They parked near the marketplace and walked downhill through the maze of market stalls and over pocked, rocky terrain. Women and men carried pungent loads of fish on their heads in heavy, metal basins. To prevent an accident of equilibrium, they had to keep their forward momentum, knocking to the side anyone who was unfortunate enough to be in the way. Calling out “pure water” in a singsong voice, other women head-carried bins of iced drinking water in plastic sachets that were a major source of the trash casually tossed into the gutters of Ghana’s cities.
Under a long shaded structure with open sides, both men and women sorted through the fishermen’s catches and displayed some of the largest fish Dawson had ever seen. Abraham pointed out different ones as they walked along-grouper, swordfish, tuna, and red snapper.
Just beyond that was the wharf where large trawlers were moored and crowds of fishermen carried on a brisk and noisy business with market women. Some of the women carted off their purchases on their own heads, while others used a professional porter.
“See that guy?” Abraham said, pointing to a compact older man who was moving off with a punishingly heavy bin full of fish on his head. “He’s about sixty years old-been doing this since he was a teenager.”
And all of it in the harsh sun, Dawson thought, wiping his drenched forehead.
Abraham led the way to a quieter part of the harbor, weaving in between shacks where mechanics were repairing outboard motors and carpenters were building new trawlers. Compared to the area they had just left, the vessels here were canoes of different sizes pulled up on the shore or moored in shallow water with makeshift cloth canopies for shade.
One of the fishermen, a densely muscular man of thirty-ish, was darning his fishing net, a portion of it hooked over his big toe to keep the net’s tension as he deftly repaired holes and tears with a large needle. His deeply black skin glistened in the sun.
“Clay!” Abraham called out.
The man looked up and grinned as he saw them approaching. He put down the net and skipped out of the canoe.
“Abe, my brother! How are you?”
Abraham introduced Dawson as his cousin and asked Clay if Forjoe was around.
“I haven’t seen him today,” Clay said.
He called out to three fishermen on an adjacent canoe, asking them if they knew where Forjoe was.
“I think he went to the house,” one of them replied.
Abe thanked them and went on with Dawson. At the top of the incline not far from where they had parked, they crossed the street to a ramshackle group of houses around a small compound. A teenage boy was washing clothes in a wide metal pan, and a woman was hanging them out to dry on the line.
“Good afternoon,” Abraham greeted her. “Have you seen Forjoe?”
“He’s inside,” the woman said, pointing her chin at the door behind him. “Wait, I’ll call him.”
She wiped her hands and went to knock on the door, the top half of which was a large opening covered with torn mosquito netting.
A voice answered. “Who is it?”
“Some people are here to see you,” she said in Fante.
“I’m coming.”
It was too dark in the room to see anything from outside. Forjoe emerged from the gloom putting on a T-shirt as he came to the door. He smiled as he saw them.
“Abraham! How are you?”
They shook hands and Abraham introduced Dawson to Forjoe the same way as he had done with Clay. Forjoe was around 28, short and as solid as a brick house. He dragged over a couple plastic chairs and invited the two men to sit down while he took a seat himself on a nearby wooden stool.
“So what brings you here today?” he asked.
“My cousin wanted to meet you,” Abraham said.
“Oh, is that so?” Forjoe said, looking at Dawson with interest.
“Abraham tells me you sometimes hire his canoe to other fishermen,” Dawson said.
“Yes,” Forjoe said, nodding. His expression was friendly. “Especially the young ones who can’t afford to buy a new canoe. You know, now the wood is expensive, and the government doesn’t allow certain trees to be cut. The fishing is tough too. Not so much fish in the sea anymore.”
“Oh, I see,” Dawson said. He had heard about the troubles plaguing the fishing industry. “It makes life hard, eh?”
Forjoe turned the corners of his mouth down. “Very hard.” He looked at Dawson with curiosity. “Why? Do you want to hire a canoe?”
“Oh, no,” Dawson said with a smile. “I just have a question, Forjoe. Last July, someone killed a man and his wife and took them out to sea in a canoe, all the way to one of the oil rigs. Did you hear about it?”
Forjoe’s expression changed abruptly. “Are you a policeman?”
“Yes.”
Forjoe shook his head as if to say, I can’t help you.
Dawson was used to this kind of reticence. People became very uncomfortable and tight-lipped with police questioning, often afraid that they were under suspicion.
Abraham came to his rescue. “Forjoe, he’s not here to make any trouble for you. CID sent him from Accra to help the Sekondi police.”
“Oh, okay.” Forjoe appeared to relax, although not completely.
“We think that late on the night of Monday, seventh July, after the killers murdered the Smith-Aidoos,” Dawson said, “they put the dead bodies in a canoe and used a second one to tow it out to sea.”
“Starting from where?” Forjoe asked.
Excellent question, Dawson thought. “That I don’t know, but that Monday night, there was a full moon, so I’m hoping that maybe some fishermen might have spotted the canoes.”
Forjoe frowned. “But you won’t find any fishermen at sea late on a Monday, sir.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because we can’t fish overnight. It’s a taboo to fish on Tuesdays.”
“Oh,” Dawson said, flattened like an insect underfoot. He had forgotten that by ancient tradition, the sea is a goddess who must rest one day a week. Why it was Tuesday in most fishing communities along Ghana’s coast, Dawson did not know.
Abraham looked at him ruefully. “He’s right. I should have thought of that.”
“On Mondays,” Forjoe continued, “rather than going to sea, most fishermen concentrate on selling as much fish as possible from the weekend’s catch. Monday is a big market day. We never miss it.”
“So, no one rented a canoe from you on that day,” Dawson said, disappointed and clutching at straws.
“No, sir.”
“Do other people rent canoes?”
“A few.”
“Please, can you ask around to find out if anyone took a canoe that night? It doesn’t have to have been a fisherman who rented-anyone at all. If you hear anything, call me. I’ll give you my number.”
“Okay, sir.”
A movement caught Dawson’s eye, and he turned to see a girl of about nine years old hovering in the half-open doorway of Forjoe’s dwelling.
“Hello,” Dawson said, smiling at her.
“That’s my daughter, Marvelous,” Forjoe said.
Dawson saw how his eyes softened as he looked at her. Forjoe gestured at her to come to him. “Marvelous, bra ha.”
She approached and leaned against her father, shyly keeping her head down as he put his arm around her waist. She was pretty, with a heart-shaped face and the standard short schoolgirl haircut.
“Greet our guests, eh?” he told her.
She curtsied slightly and said, “Good afternoon,” in barely a whisper.
“Are you feeling tired?” he asked her softly, passing his hand over hair.
She shook her head.