"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 and 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.
And this Mr Charlie Gotso, with his expensive car and sinister ways—he's a boy too. Just a little boy.
HE WAS determined that Mma Ramotswe should not get away with it. She seemed to assume that he would do whatever she told him to do and very rarely asked him whether he wanted to take part in her schemes. And of course he had been far too meek in agreeing with her; that was the problem, really—she thought that she could get away with it because he never stood up to her. Well, he would show her this time. He would put an end to all this detective nonsense.
He left the garage, still smarting, busy rehearsing in his mind what he would say to her when he reached the office.
"Mma Ramotswe, you've made me lie. You've drawn me into a ridiculous and dangerous affair which is quite simply none of our business. I am a mechanic. I fix cars—I cannot fix lives."
The last phrase struck him for its forcefulness. Yes—that was the difference between them. She was a fixer of lives—as so many women are—whereas he was a fixer of machines. He would tell her this, and she would have to accept its truth. He did not want to destroy their friendship, but he could not continue with this posturing and deception. He had never lied— never—even in the face of the greatest of temptations, and now here he was enmeshed in a whole web of deceit involving the police and one of Botswana's most powerful men!
She met him at the door of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. She was throwing the dregs from a teapot into the yard as he drew up in his garage van.
"Well?" she said. "Did everything go as planned?" "Mma Ramotswe, I really think . . ."
"Did he come round himself, or did he send one of his men?"
"One of his men. But, listen, you are a fixer of lives, I am just . . ."
"And did you tell him that I could get the thing back? Did he seem interested?"
"I fix machines. I cannot. . . You see, I have never lied. I have never lied before, even when I was a small boy. My tongue would go stiff if I tried to lie, and I couldn't."
Mma Ramotswe upended the teapot for a final time.
"You've done very well this time. Lies are quite all right if you are lying for a good cause. Is it not a good cause to find out who killed an innocent child? Are lies worse than murder, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? Do you think that?"
"Murder is worse. But. . ."
"Well there you are. You didn't think it through, did you? Now you know."
She looked at him and smiled, and he thought: I am lucky. She is smiling at me. There is nobody to love me in this world. Here is somebody who likes me and smiles at me. And she's right about murder. It's far worse than lies.
"Come in for tea," said Mma Ramotswe. "Mma Makutsi has boiled the kettle and we can drink tea while we decide what to do next."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MR CHARLIE GOTSO, BA
MR CHARLIE Gotso looked at Mma Ramotswe. He respected fat women, and indeed had married one five years previously. She had proved to be a niggling, troublesome woman and eventually he had sent her down to live on a farm near Lobatse, with no telephone and a road that became impassable in wet weather. She had complained about his other women, insistently, shrilly, but what did she expect? Did she seriously think that he, Mr Charlie Gotso, would restrict himself to one woman, like a clerk from a Government department? When he had all that money and influence? And a BA as well? That was the trouble with marrying an uneducated woman who knew nothing of the circles in which he moved. He had been to Nairobi and Lusaka. He knew what people were thinking in places like that. An intelligent woman, a woman with a BA, would have known better; but then, hereminded himself, this fat woman down in Lobatse had borne him
five children already and one had to acknowledge that fact. If only she would not carp on about other women.
"You are the woman from Matekoni?"
She did not like his voice. It was sandpaper-rough, and he slurred the ends of the words lazily, as if he could not be bothered to make himself clear. This came from contempt, she felt; if you were as powerful as he was, then why bother to communicate properly with your inferiors? As long as they understood what you wanted—that was the essential thing.
"Mr J.L.B. Matekoni asked me to help him, Rra. I am a private detective."
Mr Gotso stared at her, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"I have seen this place of yours. I saw a sign when I was driving past. A private detective agency for ladies, or something like that."
"Not just for ladies, Rra," said Mma Ramotswe. "We are lady detectives but we work for men too. Mr Patel, for example. He consulted us."
The smile became broader. "You think you can tell men things?"
Mma Ramotswe answered calmly. "Sometimes. It depends. Sometimes men are too proud to listen. We can't tell that sort of man anything."
He narrowed his eyes. The remark was ambiguous. She could have been suggesting he was proud, or she could be talking about other men. There were others, of course . . .
"So anyway," said Mr Gotso. "You know that I lost some property from my car. Matekoni says that you might know who took it and get it back for me?"
Mma Ramotswe inclined her head in agreement. "I have done that," she said. "I found out who broke into your car. They were just boys. A couple of boys."
Mr Gotso raised an eyebrow. "Their names? Tell me who they are."
"I cannot do that," said Mma Ramotswe. "I want to smack them. You will tell me who they are." Mma Ramotswe looked up at Mr Gotso and met his gaze. For a moment neither said anything. Then she spoke: "I gave them my word I would not give their names to anybody if they gave me back what they had stolen. It was a bargain." As she spoke, she looked around Mr Gotso's office. It was just behind the Mall, in an unprepossessing side street, marked on the outside with a large blue sign, gotso holding enterprises. Inside, the room was simply furnished, and if it were not for the photographs on the wall, you would hardly know that this was the room of a powerful man. But the photographs gave it away: Mr Gotso with Moeshoeshoe, King of the Basotho; Mr Gotso with Hastings Banda; Mr Gotso with Sobhuza II. This was a man whose influence extended beyond their borders.
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