Murder at Cape Three Points by Kwei Quartey Page A

glutinous mass.
    Next to the plate of fufu was a deep bowl of steaming palm nut soup, its rich golden-red oil snaking languidly around succulent chunks of fish and turgid white eggplant. The sight and the aroma made Dawson’s salivary glands contract so hard that they hurt.
    Akosua brought a towel, soap, and a two bowls of water to the table. She waited for the men to wash up before she followed suit. The three ate traditionally with the fingers of the right hand only. Like many, Dawson would tell you he loved fufu , but in fact it was really all about the soup. It provided the heavenly flavor as well as the lubricant for a generous chunk of fufu to pass from the lips to the back of the throat and down the gullet in one smooth motion. He was famished and had to moderate his impulse to eat at high speed, especially a meal this sumptuous. He burned energy like a racehorse and was hungry punctually every four hours. Yet he had never been prone to putting on weight. Because he was tall and lean, people often underestimated his physical strength.
    “So you have a big case here in Tadi?” Abraham asked Dawson after the silence that goes with the initial tasting of a meal.
    “A family member petitioned CID Headquarters to look into the murder of Fiona and Charles Smith-Aidoo.”
    Abraham swallowed with a loud, glottal sound before exclaiming, “Hallelujah!”
    Dawson smile. “You’re glad about that, I see.”
    “Come on,” Abraham said indignantly, leaning back in his chair. “Four months of investigation and no arrests, Darko? What is that Superintendent Hammond doing over there in his crime unit at Sekondi? I saw him once on TV making all kinds of excuses about lack of manpower and all that nonsense.”
    “It’s not always all that simple to make an arrest,” Dawson said gently, anxious to lower any grand expectations that he was going to wrap up the case in no time.
    “That’s true,” Akosua agreed. “It’s easy to judge from the outside. Still, it’s frustrating to have a killer like that on the loose—someone who has done such a hideous thing to poor Charles and Fiona.”
    “Did either of you know the couple well?” Dawson asked them.
    “Fairly well,” Abraham said. “I went to the same secondary school as they did, but they were one year ahead. They were sweetheartseven back then, and they stuck together all the way through university and got married after that.”
    It didn’t surprise Dawson that cousin Abraham had had contact with two murder victims. Takoradi was a relatively small city, and personal connections, whether direct or indirect, often went back as far as primary school. Ghanaians made it a point to mix with others in their socioeconomic group and to “know” people and talk about them. Phone numbers were exchanged and shared at the drop of a hat, and arriving at a party with uninvited friends and relatives was quite the norm.
    “What were your impressions of Charles and Fiona?” Dawson asked.
    “He was a smart guy,” Abraham said, “and he got close to the right people. That was what he did in the oil business, but he was influential and well-to-do even before oil arrived. As the CEO of Smith-Aidoo Timber, he had contacts all over the Western Region. He positioned himself to impress the circle of oil executives with his smooth talk and his charming manner. He was really perfect for corporate relations.”
    Without prompting, Akosua served more soup to both the men and Dawson thanked her.
    “What about Fiona Smith-Aidoo?” he asked. “Tell me about her.”
    “She was an attractive woman about town,” Abraham said. “She liked being seen in public—fundraising and so on. She was also the first female chief executive of the Sekondi-Takoradi Metropolitan Assembly—STMA. She displaced longtime chief Kwesi DeSouza, which shocked many people, not least DeSouza himself. He thought he was coasting to another term as chair. A rumor started—and some people think Fiona was