a restaurant area with a low thatched roof and open sides.
“Thank you, Violet.”
“You’re welcome. Have a good day and please visit again in the future.”
If I weren’t happily married, he thought, stealing a quick look at her derrière as she retreated.
He crossed the patio, and as he approached, Dr. Smith-Aidoo spotted him and waved from the far side of the restaurant, which was mostly empty. The waiters were standing around chatting.
“Good morning, Doctor,” he said as he got to her table.
She smiled, and he was struck by how glad she seemed to see him. In a cream-colored trouser suit, she was luminescent in the sunlight reflected off the pool.
A male waiter who had been hovering in the background came to their table.
“Good morning, sir. Please, will you like to have something?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Please, Inspector,” Smith-Aidoo said. “I insist.”
“All right,” he said, surprised. “Do you have Malta?”
It was his favorite drink. Non-alcoholic, rich with malt and hops, and deadly sweet.
“Please, we have two kinds,” the waiter said. “Guinness and Schweppes.”
“Only the original,” Dawson said. “Guinness.”
“Yes, sir.” He went away.
“I’ve just been with Superintendent Hammond discussing the case,” Dawson told her.
She leaned forward with eagerness. “What is your next step?”
“I’ll be re-interviewing several people. They may not like that.”
The waiter returned with the Malta, pouring it in a glass.
“Doctor,” Dawson asked after taking the first delicious sip, “please may I ask what you have done with your aunt’s and uncle’s belongings at their home?”
“I’m still going through their documents, trying to organize them.”
“Do you mind if I look through them?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. We can go now if that’s convenient for you. I don’t need to be at the hospital until after lunch, so we have some time.”
“That would be perfect.”
Something or someone behind Dawson drew Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s attention, and he turned to follow her gaze. A middle-aged man in a dark suit was coming into the restaurant accompanied by a young, smartly dressed, full-figured woman.
“That’s Terence Amihere,” Dr. Smith-Aidoo said quietly. “Minister of Energy. Do you know him? The director of the BNI is his brother.”
“Ah, I see,” Dawson said. “I didn’t know that. The BNI director and my boss are always at each other’s throats.”
A waiter showed the minister and the woman to a table that was quite close to Dawson and the doctor, and now Amihere noticed them.
“Doctor Smith-Aidoo!” he exclaimed, coming to their table. “How nice to see you!”
She turned on a brilliant smile for him. “Good morning, Mr. Amihere. How are you?”
“I’m doing well, by His grace, thank you. I hope all is well with you.”
“Yes, thank you. Please, meet Inspector Darko Dawson from Accra CID. He’s helping in the investigation of the death of my aunt and uncle.”
“Oh, excellent.” He turned to Dawson. “Good morning, Inspector.”
Dawson rose slightly to shake hands.
“Let me express my condolences to you once again, Doctor,” the minister said. “Tragic, just tragic.”
“Thank you,” she said graciously. “Is your wife doing well?”
His face lit up. “Yes, by His grace, and we are both very grateful for your taking care of her so diligently.”
She dropped her head slightly in a modest bow. “I was honored to do it, sir. What brings you from Accra to Takoradi?”
“We have a meeting with Malgam Oil, the STMA and some of the local chiefs this afternoon in Sekondi. I’m briefing my secretary prior to proceeding there.”
Smith-Aidoo’s eyes went very briefly to the secretary and Dawson thought he saw a twinkle in them. “I understand. Then let me not take any more of your time. You’re a busy man.”
They both laughed the Ghanaian laugh that could express so many things-pleasure, mirth, embarrassment, and even respect.
Dawson took in Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s slightly amused look as she watched the minister rejoin his attractive young companion. He guessed she was thinking, that’s not his secretary.
She returned her attention to him. “Shall we go now, Inspector?”
“Yes. I have a taxi, so we can follow you.”
HER CAR WAS a deep, metallic blue Jaguar XF. Baah followed at a respectful distance, as if afraid he might accidentally rear-end the beautiful machine.
Dawson’s phone rang. It was Christine.
“Hi, love,” he answered. “How’re you?”
“Good. How are things going over there?”
“Just getting started, really. How are the boys?”
She told him Sly was at school while she stayed at home with Hosiah, who was doing well. He was spending less time in bed and more time constructing his toy cars and rockets.
“There’s a little problem, though,” she said. “Sly had a nightmare last night.”
“A nightmare? About what?” But Dawson knew already instinctively. “The beheading?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no.” Dawson let out a long sigh. “Poor kid. I underestimated how much this was going to affect him. How is Hosiah reacting?”
“He seemed to be fine after you gave him the talk yesterday, but he heard Sly yelling out in his sleep before I did, so that has thrown him off again.”
“I’m sorry, Christine. If only I hadn’t been so careless.”
“No point crying over spilled milk,” she said briskly. “What’s done is done. Now we have to fix it. Any ideas?”
Something occurred to Dawson. “What about you and the boys coming to spend the weekend with me? Seeing me alive and well will go a long way to reassuring them, don’t you think?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, her voice taking on new energy. “That’s a wonderful idea.”
“I’ll ask Abe if it’s okay with him for you to stay with me in the lodge. Don’t tell the kids about our idea until I confirm with him.”
“There’s not much petrol in the car, though,” she said, “and I’m low on cash until next pay day. I’ll have to borrow a little money from someone. Mama can probably give me something. Alternatively, we can go there by tro-tro to save some money.”
“No, never,” he said in alarm. Tro-tros, the ubiquitous, privately owned minivans that transported the masses from point A to B, were often in a dangerous state of disrepair. Like his mother, who had had a mortal fear of tro-tros, Dawson saw them only as deathtraps. “Just get some cash, and I’ll pay back whatever money you borrow when you get here.”