Death at the Voyager Hotel by Kwei Quartey

Paula said. “It could be his mother and father couldn’t take care of him
or didn’t want to, so they put him out on the streets and he never got to go to
school.”
    “That’s cruel,
Mummy.”
    “Yes, and it
reminds us to always be kind to people, no matter what they look like or how poor
they are.”
    Paula welcomed
these discussions. She often fretted that the twins were too sheltered and privileged,
too insulated from hardship. Their riding along in an air-conditioned SUV
sealed off from the sweltering weather outside was emblematic of that cocooned
life. They attended a private international school where they interacted with children
of similar status, not the kind of deprived kids who went to High Street
Academy. Paula often felt guilty about it, and she had once brought the twins
to spend a half-day at Academy so they could experience something profoundly
different from their relatively posh school. They had enjoyed themselves and
made some friends, and Paula had almost wished Stephan and Stephanie could also
stay the night with their impoverished counterparts in their cramped,
dilapidated Jamestown quarters. But Thelo, less plagued than Paula by these
angst-filled existential questions, had vetoed that idea.
    Stephan was now
watching the soccer match in the abandoned building.
    “Anyway,” he proclaimed,
“I like poor people more because they play much better football than rich
people.”
    Stephanie
giggled. “Stephan, you’re so silly.”
    Her brother chortled,
and before long all three of them were laughing until their sides hurt.

    Once Paula had left the twins with her sister Ama, she went
off to continue her errands. She wondered if Mr. Peterson had arrived in Accra
last night as he had planned. Midafternoon, while she was at the Melcom
supermarket, she received a call from him.
    She stepped
into a side hallway where there was less noise. A Saturday in Accra was
shopping chaos. “Okay, that’s better. How are you, Mr. Peterson? Did you arrive
safely?”
    “Yes, thank
you.”
    “Where are you
staying?”
    “At the Airport
Holiday Inn.”
    “I’m only a few
minutes away,” she said. “I would very much like to meet you.”
    “Shall we say
in an hour?”

    A mixture of Ghanaians and white people were drinking and
eating in the Holiday Inn lounge area when Paula arrived. With a sprawling
lobby and a massive, expensive flower arrangement in the center next to a
miniature fountain, this was a far cry from the Voyager Hotel. You can just smell
the money, Paula thought. Four attendants were busy at the reception desk,
compared to the Voyager’s one or two. Paula looked around for Mr. Peterson,
realizing she didn’t know what he looked like.
    “Paula?”
    She turned. “Mr.
Peterson?”
    “Right. I
recognized you from the photos Heather sent us.”
    “Pleasure to
meet you, sir.”
    She had
imagined him as taller. He was in his late fifties, his hairline withdrawing
from his forehead. Paula saw where Heather had inherited her stunning aqua
eyes, but his were weary and reddened.
    “I’m at that
table over there,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”
    She followed
him.
    “I’m so sorry
that we have to meet under these circumstances,” she said, taking a seat
opposite his.
    “So am I,” he
said. “But I thank you for coming.”
    He had finished
a soft drink. Paula ordered one for herself and insisted on getting him another
with a sampler plate of Ghanaian appetizers. They dispensed with the customary
banter about his flight and how scorching he found the weather in Accra.
    “I’ve called
Chief Inspector Agyekum’s number several times without success,” he said.
    “Yes, weekends
are not the best,” Paula said sympathetically, “I’m sure he will get back to
you quite soon.”
    “On Thursday, he
emailed me a scanned copy of the conclusions of the autopsy,” Peterson said, “but
I gotta tell you, it looks like a bunch of BS, excuse my language. Why’ve they
been in such a