The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (16 page)

The policeman looked at her doubtfully. “You’re a detective, Mma? CID? Which office—Gaborone? Where is your card?”

“I’m not that sort of detective,” said Mma Makutsi. “I’m a private detective. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.”

The policewoman smiled. “Sorry, my sister, but you should keep quiet. This is proper police business. This is not play detectives.”

Mma Makutsi looked at Fanwell. “What is all this, Fanwell? Do you know what these people are saying?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni answered the question. “They say that he was repairing a stolen car for resale. Some friend of his had it. That is what they’re saying.”

“I didn’t know it was stolen, Mma,” said Fanwell, his voice shaking with fear. “I just did it as a favour for Chobie. He’s a friend of mine. I did not know it was stolen.”

“That friend,” muttered Charlie, and spat, “I’m going to get him.”

The policeman threw Charlie a warning glance. “Look, we can’t stand here forever,” he said. “If this young man has a story, then he can make a statement at the charge office. Then he can go in front of the magistrate, who will look at that statement and decide whether it is true or whether it is all lies. I’m sorry to say this, but sometimes people tell lies, and this young man may well be doing that.”

“You cannot say that, Rra,” protested Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Surely he is still innocent until the magistrate has decided that he is guilty. This is Botswana, you know.”

The policeman turned to face Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. Out of deference to the mechanic’s dignity and bearing, he did not speak roughly, but there was nonetheless an edge to his voice. “Yes,” he said, “you’re right, Rra. This is Botswana. And in Botswana we do not take kindly to young men who take other people’s cars and then sell them to unsuspecting members of the public. We do not like that either.”

“What are you going to do with him?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“He will stay in the cells,” said the policewoman. “He’ll be all
right there. He’ll get a blanket at night. You needn’t worry about him, Mma. I’ll see that he’s all right.”

The policeman now took Fanwell by the arm and began to lead him away.

The young man stumbled, but was kept on his feet by the policeman. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Did you hear that?” exploded Charlie. “Did you hear what he said?”

“Calm down,” said the policeman. “It doesn’t help if people shout.”

“Just keep quiet, Charlie.” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni put a restraining hand on the young man. “We’ll speak to a lawyer.”

Charlie shook his head. “These people …”

The policeman gave him another warning glance, and Charlie stopped.

They watched in silence as Fanwell was led to the police car parked outside. The rear door was opened and he was bundled inside; the door slammed and the car moved away. They saw his face briefly as he looked back towards them; then the car pulled out into the traffic on the Tlokweng Road and was gone. In the anxious conference that followed, Charlie said very little, but sat morosely shaking his head, muttering about what he was planning to do to Chobie.

“Do you know this Chobie?” asked Mma Makutsi.

Charlie nodded. “I will find him.”

“But maybe the police have found him already,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Then he can tell them that Fanwell did not know,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

Charlie and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was decent by nature and the problem with people who were trusting, she had always thought, was that they assumed
others were like them, and they were not. They could hope that this Chobie might explain that he alone was answerable for handling stolen property, but they could not rely on it. Nor could they rely on his being believed even if he were to say it. If two young men were standing in the dock together, why should a magistrate believe one of them if he said the other was innocent?

“This is very serious,” said Mma Makutsi.

“He’s innocent,” said Charlie.

“Of course he’s innocent,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “We know that Fanwell would never do anything wrong. But we’re not the ones who will be sitting there in court, are we?”

Charlie stared at her. “If they convict him, what then?”

“They send you to prison for handling stolen property,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “That man at the bottle store—remember him? He went to prison for two years for selling stolen beer.”

“Two years!” Charlie exclaimed.

“He’s a first offender,” said Mma Makutsi.

This remark, innocently intended though it was, drew Charlie’s ire. Pointing a finger at Mma Makutsi, he almost shouted. “You think he’s guilty, don’t you?”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I do not think that.”

“Then why do you call him an offender? Isn’t an offender somebody who’s guilty?”

Mma Makutsi tried to explain what she had meant; Charlie listened resentfully.

“We mustn’t argue,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “Arguing won’t help Fanwell.”

“Nothing will help Fanwell,” said Mma Makutsi.

MMA RAMOTSWE RETURNED
to the office an hour or so after the police and a fearful, almost tearful Fanwell had left. Her heart was
heavy with the upsetting encounter she had just had with Mma Potokwane, and so when she came in and saw Mma Makutsi sitting disconsolately at her desk, she assumed that her assistant was merely sharing her own distress over the injustice done to her friend. But then she realised that Mma Makutsi did not know what had happened, and whatever the explanation for her assistant’s state of mind, it was not that.

“Is there something wrong, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi reached into the pocket of her blouse and took out a handkerchief. “Oh, Mma Ramotswe, it is very bad, very bad.”

Mma Ramotswe froze. Her mind went quickly to those she loved: Which one of them had had some terrible accident, was even at this moment under the surgeon’s knife at the Princess Marina Hospital? Had something happened in the garage? Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said that one of the pneumatic jacks was playing up—had it failed altogether and a car come down on him, pinning him to the ground? Puso? Motholeli? They should be safely at home from school by now, but there were always perils, even in that short walk between the house and school—only a few days ago a car driven by a young and inexperienced motorist had mounted the pavement and knocked over a fruit-seller …

“Fanwell …,” Mma Makutsi began.

Mma Ramotswe gasped. “Oh no, Mma, oh no …” Fanwell was dead. He had been under the car when the jack had failed.

Mma Makutsi quickly understood the conclusion that Mma Ramotswe had jumped to, and she corrected the mistake. “No, Mma, he is not late—nothing like that. He has been …” She struggled with the word; it was just so unlikely, so impossible. “He has been arrested.”

Mma Ramotswe’s relief on hearing that the worst had not happened was tempered by shock. “Arrested? Surely not, Mma?
Not Fanwell …” She tailed off; the unspoken thought was that if Charlie had been arrested it would not be so surprising.

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “If they had arrested Charlie, then maybe it would not have been so surprising. But Fanwell? No, Mma, it is a very shocking thing.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I know, Mma, I have often thought that Charlie was asking for trouble.” She paused. “Do you think that they made a mistake? Do you think they thought that Fanwell was Charlie?”

“It is all a big mistake,” replied Mma Makutsi. “But it is not that mistake. No, they knew that Fanwell was Fanwell, and he was the one they were after.”

Mma Ramotswe crossed the room to her desk and sat down. “There is other bad news too,” she said quietly. “Mma Potokwane has been dismissed from her post. At the end of the month she will no longer be the matron.”

Mma Makutsi shrieked. “No, Mma. That cannot be. It cannot.”

Mma Ramotswe explained what had happened. She had found Mma Potokwane in her house, she said, and had been given the news directly. Mma Potokwane told her that she had had the news given to her by the secretary to the board of directors of the orphan farm. The directors had decided, she was told, that her attitude to the proposed new buildings had been unhelpful and obstructive. In the circumstances, since she had shown herself unwilling to comply with the properly determined policy of the board, it was thought that she should be replaced with somebody who could embrace the new approach to cost-effectiveness that the board had endorsed. And with that, her regime was brought to an abrupt end.

Mma Ramotswe was slightly surprised by the intensity of Mma Makutsi’s reaction to this story. Although her assistant had previously not enjoyed the best of friendships with Mma Potokwane,
relations between the two of them had been rather better recently. And now, hearing of Mma Potokwane’s misfortune, any past disagreements seemed immediately forgotten. “That is terrible, Mma,” wailed Mma Makutsi. “Oh, it is so unfair, so unfair. And on the same day as Fanwell’s arrest—and he is innocent, Mma, as we both know. Mma Potokwane too. They are both the victims of some very bad things. Oh, Mma …”

And with that, Mma Makutsi began to sob. Mma Ramotswe immediately rose from her desk and went to put an arm around the other woman. “It is very bad,” she said consolingly. “It is a very bad day for everybody.”

Mma Makutsi’s sobbing became louder. “Poor Fanwell,” she spluttered. “He is looking after that whole family, and there will be no money now. And Mma Potokwane. What will she eat? It is all so wrong, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe felt the tears begin to roll down her own cheeks. She closed her eyes and saw Mma Potokwane sitting on her sofa, staring so blankly and hopelessly ahead. She had given her working life to those children; she had spent every waking hour, it seemed, battling to give the children a decent start. She was tireless in her efforts on their behalf. And there was her fruit cake too, that she used as a means of ensnaring others to help the orphans; that fruit cake, that tea, those hours spent together talking about anything and everything. And the wisdom that the matron had, the understanding, the deep wells of kindness under that imposing exterior; all that, it seemed, meant nothing to the juggernaut of reform and efficiency and cost-cutting.

She wiped away the tears with the back of her wrist: salt against skin, our human tears. “Mma Makutsi,” she managed to say.

Mma Makutsi looked up. Her voice, when she spoke, was half choked with sorrow. “Yes, Mma?”

“I am going to make some tea. We shall drink a cup of tea.”

Mma Makutsi nodded, and sniffed. “It is always the best thing to do, Mma.”

It was, of course. The sound of the kettle boiling was in itself the sound of normality, of reason, the sound of a fight back against the sadness of things. And the making of tea—ordinary black tea for Mma Makutsi and red bush for Mma Ramotswe—was the first step in restoring a sense of order and control into their disturbed universe. Then, sitting close together for company, nursing their mugs of tea, they began to discuss what they should do.

“Clovis Andersen,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi nodded. “We must speak to him. He will know what to do.”

It gave them both a reassuring feeling that Clovis Andersen was there to help them. If anybody would know what to do, then surely it would be the great Clovis Andersen. “He’s bound to have some ideas,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you have written a book like that, then you will always have ideas on how to get out of a crisis.”

“That is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “One of his rules must surely apply here, or if it doesn’t, then …”

“Then he can make up a new one,” supplied Mma Makutsi.

“Exactly, Mma. He can make a new one. Rule 9b, or something like that.”

“That will be a very good rule,” said Mma Makutsi. “I think you should go and see him, Mma.”

That settled, they sat in silence for a few minutes. Now the tea began to do its work—as it always did—and the world that only a few minutes previously had seemed so bleak started to seem somewhat less so. There was bound to be some solution to both of the problems they faced. As far as Fanwell was concerned, there could be character references to lay before the court; Mma Ramotswe was already beginning to draft one in her head:
This young man came from a background of poverty. He spends all his wages, every
pula, on the needs of his grandmother and his brothers and sisters. He is completely honest and upright …
Surely they would pay some heed to her if she wrote on their headed paper. And Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni could write as his employer; they would have to listen to him, because everybody loved and admired him and even the magistrate might be aware of that. If he were not, though, was there anything to stop them getting a character reference from the writer of character references …? And as for Mma Potokwane, they would just fight back. There was no doubt in Mma Ramotswe’s mind who was responsible for the dismissal of Mma Potokwane: Mr. Ditso. Those rich men did not like anybody to contradict them; to stand in the way of their pet schemes. Well, if that was the way he chose to conduct himself, then the gloves could come off. Not that she ever saw herself wearing boxing gloves, of course, but if she did, then now was the time to divest herself of them. Mr. Ditso, she thought, you are engaging with a heavyweight; and that, she said to herself, is true. Do not take on a traditionally built person unless you are prepared for a heavyweight bout.
Do not enter the ring with an opponent above your weight
. That was a good proposition, she decided—almost worthy of Clovis Andersen himself. She would suggest it to him, in case he should ever think of a new edition. For a brief, tantalising moment the title page flashed before her eyes:
The Principles of Private Detection: A new and revised edition by Clovis Andersen, with additions by Mma Precious Ramotswe (Botswana) and …
yes, she should be generous in such a matter
 … and Mma Grace Makutsi
(
Dip. Sec., Botswana Sec. Coll., 97%
).