"We've found one claim under that name," said the woman on the other end of the line. "Two years ago we had a claim from a garage in town. One of their petrol attendants claimed to have injured his finger while replacing the petrol pump dispenser in its holder. He lost a finger and they claimed under their employer's policy."
Mma Ramotswe's heart gave a leap. "Four thousand pula?" she asked.
"Close enough," said the clerk. "We settled for three thousand eight hundred."
"Right hand?" pressed Mma Ramotswe. "Second finger counting from the thumb?"
The clerk shuffled through some papers.
"Yes," she said. "There's a medical report. It says something about. . . I'm not sure how to pronounce it... osteomy . . ."
"Elitis," prompted Mma Ramotswe. "Requiring amputation of the finger at the proximal phalangeal joint?"
"Yes," said the clerk. "Exactly."
There were one or two details to be obtained, and Mma Ramotswe did that before thanking the clerk and ringing off. For a few moments she sat quite still, savouring the satisfaction of having revealed the fraud so quickly. But there were still several loose ends to be sorted out, and for these she would have to go up to Mahalapye. She would like to meet Moretsi, if she could, and she was also looking forward to an interview with his attorney. That, she thought, would be a pleasure that would more or less justify the two-hour drive up that awful Francistown Road.
The attorney proved to be quite willing to see her that afternoon. He assumed that she had been engaged by Hector to settle, and he imagined that it would be quite easy to browbeat her into settling on his terms. They might try for a little bit more than four thousand, in fact; he could say that there were new factors in the assessment of damages which made it necessary to ask for more. He would use the word quantum, which was Latin, he believed, and he might even refer to a recent decision of the Court of Appeal or even the Appellate Division in Bloemfontein. That would intimidate anyone, particularly a woman! And yes, he was sure that Mr Moretsi would be able to be there. He was a busy man, of course; no, he wasn't in fact, he couldn't work, poor man, as a result of his injury, but he would make sure that he was there.
Mma Ramotswe chuckled as she put down the telephone.
The attorney would be going to fetch his client out of some bar, she imagined, where he was probably already celebrating prematurely the award of four thousand pula. Well, he was due for an unpleasant surprise, and she, Mma Ramotswe, would be the agent of Nemesis.
She left her office in the charge of her secretary and set off to Mahalapye in the tiny white van. The day had heated up, and now, at noon, it was really quite hot. In a few months' time it would be impossible at midday and she would hate to have to drive any distance through the heat. She travelled with her window open and the rushing air cooled the van. She drove past the Dry Lands Research Station and the road that led off to Mochudi. She drove past the hills to the east of Mochudi and down into the broad valley that lay beyond. All around her there was nothing — just endless bush that stretched away to the bounds of the Kalahari on the one side and the plains of the Limpopo on the other. Empty bush, with nothing in it, but some cattle here and there and the occasional creaking windmill bringing up a tiny trickle of water for the thirsty beasts; nothing, nothing, that was what her country was so rich in — emptiness.
She was half an hour from Mahalapye when the snake shot across the road. The first she saw of it was when its body was about halfway out onto the road — a dart of green against the black tar; and then she was upon it, and the snake was beneath the van. She drew in her breath and slowed the car, looking behind her in the mirror as she did so. Where was the snake? Had it succeeded in crossing the road in time? No, it had not; she had seen it go under the van and she was sure that she had heard something, a dull thump.
She drew to a halt at the edge of the road, and looked in the mirror again. There was no sign of the snake. She looked at the steering wheel and drummed her fingers lightly against it. Perhaps it had been too quick to be seen; these snakes could move with astonishing speed. But she had looked almost immediately, and it was far too big a snake to disappear just like that. No, the snake was in the van somewhere, in the works or under her seat perhaps. She had heard of this happening time and time again. People picked up snakes as passengers and the first thing they knew about it was when the snake bit them. She had heard of people dying at the wheel, as they drove, bitten by snakes that had been caught up in the pipes and rods that ran this way and that under a car.
Mma Ramotswe felt a sudden urge to leave the van. She opened her door, hesitantly at first, but then threw it back and leaped out, to stand, panting, beside the vehicle. There was a snake under the tiny white van, she was now sure of that; but how could she possibly get it out? And what sort of snake was it? It had been green, as far as she remembered, which meant at least it wasn't a mamba. It was all very well people talking about green mambas, which certainly existed, but Mma Ramotswe knew that they were very restricted in their distribution and they were certainly not to be found in any part of Botswana. They were tree-dwelling snakes, for the most part, and they did not like sparse thorn bush. It was more likely to be a cobra, she thought, because it was large enough and she could think of no other green snake that long.
Mma Ramotswe stood quite still. The snake could have been watching her at that very moment, ready to strike if she approached any closer; or it could have insinuated itself into the cab of the van and was even now settling in under her seat. She bent forward and tried to look under the van, but she could not get low enough without going onto her hands and knees. If she did that, and if the snake should choose to move, she was worried that she would be unable to get away quickly enough. She stood up again and thought of Hector. This was what husbands were for. If she had accepted him long ago, then she would not be driving alone up to Mahalapye. She would have a man with her, and he would be getting under the van to poke the snake out of its place.
The road was very quiet, but there was a car or a truck every so often, and now she was aware of a car coming from the Mahalapye direction. The car slowed down as it approached her and then stopped. There was a man in the driver's seat and a young boy beside him.
"Are you in trouble, Mma?" he called out politely. "Have you broken down?"
Mma Ramotswe crossed the road and spoke to him through his open window. She explained about the snake, and he turned off his engine and got out, instructing the boy to stay where he was.
"They get underneath," he said. "It can be dangerous. You were right to stop."
The man approached the van gingerly. Then, leaning through the open door of the cab, he reached for the lever which released the bonnet and he gave it a sharp tug. Satisfied that it had worked, he walked slowly round to the front of the van and very carefully began to open the bonnet. Mma Ramotswe joined him, peering over his shoulder, ready to flee at the first sight of the snake.
The man suddenly froze.
"Don't make any sudden movement," he said very softly. "There it is. Look."
Mma Ramotswe peered into the engine space. For a few moments she could make out nothing unusual, but then the snake moved slightly and she saw it. She was right; it was a cobra, twined about the engine, its head moving slowly to right and left, as if seeking out something.
The man was quite still. Then he touched Mma Ramotswe on the forearm.
"Walk very carefully back to the door," he said. "Get into the cab, and start the engine. Understand?"
Mma Ramotswe nodded. Then, moving as slowly as she could, she eased herself into the driving seat and reached forward to turn the key.
The engine came into life immediately, as it always did. The tiny white van had never failed to start first time.
"Press the accelerator," yelled the man. "Race the engine!"
Mma Ramotswe did as she was told, and the engine roared throatily. There was a noise from the front, another thump, and then the man signalled to her to switch
off. Mma Ramotswe did so, and waited to be told whether it was safe to get out.
"You can come out," he called. "That's the end of the cobra."
Mma Ramotswe got out of the cab and walked round to the front. Looking into the engine, she saw the cobra in two pieces, quite still.
"It had twined itself through the blades of the fan," said the man, making a face of disgust. "Nasty way to go, even for a snake. But it could have crept into the cab and bitten you, you know. So there we are. You are still alive."
Mma Ramotswe thanked him and drove off, leaving the cobra on the side of the road. It would prove to be an eventful journey, even if nothing further were to happen during the final half hour. It did not.
"NOW," SAID Mr Jameson Mopotswane, the Mahalapye attorney, sitting back in his unprepossessing office next to the butchery. "My poor client is going to be a little late, as the message only got to him a short time ago. But you and I can discuss details of the settlement before he arrives."
Mma Ramotswe savoured the moment. She leaned back in her chair and looked about his poorly furnished room.
"So business is not so good these days," she said, adding: "Up here."
Jameson Mopotswane bristled.
"It's not bad," he said. "In fact, I'm very busy. I get in here at seven o'clock, you know, and I'm on the go until six."
"Every day?" asked Mma Ramotswe innocently.
Jameson Mopotswane glared at her.
"Yes," he said. "Every day, including Saturdays. Sometimes Sundays."
"You must have a lot to do," said Mma Ramotswe.
The attorney took this in a reconciliatory way and smiled, but Mma Ramotswe continued: "Yes, a lot to do, sorting out the lies your clients tell you from the occasional—occasional—truth."
Jameson Mopotswane put his pen down on his desk and glared at her. Who was this pushy woman, and what right did she have to talk about his clients like that? If this is the way she wanted to play it, then he would be quite happy not to settle. He could do with fees, even if taking the matter to court would delay his client's damages.
"My clients do not lie," he said slowly. "Not more than anybody else, anyway. And you have no business, if I may say so, to suggest that they are liars."
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow.
"Oh no?" she challenged. "Well, let's just take your Mr Moretsi, for example. How many fingers has he got?" Jameson Mopotswane looked at her disdainfully. "It's cheap to make fun of the afflicted," he sneered. "You know very well that he's got nine, or nine and a half if you want to split hairs."
"Very interesting," said Mma Ramotswe. "And if that's the case, then how can he possibly have made a successful claim to Kalahari Accident and Indemnity, about three years ago, for the loss of a finger in an accident in a petrol station? Could you explain that?"
The attorney sat quite still. "Three years ago?" he said faintly. "A finger?"
"Yes," said Mma Ramotswe. "He asked for four thousand— a bit of a coincidence—and settled for three thousand eight hundred. The company have given me the claim number, if you want to check up. They're always very helpful, I find, when there's any question of insurance fraud being uncovered. Remarkably helpful."
Jameson Mopotswane said nothing, and suddenly Mma Ramotswe felt sorry for him. She did not like lawyers, but he was trying to earn a living, like everybody else, and perhaps she was being too hard on him. He might well have been supporting elderly parents, for all she knew.
"Show me the medical report," she said, almost kindly. "I'd be interested to see it."
The attorney reached for a file on his desk and took out a report.
"Here," he said. "It all seemed quite genuine."
Mma Ramotswe looked at the piece of headed paper and then nodded.
"There we are," she said. "It's just as I thought. Look at the date there. It's been whited out and a new date typed in. Our friend did have a finger removed once, and it may even have been as a result of an accident. But then all that he's done is to get a bottle of correction fluid, change the date, and create a new accident, just like that."
The attorney took the sheet of paper and held it up to the light. He need not even have done that; the correction fluid could be seen clearly enough at first glance.
"I'm surprised that you did not notice that," said Mma Ramotswe. "It doesn't exactly need a forensic laboratory to see what he's done."
It was at this point in the shaming of the attorney that Moretsi arrived. He walked into the office and reached out to shake hands with Mma Ramotswe. She looked at the hand and saw the stub of the finger. She rejected the proffered hand.
"Sit down," said Jameson Mopotswane coldly.
Moretsi looked surprised, but did as he was told.
"So you're the lady who's come to pay . . ."
The attorney cut him short.
"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.
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