‘It’s Charlie.’
Phuti Radiphuti knew Charlie. He sighed. ‘This is nothing new.’
‘But it is,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Mma Ramotswe has taken him on because Mr J. L. B. Matekoni couldn’t employ him any more. And now that he’s with us in the office, I can see some bad developments looming.’ She shook her head. ‘She’s put him to work on a very sensitive case and there’s going to be big trouble.’
Phuti Radiphuti gazed out of the window into the African night. ‘I hope not,’ he said.
‘So do I,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘But I’m afraid it’s going to happen. Charlie is going to get himself – and the agency – into big, big trouble. Definite. Guaranteed. One hundred per cent guaranteed.’
‘Oh,’ said Phuti.
‘Yes,’ said Mma Makutsi.
‘But I thought that Mma Ramotswe was usually right.’
Mma Makutsi shook her head. ‘She is usually right – except when she is wrong. Her problem is that she is too kind. You have to be careful about being too kind in this life, Phuti.’
‘That is probably true… and yet…’
‘And yet nothing. If you are too kind, then there are people waiting round every corner ready to take advantage of you. You can be kind to some people, yes, but you cannot be kind to everybody. If you are kind to everybody, then you end up being kind to nobody.’
Phuti Radiphuti was confused. ‘I’m not sure that I understand,’ he muttered.
Mma Makutsi explained. ‘What I meant to say is this: Mma Ramotswe has given Charlie a job out of kindness. Charlie is hopeless, Phuti, everybody knows that – probably even his mother. They probably said to his mother: Throw this one away, Mma – he is no good and will be trouble. And she refused, which is what mothers often do, because that is what mothers are like with their boys – they do not see how bad their sons are. They are ready to see the faults in their daughters – oh yes, they see those clearly enough – but when it comes to their sons they will not see the faults.’
Phuti looked thoughtful. ‘Will you see Itumelang’s faults?’ he asked.
Mma Makutsi fixed him with a discouraging stare. ‘What faults?’ she asked.
Chapter Ten
Cool Jules Is on the Case
Charlie had spent his end of service payment from Mr J. L. B. Matekoni on the purchase of new sunglasses, a blue jacket, a red shirt, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans that had not one, but two designer labels displayed on the pockets. One of these labels said Town Man and the other said Cool Jules. He liked both of these, but had a slight preference for Cool Jules, which he thought more accurately reflected his overall image. In such a pair of jeans, he felt, might anything be possible.
To have clothes like this and to be an ‘auxiliary detective’ – which was the title he had decided on for himself, having rejected, on reflection, Mma Makutsi’s belittling title of ‘apprentice detective’ – to be so attired and so employed was surely greater good fortune than any young man could realistically wish for. He thought of the greasy overalls that he had exchanged for this new outfit – how had he put up with those for so long? And how had he tolerated being told to do this and that all the time: fix that ignition, Charlie; change that rear tyre, Charlie; check the suspension on this car, Charlie. It had been the same thing day after day. Where was the pleasure in spending one’s time under a car, with oil dripping onto your face and the curious dusty smell of the underside of a vehicle strong in your nostrils? And all for what? For a pay packet that left very little for any purchases or entertainment after you had paid your rent and given money to your uncle’s girlfriend for the food of which your little cousins ate more than their fair share? It was true that Mma Ramotswe was proposing to pay him what he had received for his work in the garage, but at least there was the prospect of advancement in this job: being an auxiliary detective was just the beginning, and his likely success in the role would almost certainly lead to some more senior, better-paid post – or even to his own business. There was an idea: the No. 1 Men’s Detective Agency – that would be a name to conjure with! That would be the place where all the important investigations would be brought, because everybody knew, thought Charlie, that you could not entrust a really serious investigation to a firm made up of women, even to one led by such a kind and generous woman as Mma Ramotswe.
Of course he could invite Mma Ramotswe to join him if her agency went under as a result of the success of the No. 1 Men’s Detective Agency – he would certainly be magnanimous in that respect, although if Mma Makutsi came too she would have to content herself with the role of secretary. For a moment he imagined himself asking Mma Makutsi to take dictation; she would sit there while he strolled about the room dictating important letters to clients. I refer to yours of the twelfth inst… That is how one should begin an official letter. And then he would say, ‘Am I going too fast, Mma? Perhaps you need to brush up your shorthand skills – you might have got ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College, but that was a long time ago, Mma, and nothing stands still in this world…’ Hah! That would teach Mma Makutsi to push him around and belittle him with those comments of hers. But at the end of the day he would be kind. He would say to her that, although he could easily get a younger and more glamorous secretary, he would still keep her on for old times’ sake, so to speak. She would appreciate that.
Of course, fashionable clothes of the sort he was wearing deserved a better vehicle than Mma Ramotswe’s white van that she was lending him for the task of watching the Sengupta house. Even an auxiliary detective deserved something better than that, with its compromised suspension – on the driver’s side – and battered appearance. But it was better than nothing, and it would not do to have to carry out such an assignment on a bicycle.
‘I do not need the van while I am here in the office,’ Mma Ramotswe had said, ‘as long as it is back by four-thirty every afternoon.’
‘But what if I am in the middle of a car chase, Mma?’ complained Charlie. ‘A detective cannot suddenly look at his watch and say, “Oh, it’s time for me to get back home,” and then turn round. He cannot do that, Mma.’
‘There will be no car chases, Charlie,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘There will be no need for a car chase.’
‘But if she is going somewhere – slowly – just before four-thirty…’
Mma Ramotswe sighed. ‘Every rule has its exceptions, Charlie. In that case I shall know that you are busy and I shall not expect you back at the normal time. If I need to get home, I shall ask Mma Makutsi to take me in that Radiphuti car that comes to collect her. Or Fanwell can drive me back in Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s truck.’
‘Fanwell is a bad driver,’ said Charlie. ‘He has never been able to tell left from right.’
Mma Ramotswe remembered a conversation. ‘Mr J. L. B. Matekoni says that he has become much better. He said that some people take a little time to mature as drivers. Maybe Fanwell is one of those people.’
‘And some people cannot drive at all,’ Charlie countered, looking across the room towards Mma Makutsi behind her desk.
Mma Makutsi appeared to ignore the comment, but then, without raising her eyes from the document she was perusing, she said, ‘Some people do not need to drive, of course. When the Lord made people, he did not make cars for them, I believe. He made them legs. Some people know that and use their legs so that they won’t fall off.’ She paused. ‘Some people appear not to know that. They are the ones who will end up having no legs.’
Mma Ramotswe reached for the keys of the van and handed them to Charlie. ‘Never mind all that, Charlie. Never mind about Fanwell and his problem with left and right. You have a job to do, so go and do it. Watch carefully. Be patient. Rome was not built in a day.’
Charlie was puzzled. ‘What is this about Rome? That is the Pope’s place – what about it, Mma?’
Mma Makutsi looked up. ‘She said that it was not built in a day, Charlie,’ she repeated. ‘It is an expression that pe
ople use.’
‘I have never heard it,’ said Charlie.
‘Well, it’s all about taking time to do things,’ explained Mma Ramotswe. ‘So don’t rush this. Don’t give yourself away on the first day. Park far enough away so that they do not see you, or, if they see you, they think There is a young man waiting for his girlfriend – something like that.’
‘I shall be very discreet, Mma. Very.’ He looked down at his feet, and then added under his breath: ‘What does discreet actually mean, Mma?’
‘It means not doing things that will get you noticed,’ said Mma Ramotswe.
‘Or dressing loudly,’ offered Mma Makutsi.
Charlie nodded. ‘I shall be very discreet, Mma. I promise.’
Mma Ramotswe smiled at him. ‘Then good luck, Charlie.’
After he had left the room, Mma Makutsi sat back in her chair and rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Well, I would hardly call that discreet. Those glasses. Those jeans. That is not discreet, Mma.’
‘He is a young man,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Young men are like that, Mma. You know that.’
‘Yes, but this is a young man wanting to be a detective.’
Mma Ramotswe sighed. ‘We all have to start somewhere, Mma. Even you. You must remember your first case? You must remember how worried you were that you were doing the right thing? And you must remember all the mistakes you made – just as I do, Mma.’
Mma Makutsi bit her lip. ‘Possibly,’ she said.
‘Well, there you are, Mma. That is Charlie, too. We all have to be Charlie at some time in our lives.’
Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. ‘Do you think this woman will stay in the house? Do you think Charlie will see her go out?’
Mma Ramotswe shrugged. ‘I am not sure, Mma. No, maybe I am. Surely she will go out because nobody likes to stay in the house for days on end. She will go out, Mma, and Charlie will see her.’
Mma Makutsi considered this. ‘What do you think is really going on, Mma?’
Mma Ramotswe reached for her pencil and began to play with it, passing it from one hand to the other. It was something that she did when she was thinking very hard, and Mma Makutsi, recognising the sign, waited attentively for the answer.
‘I have been thinking about this case a lot recently,’ she said. ‘I am changing my mind.’ She spoke hesitantly, but then appeared to become more convinced. ‘I think that she is lying, Mma. I think that Miss Rose is lying, too, and Mr Sengupta. I fear they are all telling lies.’
‘But why?’ asked Mma Makutsi.
‘Because they are trying to conceal the truth about Mrs.’
‘But why?’
Mma Ramotswe hesitated once again. ‘I think that Mrs is their sister. They want her to live with them, but perhaps she has not received a residence permit. You know how difficult it can be. They say: not everyone can come to Botswana, don’t they? It is hard for people. Of course she knows who she is.’
Mma Makutsi was not so sure. ‘How do you know that, Mma?’
‘Do you remember what I said about her brushing fluff off Mr Sengupta’s shoulder? Remember what I said, Mma Makutsi?’
‘You said that they knew one another well.’
‘Yes. I think they may know one another very well. I think Mrs may be their sister. They want her to live with them but there is something that makes it impossible for her to apply for a residence permit here.’
‘Why should there be anything like that, Mma? And what exactly would it be?’
Mma Ramotswe had no idea – yet. ‘That’s what we have to find out,’ she said.
‘And how will we do that, Mma?’ asked Mma Makutsi.
‘That’s what we have to find out,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘There are some occasions on which you have to find out how to find out. That is well known, Mma.’
It is not well known, thought Mma Makutsi, but decided not to press the point. There were times that points should not be pressed – and that, everyone agreed, was well known.
Charlie drove the tiny white van past the university, past the Sun Hotel, and then turned across the traffic into the street where Mr Sengupta lived. It was a long street and almost all of the houses were surrounded by walls high enough to prevent anything but a glimpse of their roofs and, in the case of those houses with two storeys, a sight of the first-floor windows. The road itself was a bit broader than many around it, and vegetation had grown up along the edges: thorn bushes, high tufts of grass, acacia trees. Among this growth were the paths that were always there in Africa, following some inexpressible logic of their own, winding this way and that, sometimes seeming to go nowhere at all. You rarely saw people on these paths, yet they were always well trodden, flattened into hard earth and dust, small hand-made features that took no notice of the more formal constructions around them: the tarred roads, the bridges, the car parks.
Charlie slowed as he passed the large gates of the Sengupta house, and then continued to the end of the street: as this was a cul-de-sac there was a turning circle, and Charlie stopped there briefly before proceeding back down the road. He had seen his spot – a place at the side of the road, backed by a plot of land that had yet to be built upon. This plot was to all intents and purposes thick bush: acacias had seeded themselves in profusion and those vicious arresting thorns, the wag-’n-bietjie, the wait-a-bit thorn, the mokgalo, famous for its ability to latch onto the clothing – or flesh – of the incautious passer-by, had taken firm root. At the edge of this plot there was a place for the van to be parked, shaded by the canopy of a large jacaranda, concealed from most of the houses and from the road itself, and yet affording a view both of the Sengupta gate and, because of slightly increased elevation, of part of the garden beyond the gate.
It was the ideal spot to begin the task of surveillance and Charlie quickly settled down to it, lowering the rather shaky-looking sun visor in front of the driver’s seat. On the other side of the visor was a mirror, fixed there by Mr J. L. B. Matekoni after Mma Ramotswe had complained that the makers of vans seemed to forget that many drivers were ladies and might have need of such a mirror. Removing his sunglasses, he glanced at his reflection and said to himself: very smart, very smart. Then he straightened his jeans so that the fabric was pulled tight across his thigh muscles, and finally, replaced his sunglasses. I am on duty, watching, he thought. They may come out at any moment and I will be ready to see where they go.
An hour went past, during which nothing happened. Charlie had begun his watch at nine, and now, at ten, the sun was climbing steadily in the sky. The screech of cicadas, the accompaniment to any stretch of Botswana bush no matter how small, intensified as the day heated up. So familiar was this sound that few people noticed it, but Charlie did now as he sat in the small cab of the van, the sound filling the air with the density, it seemed to him, of a buzz saw – a ceaseless drone, rising in pitch and then descending before picking up again.
At the end of the first hour, he saw a figure emerge from the side of the house. It was a woman, who stood still for a moment before glancing over her shoulder and going back into the house. He did not have time to work out whether it was Mrs; Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi had provided him with a fairly detailed description of her and it was easy, they said, to distinguish her from Miss Rose, as Miss Rose was tall and Mrs was below average height. ‘And another thing,’ Mma Makutsi had said. ‘Miss Rose wears Indian clothes – those saris – while Mrs wears ordinary clothes.’
‘Or she did when we saw her,’ pointed out Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi paused, and then said, ‘That’s true.’
Mma Ramotswe wondered whether she should quote the relevant section of The Principles of Private Detection to Mma Makutsi, but decided against it. She recollected that Clovis Andersen had written: Before describing people by what they are wearing, remember that they can always change their clothes. That was true, and yet she felt that there were people who could be described very well by reference to their clothes because they never wore anything different. So if
Mr J. L. B. Matekoni were ever to go missing – and some husbands did – she could give a good description to the police. A man of reliable appearance wearing khaki trousers and khaki shirt, possibly with a khaki overall on top, and oil-stained suede desert boots. That would be accurate because that was how he always looked. And if for any reason he changed his clothes before going missing, he could be described as A man who looks as if he should be wearing khaki trousers and khaki shirt…