“Which white people used to come here?”
“One Mr. Cal-… Cam-”
“Calmy-Rey?”
“Eh-heh, that one. Him and his wife.”
“How many times were they here?”
“Anyway, I’m not so sure. Three times or so.”
“When was the last time they came here?”
Gamal turned the corners of his mouth down, thinking. “Please, maybe some six months.”
“And who else? What about one white man with red hair, they call him Mr. Reggie Cardiman?”
Gamal shook his head slowly and sucked his teeth three times in a row. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay, now, what about the Ghanaians? Do you know one Jason Sarbah?”
Gamal seemed unsure, so Dawson described what Sarbah looked like.
“Oh, yes,” Gamal said, nodding vigorously. “I know the one. He too, he come here one time to make argument with Massa Charles.”
“You heard them arguing?”
“It was that man Sarbah cause the palava. At that time, I was in the kitchen, so I heard what he said.”
“Did he threaten Massa?”
He shook his head again. “No, he was just shouting say why Massa don’t give him money.”
That confirmed Jason’s desperate quest for funds to save Angela, his daughter.
“Who else used to come here?” Dawson persisted. He didn’t want anyone left out.
“Another man too,” Gamal said, “but now I forget his name. One night, I came to the garden to get the water hose. I heard some people talking behind that bush.”
He pointed to a large jasmine bush with its fragrant, star-shaped white flowers. “I went there with my torchlight, and I found the man with the madam.”
“You say you found the man with Madam. Doing what?”
Gamal looked away, apparently deeply embarrassed. He was squirming with so much discomfort that Dawson decided to move on. “Was Massa Charles at home at that time?”
“No, please.”
“But he was in Takoradi?”
“Yes, please.”
“You say you can’t remember the name of the man who was with Madam. Can you describe him?”
“A little fat. Not so tall. At that time, I didn’t know him, but some two months after Massa and Madam die, when I was walking in Takoradi town with my friend, I saw that man again, and I ask my friend if he know who the man is. My friend say the man own one stationery shop in Takoradi.”
“Stationery shop. Which stationery shop?”
“They call it Abraham Stationery. It dey for Kofi Annan Road, near Barclays. The man who own that store be the man who was with Madam.”
Dawson’s blood turned to ice.
Chapter 25
HE SAT IN THE lodge sitting room with his elbows on the table and his head between his hands. A little fat, not too tall. He owns the Abraham Stationery Store. The words kept echoing. Gamal had described Dawson’s cousin. Two people-DeSouza and Chikata’s fellow partygoer-had claimed that Fiona had been having an affair with a “businessman” in town. Is it Abraham? It must be a mistake, Dawson thought desperately, but no matter which way he tried to twist it, he came right back to his cousin.
He went to the kitchen as he heard light knocking on the door, opened up, and was surprised to see Dr. Smith-Aidoo on the step.
“Good evening, Inspector. Gamal told me that you came by earlier, so I thought I would return the favor.”
“Thank you very much, Doctor. Please come in.”
He invited her to take a seat in the sitting room and he sat opposite her. She was dressed in a sleek, all-black pants suit.
“Long day at work, Doctor?”
“Yes, very much so. I just returned from Kumasi yesterday. I’m sorry I missed your calls.”
“No problem. I just wanted to update you on our progress.”
Not that he had an enormous amount to tell her, but Dawson knew that keeping in close touch with her at each stage of the game was the best way to maintain good relations. He suspected that Superintendent Hammond had failed to do that, perhaps giving the doctor a false impression that he was doing little or nothing in the case. After briefing her for a few minutes, Dawson had a question for her.
“I hope I don’t offend,” he said, “but my sergeant and I have both heard that your Auntie Fiona might have been having an affair with a local businessman. Do you know anything about that?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to be naïve, but I would never have thought it of her. I suppose I’m idealizing her. This local businessman-do you know who?”
“Not yet.”
An awkward pause hung briefly in the air. Dr. Smith-Aidoo hurried to fill it. “How’s Hosiah recovering from his surgery?”
“Very well, thank you. You’ve never mentioned a husband or children. I hope you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind. No children, never been married, and not attached. I was seeing a fellow physician for a while, but he turned out to be too domineering. Wanted to get married and start me churning out the babies like a factory. I’m not ready for that. I’d like to set up my own practice in Takoradi before that ever happens.”
“I wish you the best. I imagine you’ll be very successful.”
“Thank you.”
His mbira, which was resting in the corner by the window, had caught her attention. “Do you play?”
“A little.”
“May I see it?”
He gave it to her and sat down again while she examined it.
“It’s wonderful,” she said, looking up at him. “I love mbiras. Where did you get this one? From the Northern Region?”
“No, I made it.”
She looked at him half disbelievingly. “Really?”
“I’ve been making them since I was a boy.”
“Oh my. Intelligent and talented.” She laughed playfully, and he recognized she was behaving differently toward him. She was more open, less guarded, and she was being flirtatious. He felt a disturbing twinge of excitement and made himself look away from her lovely face, framed by the soft lighting in the lodge.
She held the mbira out to him. “Play something, maestro.”
He smiled. “Okay.”
He played a lively piece with a recurring rhythmic theme. She sat forward, watching and listening intently, and applauding when he was done.
“Now I’ll play something with a different mood,” he said. “It’s an old tune I learned when I was a kid.”
This piece was more melodious, the notes blending with less of the traditional mbira discordance. For a while, he was lost in the composition. When he looked up again, tears were streaming down Dr. Smith-Aidoo’s face. He stopped playing.
“Are you okay, Doctor?”
She covered her face with her hands and began to weep. Dawson kneeled beside her, touching her arm.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t stop seeing it…”
“Is it the canoe?”
She nodded, trying to say something but choking on the words. Her body leaned toward him, and he supported her as her arms went around his shoulders.
“Something about the melody brought back memories.” She was sobbing. “I miss them. I miss them so much.”
She held on to him tightly, and he waited for her weeping to run its course.
“Better?”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“It’s okay.” He made a slight movement to separate, but she wasn’t letting go. Instead, she allowed her full weight to push against him. He tried to shift his position but lost his balance and sank to the floor with her on top of him.
Then he didn’t know what was happening. He was on his back, and she was frantically kissing his neck and his face, her sweet breath coming fast. Her hand was in his shirt feeling the curve of his pectorals and stroking his abdominal muscles. She opened his shirt, kissed his chest. He thought he heard her whisper, “Please, I need it.”