The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (28 page)

The lawyer started to shake. “You said it, your honour. You said my client was not guilty.”

The magistrate grinned. “Did I? I don’t think I did, Mr. Mapoeli. I merely said that his plea is one of not guilty. That’s what I said.”

“Oh,” said the lawyer lamely. “I see.”

“I hope you do, Mr. Mapoeli,” said the magistrate. “Now the other accused? Accused No. 1, Chobie?”

Chobie’s lawyer rose to his feet. “He is pleading not guilty, sir.”

It was at this point, while the magistrate was making a note of the plea, that Mma Ramotswe noticed that Charlie was staring at Chobie. For his part, the young man in the dock initially seemed to avoid the stare, but then returned it. Charlie had made a gesture, not a very obvious one, but a gesture nonetheless. Chobie watched, and shifted in his seat. Charlie then made another gesture—a small movement of the hand that seemed, to Mma Ramotswe’s surprise, to be pointing towards her. Or was it something else altogether?

The magistrate cleared his throat and invited the prosecutor to begin. Chobie and Fanwell were prodded to stand up by the two policemen seated one on either side of them. The charges were then read out. A section of the Botswana Penal Code was mentioned, and there was reference to something having been done
knowingly and willingly
and then there was silence.

Mma Ramotswe was watching Charlie, who was still looking at Chobie. Again there was a surreptitious gesture. Mma Ramotswe shifted her gaze to Chobie and noticed, rather to her surprise, that he was staring at her.

The prosecutor mentioned a police witness, but before he could finish what he was saying, Chobie stood up. “I am guilty, sir.”

His lawyer spun round. “He has entered a plea of not guilty, sir.”

“No,” said Chobie. “I am saying I am guilty now.”

The magistrate adjusted his spectacles. “That sounds like a guilty plea,” he said.

Chobie, still standing, spoke again, ignoring the policeman who was tugging at his shirt, urging him to sit down. “This one here”—he gestured to Fanwell—“this one didn’t know the car was stolen, Rra. I am the one who did it. I am very sorry.”

The magistrate sighed. He looked at the prosecutor, who was busily conferring with Chobie’s lawyer. “It seems that this is going to need a bit of sorting out,” he said. “I shall adjourn the court for fifteen minutes while the State decides what to do. But it seems to me as if it might be an idea to dismiss the charges against accused No. 2.” He paused. “A cursory examination of the papers seems to point that way. And if accused No. 1 is saying that accused No. 2 had no knowledge of the fact that the car was stolen, then that rather changes things, doesn’t it, Mr. Prosecutor?” He then answered his own question. “Frankly, this is a bit of a mess, and I propose to dismiss the charges against accused No. 2. We can come back to deal with accused No. 1’s revised plea in a quarter of an hour. No. 2 is discharged. You can go, young man. You, No. 1, you stay.”

They went outside. As she left the building, Mma Makutsi ran out into the sun and uttered the traditional ululation of delight that women contribute to any great Botswana occasion. Mma Ramotswe would have joined her, had she not been busy explaining to a shocked and shivering Fanwell that his ordeal was over.

“I cannot believe it,” stuttered Fanwell. “What has happened?”

Fanwell’s lawyer shuffled his papers about officiously. “A very satisfactory result,” he said. “I am very pleased with this case.”

“But what happened, Rra?” asked Fanwell. “How did you get me off?”

Mma Ramotswe watched the lawyer, who hesitated momentarily.
She realised that he had no idea, but she did not want to spoil his moment of victory. This, she thought, was probably the first case he had won for a long time—if ever.

“You just thank your lawyer,” she said to Fanwell. “The important thing is that he has won your case for you. That is what counts.”

“Yes,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, reaching out to shake the lawyer’s hand. “Well done, Rra.”

The lawyer beamed. “Thank you, Rra. These cases can be difficult, but I am very glad that this young man can return to his work without a spot on his reputation.”

They made their way to the vehicles. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, Charlie, and Fanwell drove back in the truck, followed by Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi in the tiny white van. It was a small procession, but no great march, no Roman triumph could have matched it for sheer joy, or relief.

Once back at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, they tried to get back to work, but it was hard, and eventually Mma Ramotswe simply brought forward the tea-break so that they could all calm down and get back to normal.

“One thing I cannot work out,” she said, looking at Charlie, “is why Chobie suddenly changed his story. Why would he decide to take the blame?”

“Because he did it,” blurted out Mma Makutsi. “He said he was guilty, and he was.”

“But he had been planning to try to shift everything on to Fanwell,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “And then it all changed.”

Mma Ramotswe was still staring at Charlie. “I wonder whether he was frightened of something,” she mused. “What do you think, Charlie?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She watched him. There was the slightest hint of a smile playing about his lips. Of course he knew. Of course he did.

“I think that he might have been frightened of
you
, Charlie. I don’t know why I think that, but I think that’s what happened.”

Charlie was now clearly struggling not to laugh.

“It’s not funny, Charlie,” reprimanded Mma Makutsi.

Suddenly Charlie put down his mug of tea and pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of his overalls. Now smiling broadly, he passed the paper to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“What’s this, Charlie?”

“It’s a newspaper cutting, Rra. Or rather it’s a piece of paper that I had somebody make up as a newspaper cutting. You know that printing place at Riverwalk? I have a friend there who can print anything from his computer. Driving licence? No problem. Birth certificate? No problem too. And in this case, an article from a newspaper over in Johannesburg.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who used reading glasses, took these out of his pocket and unfolded the piece of paper and read out loud. “ ‘Police search for dangerous hit-woman. The public is warned that the convicted murderess, Bella Dlamini, is on the loose and may be looking for further contracts. This woman is dangerous and has been known to carry out contract killings for as little as one thousand rand.’ ” He looked up from the paper. “What is all this, Charlie?” He looked down again. “And this …” He stopped, and held up the paper. “My goodness, this Bella Dlamini looks exactly like you, Mma Ramotswe.”

Charlie let out a hoot of laughter. “But it
is
Mma Ramotswe. It’s her photograph.”

“Why have you made that rubbish?” asked Mma Makutsi. “This is not funny, Charlie.”

Mma Ramotswe, though, was looking at Charlie through narrowed eyes. “Charlie,” she said. “Did you show that to Chobie?”

He beamed with self-satisfaction. “Yes. Two days ago. I found him and I showed it to him.”

“And?”

“And I told him …” Charlie looked about him, as if for support. They were all staring at him intently. “I told him that we had arranged something. If he didn’t tell the truth in court, then …” He pointed to the cutting. “Then he would be seeing this lady.”

There was complete silence.

“And she was there in court,” Charlie continued. “So he decided to tell the truth after all. And who wouldn’t?”

SHE TOOK CHARLIE OUTSIDE
.

“Come for a little walk with me, Charlie.”

“I don’t see what the fuss is about, Mma Ramotswe.”

“Just come with me, Charlie, so we can talk.”

He went reluctantly, dragging his heels in the sand like a surly schoolboy. Mma Ramotswe took his arm. She would not be cross with him; she knew that this never worked with Charlie. You had to try to reason with Charlie; you had to be gentle.

“You do know how serious it is?” she asked.

“What?”

“How serious it is to threaten a witness. Especially to threaten to have them killed.”

He said nothing.

“You could go to jail if the police found out. You know that, don’t you?”

Charlie defended himself. “He wasn’t a witness, Mma. He was the one who did it. I just told him to tell the truth.”

She increased the pressure on his arm. “You threatened him,
Charlie. And you brought me into it. You made him think I was that lady, that …”

“Bella Dlamini,” he prompted. “It’s a good name, isn’t it, Mma Ramotswe?”

“Charlie, you have to take this seriously. You have done a very bad thing.”

“With a good result.”

She had to admit that this was the case. Truth, it seemed, had triumphed—by means of a lie.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “It may be a good result, but never forget, Charlie, that you should not try to get good results by doing bad things.”

“Why not?”

“Because …” She looked up at the sky. She was not sure how she could explain it to this young man, and then she decided that she could not. Not just yet.

“Because it’s not right, Charlie. Sometimes we have to see bad things happen because we can’t do another bad thing to stop them. Do you see that?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I’m very pleased that Fanwell is back with us, of course.”

“So am I. He is like a brother to me, Mma.”

“I know, Charlie.”

“And you have to help your brother, Mma.”

“I understand that, Charlie, but … but be careful what you do.”

Charlie looked at his watch. “We should get back to work, Mma.”

She nodded. “All right, Charlie, let’s get back to work.”

They retraced their steps, as friends now, or at least as those who have established an understanding, even if the understanding is about just what one of them understands and the other does not.

W
ITH THE REMOVAL
of the threat hanging over Fanwell, Mma Ramotswe found herself with more energy to help Mma Potokwane. Clovis Andersen had at least given a lead in suggesting that the contract for the building of the new hall should be investigated, and she felt that this could now be tackled. The great authority had offered to accompany her to Mma Potokwane’s office to see what could be uncovered, and now they were approaching the gates and the large, shady tree under which Mma Ramotswe habitually parked her van on these visits.

“This is a very fine place,” commented Clovis Andersen, looking about him as the van came to a halt. “We had an orphanage in Muncie, Indiana, back when I was a boy.”

“Your place in America, Rra?”

“Yes. Muncie. The orphans’ home was a place made of a curious yellow brick and its windows were painted red round the edges. It’s odd how you remember these little details years later.”

“We all do that,” said Mma Ramotswe.
I remember
, she thought.

I remember my late daddy, and how he took me on his shoulders and we
walked along the road outside our house and I was proud, so proud that I thought my heart would burst
.

“The boys and girls from the orphanage went to school—same as us. We had three or four in my class. There was a boy called Lance. He had freckles and ginger hair. I remember asking him what had happened to his parents, and he told me that they had been Arctic explorers and had drifted off on an ice floe. He said that there had been an article about them in the
National Geographic
. He said that he used to have the issue the article was in, but another boy in the orphanage had stolen it.”

They were standing outside the van now; standing in the morning sun, which was gentle on them. It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that they were in no particular hurry and that they could talk, if that was what Clovis Andersen wanted. “That is very sad, Rra,” she said. “That is stealing that boy’s past.”

He smiled at the memory. “Of course it wasn’t true. A couple of years later I was told by some other kid that his parents had committed suicide together and that the story of the ice floe was all invention. I asked my own parents about that. They never lied to me, and so they had to admit that it was true: the suicide had taken place in the dry-goods store that the boy’s parents used to run. The father had shot his wife and then himself.”

Mma Ramotswe gasped. “And left that little boy …”

“Yes. But they probably weren’t thinking straight, poor people. They were in debt, I imagine—a lot of those small storekeepers got into terrible debt.”

“And the boy?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What happened to the boy?”

“He went to college in Bloomington. As I did. He was a great football player. He taught high school, I think. Things went well for him.”

“I am pleased to hear that ending,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It would have been a very sad story otherwise.”