The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency

  “She has not come to pay anything,” he said. “This lady has come all the way from Gaborone to ask you why you keep claiming for lost fingers.”

  Mma Ramotswe watched Moretsi’s expression as the attorney spoke. Even if there had not been the evidence of the changed date on the hospital report, his crestfallen look would have convinced her. People always collapsed when confronted with the truth; very, very few could brave it out.

  “Keep claiming … ?” he said limply.

  “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You claim, I believe, to have lost three fingers. And yet if I look at your hand today I see that two have miraculously grown back! This is wonderful! Perhaps you have discovered some new drug that enables fingers to grow back once they have been chopped off?”

  “Three?” said the attorney, puzzled.

  Mma Ramotswe looked at Moretsi.

  “Well,” she said. “There was Kalahari Accident. Then there was … Could you refresh my memory? I’ve got it written down somewhere.”

  Moretsi looked to his attorney for support, but saw only anger.

  “Star Insurance,” he said quietly.

  “Ah!” said Mma Ramotswe. “Thank you for that.”

  The attorney picked up the medical report and waved it at his client.

  “And you expected to be able to fool me with this … crude alteration? You expected to get away with that?”

  Moretsi said nothing, as did Mma Ramotswe. She was not surprised, of course; these people were utterly slippery, even if they had a law degree to write after their names.

  “Anyway,” said Jameson Mopotswane, “that’s the end of your tricks. You’ll be facing fraud charges, you know, and you’ll have to get somebody else to defend you. You won’t get me, my friend.”

  Moretsi looked at Mma Ramotswe, who met his gaze directly.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked. “Just tell me why you thought you could get away with it?”

  Moretsi took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.

  “I am looking after my parents,” he said. “And I have a sister who is sick with a disease that is killing everybody these days. You know what I’m talking about. She has children. I have to support them.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked into his eyes. She had always been able to rely on her ability to tell whether a person was telling the truth or not, and she knew that Moretsi was not lying. She thought quickly. There was no point in sending this man to prison. What would it achieve? It would merely add to the suffering of others—of the parents and of the poor sister. She knew what he was talking about and she understood what it meant.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will not tell the police about any of this. And my client will not either. But in return, you will promise that there will be no more lost fingers. Do you understand?”

  Moretsi nodded rapidly.

  “You are a good Christian lady,” he said. “God is going to make it very easy for you in heaven.”

  “I hope so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I am also a very nasty lady sometimes. And if you try any more of this nonsense with insurance people, then you will find that I will become very unpleasant.”

  “I understand,” said Moretsi. “I understand.”

  “You see,” said Mma Ramotswe, casting a glance at the attentive attorney, “there are some people in this country, some men, who think that women are soft and can be twisted this way and that. Well I’m not. I can tell you, if you are interested, that I killed a cobra, a big one, on my way here this afternoon.”

  “Oh?” said Jameson Mopotswane. “What did you do?”

  “I cut it in two,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Two pieces.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE THIRD METACARPAL

  ALL THAT was a distraction. It was gratifying to deal with a case like that so quickly, and to the clear satisfaction of the client, but one could not put out of one’s mind the fact that there was a small brown envelope in the drawer with contents that could not be ignored.

  She took it out discreetly, not wanting Mma Makutsi to see it. She thought that she could trust her, but this was a matter which was very much more confidential than any other matter they had encountered so far. This was dangerous.

  She left the office, telling Mma Makutsi that she was going to the bank. Several cheques had come in, and needed to be deposited. But she did not go to the bank, or at least not immediately. She drove instead to the Princess Marina Hospital and followed the signs that said PATHOLOGY.

  A nurse stopped her.

  “Are you here to identify a body, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I have come to see Dr Gulubane. He is not expecting me, but he will see me. I am his neighbour.”

  The nurse looked at her suspiciously, but told her to wait while she went to fetch the doctor. A few minutes after she returned and said that the doctor would be with her shortly.

  “You should not disturb these doctors at the hospital,” she said disapprovingly. “They are busy people.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at the nurse. What age was she? Nineteen, twenty? In her father’s day, a girl of nineteen would not have spoken to a woman of thirty-five like that—spoken to her as if she was a child making an irritating request. But things were different now. Upstarts showed no respect for people who were older, and bigger too, than they were. Should she tell her that she was a private detective? No, there was no point in engaging with a person like this. She was best ignored.

  Dr Gulubane arrived. He was wearing a green apron—heaven knows what awful task he had been performing—and he seemed quite pleased to have been disturbed.

  “Come with me to my office,” he said. “We can talk there.”

  Mma Ramotswe followed him down a corridor to a small office furnished with a completely bare table, a telephone, and a battered grey filing cabinet. It was like the office of a minor civil servant, and it was only the medical books on a shelf which gave away its real purpose.

  “As you know,” she began, “I’m a private detective these days.”

  Dr Gulubane beamed a broad smile. He was remarkably cheerful, she thought, given the nature of his job.

  “You won’t get me to talk about my patients,” he said. “Even if they’re all dead.”

  She shared the joke. “That’s not what I want,” she said. “All I would like you to do is to identify something for me. I have it with me.” She took out the envelope and spilled its contents on the desk.

  Dr Gulubane immediately stopped smiling and picked up the bone. He adjusted his spectacles.

  “Third metacarpal,” he muttered. “Child. Eight. Nine. Something like that.”

  Mma Ramotswe could hear her own breathing.

  “Human?”

  “Of course,” said Dr Gulubane. “As I said, it’s from a child. An adult’s bone would be bigger. You can tell at a glance. A child of about eight or nine. Possibly a bit older.”

  The doctor put the bone down on the table and looked up at Mma Ramotswe.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “Somebody showed it to me. And you won’t get me to talk about my clients either.”

  Dr Gulubane made an expression of distaste.

  “These things shouldn’t be handed round like that,” he said. “People show no respect.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded her agreement. “But can you tell me anything more? Can you tell me when the … when the child died?”

  Dr Gulubane opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass, with which he examined the bone further, turning it round in the palm of his hand.

  “Not all that long ago,” he said. “There’s a small amount of tissue here at the top. It doesn’t look entirely dessicated. Maybe a few months, maybe less. You can’t be sure.”

  Mma Ramotswe shuddered. It was one thing to handle bone, but to handle human tissue was quite a different matter.

  “And another thing,” said Dr Gulubane. “How do you know that the child whose bone this is is dead? I
thought you were the detective—surely you would have thought: this is an extremity—people can lose extremities and still live! Did you think that, Mrs Detective? I bet you didn’t!”

  SHE CONVEYED the information to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni over dinner in her house. He had readily accepted her invitation and she had prepared a large pot of stew and a combination of rice and melons. Halfway through the meal she told him of her visit to Dr Gulubane. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stopped eating.

  “A child?” There was dismay in his voice.

  “That’s what Dr Gulubane said. He couldn’t be certain about the age. But he said it was about eight or nine.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni winced. It would have been far better never to have found the bag. These things happened—they all knew that—but one did not want to get mixed up in them. They could only mean trouble—particularly if Charlie Gotso was involved in them.

  “What do we do?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

  “We can go to the police,” he said. “And if we do that, Charlie Gotso will get to hear about my finding the bag. And that will be me done for, or just about.”

  Mma Ramotswe agreed. The police had a limited interest in pursuing crime, and certain sorts of crime interested them not at all. The involvement of the country’s most powerful figures in witchcraft would certainly be in the latter category.

  “I don’t think we should go to the police,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “So we just forget about it?” Mr J.L.B. Matekoni fixed Mma Ramotswe with a look of appeal.

  “No. We can’t do that,” she said. “People have been forgetting about this sort of thing for long enough, haven’t they? We can’t do that.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni lowered his eyes. His appetite seemed to have deserted him now, and the stew was congealing on his plate.

  “The first thing we do,” she said, “is to arrange for Charlie Gotso’s windscreen to be broken. Then you telephone him and tell him that thieves have broken into his car while it was in the garage. You tell him that there does not appear to have been anything stolen, but that you will willingly pay for a new windscreen yourself. Then you wait and see.”

  “To see what?”

  “To see if he comes back and tells you something’s missing. If he does, you tell him that you will personally undertake to recover this thing, whatever it is. You tell him that you have a contact, a lady private detective, who is very good at recovering stolen property. That’s me, of course.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s jaw had dropped. One did not simply go up to Charlie Gotso just like that. You had to pull strings to see him.

  “And then?”

  “Then I take the bag back to him and you leave it up to me. I’ll get the name of the witch doctor from him and then, well, we’ll think about what to do then.”

  She made it sound so simple that he found himself convinced that it would work. That was the wonderful thing about confidence—it was infectious.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s appetite returned. He finished the stew, had a second helping, and then drank a large cup of tea before Mma Ramotswe walked with him to his car and said good-night.

  She stood in the drive and watched the lights of his car disappear. Through the darkness, she could see the lights of Dr Gulubane’s house. The curtains of his living room were open, and the doctor was standing at the open window, looking out into the night. He could not see her, as she was in darkness and he was in the light, but it was almost as if he was watching her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A LOT OF LIES

  ONE OF the young mechanics tapped him on the shoulder, leaving a greasy fingerprint. He was always doing this, that young man, and it annoyed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni intensely.

  “If you want to attract my attention,” he had said on more than one occasion, “you can always speak to me. I have a name. I am Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, and I answer to that. You don’t have to come and put your dirty fingers on me.”

  The young man had apologised, but had tapped him on the shoulder the next day, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had realised that he was fighting a losing battle.

  “There’s a man to see you, Rra,” said the mechanic. “He’s waiting in the office.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni put down his spanner and wiped his hands on a cloth. He had been involved in a particularly delicate operation—fine-tuning the engine of Mrs Grace Mapondwe, who was well-known for her sporty style of driving. It was a matter of pride to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni that people knew that Mrs Mapondwe’s roaring engine note could be put down to his efforts; it was a free advertisement in a way. Unfortunately, she had ruined her car and it was becoming more and more difficult for him to coax life out of the increasingly sluggish engine.

  The visitor was sitting in the office, in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s chair. He had picked up a tyre brochure and was flipping through it when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni entered the room. Now he tossed it down casually and stood up.

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni rapidly took in the other man’s appearance. He was dressed in khaki, as a soldier might be, and he had an expensive, snakeskin belt. There was also a fancy watch, with multiple dials and a prominent second hand. It was the sort of watch worn by those who feel that seconds are important, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

  “Mr Gotso sent me,” he said. “You telephoned him this morning.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. It had been easy to break the windscreen and scatter the fragments of glass about the car. It had been easy to telephone Mr Gotso’s house and report that the car had been broken into; but this part was more difficult—this was lying to somebody’s face. It’s Mma Ramotswe’s fault, he thought. I am a simple mechanic. I didn’t ask to get involved in these ridiculous detective games. I am just too weak.

  And he was—when it came to Mma Ramotswe. She could ask anything of him, and he would comply. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni even had a fantasy, unconfessed, guiltily enjoyed in which he helped Mma Ramotswe. They were in the Kalahari together and Mma Ramotswe was threatened by a lion. He called out, drawing the lion’s attention to him, and the animal turned and snarled. This gave her the chance to escape, while he dispatched the lion with a hunting knife; an innocent enough fantasy, one might have thought, except for one thing: Mma Ramotswe was wearing no clothes.

  He would have loved to save her, naked or otherwise, from a lion, but this was different. He had even had to make a false report to the police, which had really frightened him, even if they had not even bothered to come round to investigate. He was a criminal now, he supposed, and it was all because he was weak. He should have said no. He should have told Mma Ramotswe that it was not her job to be a crusader.

  “Mr Gotso is very angry,” said the visitor. “You have had that car for ten days. Now you telephone us and tell us that it is broken into. Where’s your security? That’s what Mr Gotso says: where’s your security?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. This was terrible.

  “I’m very sorry, Rra. The panel-beaters took a long time. Then I had to get a new part. These expensive cars, you can’t put anything in them …”

  Mr Gotso’s man looked at his watch.

  “All right, all right. I know how slow these people are. Just show me the car.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni led the way out of the office. The man seemed less threatening now; was it really that easy to turn away wrath?

  They stood before the car. He had already replaced the windscreen, but had propped what remained of the shattered one against a nearby wall. He had also taken the precaution of leaving a few pieces of broken glass on the driver’s seat.

  The visitor opened the front door and peered inside.

  “I have replaced the windscreen free of charge,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I will also make a big reduction in the bill.”

  The other man said nothing. He was leaning across now and had opened the glove compartment. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni watched quietly.

  The man got out of the car an
d brushed his hand against his trousers; he had cut himself on one of the small pieces of glass.

  “There is something missing from the glove compartment. Do you know anything about that?”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head—three times.

  The man put his hand to his mouth and sucked at the cut.

  “Mr Gotso forgot that he had something there. He only remembered when you told him about the car being broken into. He is not going to be pleased to hear that this item has gone.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni passed the man a piece of rag.

  “I’m sorry you’ve cut yourself. Glass gets everywhere when a windscreen goes. Everywhere.”

  The man snorted. “It doesn’t matter about me. What matters is that somebody has stolen something belonging to Mr Gotso.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni scratched his head.

  “The police are useless. They didn’t even come. But I know somebody who can look into this.”

  “Oh yes? Who can do that?”

  “There’s a lady detective these days. She has an office over that way, near Kgale Hill. Have you seen it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “She’s an amazing lady! She knows everything that’s going on. If I ask her, she’ll be able to find out who did this thing. She might even be able to get the property back. What was it, by the way?”

  “Property. A small thing belonging to Mr Charlie Gotso.”

  “I see.”

  The man took the rag off his wound and flung it on the floor.

  “Can you ask that lady then,” he said grudgingly. “Ask her to get this thing back to Mr Gotso.”

  “I will,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I will speak to her this evening, and I am sure she will get results. In the meantime, that car is ready and Mr Gotso can collect it anytime. I will clear up the last bits of glass.”

  “You’d better,” said the visitor. “Mr Gotso doesn’t like to cut his hand.”

  Mr Gotso doesn’t like to cut his hand! You’re a little boy, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. You’re just like a truculent little boy. I know your type well enough! I remember you—or somebody very like you—in the playground at Mochudi Government School—bullying other boys, breaking things, pretending to be tough. Even when the teacher whipped you, you made much about being too brave to cry.