Hosiah was waiting to talk to his dad. Dawson immediately detected the increased energy in his son’s voice when he came on the line, and gone was the slight underlying breathlessness he had had before.
“When are you coming back, Daddy?” he asked.
“As soon as I can. You sound much stronger, Champ.”
“Yes, I am. Soon I’ll be able to play soccer again, won’t I, Daddy?”
“Yes, I’m sure you will.” He was going to tell Hosiah that he still needed to take it easy, but he had said that enough times. The boy was intuitive about his body and knew by now how far he could push himself.
Dawson ended the call as they reached the affluent neighborhood of Beach Road. After a few minutes, the Jaguar turned in at a gated entrance. Dr. Smith-Aidoo pumped her horn once and waited for the watchman to open up. He was a wizened little fellow, early sixties, dressed in a pair of shorts and an old orange T-shirt. With his knotted knees, bowlegs, and feet as broad as planks, he would likely remain physically durable well into his eighties, doing the same work he had done for most of his life. He saluted and smiled as they drove through and parked in the circular driveway.
“Wait for me, please,” Dawson said to Baah. “I’ll be here at least one hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dawson alighted as the watchman hurried to open Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s door.
“Good afternoon, madam. You are welcome.”
“Afternoon, Gamal,” she said, getting out of the car. “How are you?”
“Please, I’m fine, Madam.”
“This is Inspector Darko Dawson from Accra. He is here to help with the investigation. Answer any questions he may have of you.”
“Yes, Madam. No problem.”
“We will be here for about one hour. Wash the car, eh? Let’s go inside, Inspector.”
A luxuriant lawn with bougainvillea and hibiscus bushes flanked the maroon, two-story brick home on both sides.
“This is a beautiful place,” Dawson said.
“Thank you. The garden is all Gamal’s hard work. He’s been with us for about fifteen years.”
She opened up the front door. “It took me several weeks before I was able to face coming into the house.”
“I can understand. Did your aunt and uncle have children?”
“Yes, Paul and Paula, my cousins. They’re in college in the States. They went back about a month after the funeral.”
She switched on the light in the hallway and turned on the air with a remote lying on a glass table. Polished mahogany in the hallway, marble in the sitting room with white leather armchairs and sofas, expensive paintings on the wall-for Dawson, it was both impressive and too much. A slightly recessed area held the dining room, and the kitchen was beyond that.
“I have all their papers in the study upstairs,” she said, leading him up a spiral staircase to the second floor. “I might as well tell you that he left me some money as well as his house in Accra. Paul and Paula get this house.”
“No other beneficiaries?”
“No. Nothing went to their siblings on either side.” She stopped for a moment at the banister, looking down at the sitting room. “My uncle’s mother, Granny Araba, was killed in a car crash in 1994. After the wake, I overheard Uncle Charles say something strange to Auntie Fio about a curse on the family. He said, ‘First my grandparents and now my mother.’ Later, when I asked him what had happened to his grandparents, he was evasive. Always made me wonder if there was some dark secret.”
“Maybe the aspect of the grandparents goes along with the planted pocket watch,” Dawson said.
She looked at him, puzzled. “What pocket watch?”
“I thought you knew,” he stammered.
“Knew what? What are you talking about?”
“An old-fashioned silver pocket watch with a black onyx inlay was found with your uncle. Someone had scratched the words, ‘blood runs deep’ on the inside of the cover.”
“What?” She looked baffled. “My uncle never owned anything like that. Where was the watch found?”
“In his mouth,” Dawson said quietly. She recoiled. “I’m sorry, Doctor. To have to tell you that.”
“Oh. No.” She looked away, her expression between angry and revolted. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this? Why?”
He stayed quiet.
“Blood runs deep,” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Referring to family ties, maybe? What about your grandfather, Araba’s husband?”
“Grandpa Simon. He’s alive, but demented, poor man-lives with my aunt, Eileen Copper, who is Uncle Charles’s older sister.” Smith-Aidoo’s expression turned sardonic. “Auntie Eileen fancies herself the family researcher and genealogist and tries to come off as scholarly.”
She might be very useful, Dawson thought. “Can I speak to her?”
Smith-Aidoo shrugged. “Sure, if you like. I’ll text you her number.”
“Thank you.” He followed her the rest of the way to the study. He was hopeful that he would be lucky and discover something that would break the case open and neatly tie it up. Of course, it never worked out that way.
Chapter 9
THE CARPETED STUDY WAS stifling, but the doctor switched on the AC, and the room began to cool off. Dawson saw she had been making an effort to sort out her uncle and aunt’s papers. Stacks of loose pages on the floor surrounded half-filled boxes labeled STMA, Malgam, Personal, Legal, and Misc, and the desk and file cabinet held more documents still.
“I apologize that it’s such a mess,” she said. “Superintendent Hammond and his guys looked through the paperwork, but as far as I know, they didn’t find anything useful. Maybe you’ll have better luck or a keener eye.”
“Thank you.” Dawson looked around the room, realizing something was missing. “There’s no computer. Didn’t your uncle use one?”
“He did have a laptop, which has disappeared. Hammond thinks possibly the killers stole it during the ambush.”
Dawson nodded. That would make sense, but he made a mental note to ask the superintendent about it.
“There’s something I want you to look at,” she said, sitting down on the floor in front of the STMA box with her legs folded under her. He followed her example, sitting opposite her.
She picked through the box and extracted a folder, from which she selected a typed letter. “See what you think of this.”
He read it.
15th February
Dear Madam Fiona Smith-Aidoo,
I have received your letter from 5th February. I appreciate your candid thoughts and agree how unseemly that these rumors arose. Based on your assurances, I believe you are an honorable woman who had nothing to do with the accusations. Regarding the radio broadcast in which I was involved, I apologize for and retract any inflammatory statements I made.
As we move into a new year, I hope to preside as chief executive over one of the most prosperous periods for our beloved Sekondi-Takoradi, and I look forward to your support.
Yours faithfully,
Kwesi DeSouza
“Is this about the allegation that DeSouza embezzled STMA money to build a house?” Dawson asked.
“Yes,” she said, looking a little surprised. “How did you know?”
“I have a cousin who has lived in Takoradi all his life and follows local politics, and I was talking to him last night.”
“Ah, I see.”
“He told me that Fiona and Kwesi DeSouza were rivals at the STMA.”
“Yes, they were.” She pulled a face. “DeSouza’s a nasty man. He was expecting to be reelected for a second term as chief executive of STMA, but Auntie Fiona beat him solidly. He was stunned. And I was glad.”