Ladies' Detective Agency 01 - The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (20 page)

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

A
LL 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.”