The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (29 page)

“There are plenty of sad stories, Mma Ramotswe.”

“Of course there are.” She pointed to the scattered cottages in which the children lived with their house-mothers. “Every one of those houses has sad stories in it.”

“I guess that’s right,” said Clovis Andersen.

“But Mma Potokwane tries to write a happy ending for them,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “That is what she does.”

She held Clovis Andersen’s gaze as she said this, and he knew immediately what she meant: this was not an idle enquiry they were about to embark upon—there was a great deal at stake here.

“I think we should go in,” he said softly. “Is that the office over there?”

“Yes. That is where she works.”

Mma Potokwane was briefly out of her office, her secretary explained, but she would be back soon; one of the house-mothers had sprained an ankle and she was attending to that. In the meantime they were welcome to sit down in the office, where it was cool.

They had talked in the van earlier about what they should do, and now Mma Ramotswe tackled the secretary. “Are you the secretary, Mma, to the board as well as to Mma Potokwane?”

The secretary nodded. “I do both, Mma. When the board has its meetings I am always there to bring papers and do things like that.”

Mma Ramotswe looked about the room, at the array of filing cabinets. “You keep the board papers here, Mma?”

The secretary confirmed that this was the case.

“So that means you have the tenders for the new hall?”

The secretary glanced in the direction of one of the filing cabinets. “They are all there,” she said.

“Could you show me something, Mma?”

The reply came quickly. “Certainly not, Mma. The board’s papers are confidential. They have that typed on the top of them. I cannot show them even to you, Mma Ramotswe. It would be improper.”

“Of course it would be,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “It would be improper. But it’s a pity, really.”

The secretary looked at her suspiciously. “Why, Mma?”

“I take it that you are fond of Mma Potokwane, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Of course I am, Mma. She is the best matron this place has ever had. She is the best boss I am ever likely to get.”

“So you’ll miss her?”

“Of course I’ll miss her, Mma.”

“And I can imagine how the children will miss her,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Oh, they’ll be so sad, those children. First they lose their parents, and then they lose Mma Potokwane. They will be very sad, I think.”

“Yes, they will be.”

“And there will be a lot of crying.”

The secretary lowered her gaze. “We shall all cry, Mma. All of us.”

Mma Ramotswe waited a moment or two. Clovis Andersen, who felt as if he were an intruder into a private family moment, studied his hands.

“Then I take it that you would be very pleased to have her dismissal set aside?”

The secretary’s reply was vehement. “I would do anything to make that happen, Mma.”

“Anything?” probed Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes, anything at all.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Clovis Andersen before she next spoke. “Then please show us the tender documents that the board received for the new hall,” she said.

The secretary hesitated. “They are confidential,” she said.

“Then we can do nothing for Mma Potokwane.”

“However, if it is in the interests of the children,” went on the secretary, “then I shall overlook the confidentiality issue.”

She rose from her chair and unlocked one of the filing cabinets. Thereafter it took a few minutes before she found what she was looking for: a brown manila file on which
Hall
had been inscribed in thick black lettering. She turned to face Mma Ramotswe.

“This has the quotes received from the builders,” she said. “And it also has the report that went back from the tender committee to the main board.”

Mma Ramotswe was intrigued. “The tender committee?”

The secretary explained. “That was the committee that decided who should get the job of building the hall.”

“And who was on that?”

“Only two people, I think,” came the reply. “Mr. Ditso Ditso—you know him, Mma?—and that lady from the Ministry, I am always forgetting her name. But she never went to the meetings, I believe. She is a very lazy woman—everybody knows that.”

“So the meetings of the tender committee just consisted of Mr. Ditso Ditso?”

“Yes. And he said something to me about it once. He joked that it was very pleasant being on a committee where nobody disagreed with you because there were no other members. He said he wished all committees were like that.”

Clovis Andersen now intervened. “I’ll bet he does!” he said.

The secretary handed the file to Mma Ramotswe, who put it on the table in front of her and began to look through the documents it contained. “Here,” she said, passing four stapled pages to Clovis Andersen. “Those are the estimates from the builders.”

Clovis Andersen looked at the papers. “They aren’t too far apart,” he said. “It means that the builders wanted this job. If you
get one that’s much higher, then it usually means that the builder who put it in didn’t really want the job but would take it if his excessive price got it.”

“And here’s Mr. Ditso’s letter of recommendation to the board saying that the job should be awarded to …” She looked up. “Kalahari Forward Construction.”

Clovis Andersen consulted the papers in front of him and frowned. “They’re not on the tender list,” he said.

“That is the firm,” said the secretary. “They are the ones who are going to do the job. You will find a copy of the letter of appointment from the board in there.” She gestured to the file. “I copied it myself. It is all in order.”

“All in order, not in order,” muttered Clovis Andersen. “Can you find that one, Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe paged through the remaining papers in the file. “Here,” she said. “This is the one.” She examined it more closely. “It is an agreement to build the hall and kitchen for three million and six hundred thousand pula.”

“That’s right,” said the secretary. “That is a lot of money, Mma.”

Clovis Andersen took the letter from Mma Ramotswe and read through it quickly. “Interesting,” he said at last. “The highest tender from the list was just over two million.”

“So the contract was not awarded to the lowest bid,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“No,” said Clovis Andersen. “Of course that sometimes happens. There may be some reason why a more expensive contractor is preferred. For example, he may do better quality work. Or … or he may be a relative.” His tone became more ominous. “Or the contractor may be paying a kickback to the person awarding the contract. There are many possible reasons.”

The secretary drew in her breath. “That is very bad,” she hissed. “I did not know anything about it, Mma Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe reassured her. “Of course you didn’t, Mma. Nobody is blaming you.”

The secretary looked satisfied. “I know about those people,” she said. “They came round to look at the site.”

“Kalahari Forward Construction?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “They came here?”

“Yes, they came here, Mma. Their boss came. My brother knows who he is. He used to drive a taxi for him when he was in the taxi business. Then he became a builder and did quite well. My brother did not like him.”

Mma Ramotswe looked interested. “And what was this man’s name, Mma? Do you remember?”

“He is called Sephotho,” said the secretary. “He is a tall man who has lost a finger on his left hand. It looks like this.” She held up a hand with one digit tucked back.

Mma Ramotswe felt her heart pound within her. “Sephotho?” she said. “And has he got a sister, this man?”

“Yes. My brother says she is not a very nice woman …”

“Called Violet?”

“I think so,” said the secretary. “Violet, or Rose. Something like that. He said that she should really have a name like Thorn or Cabbage.”

Mma Ramotswe shuffled the papers back into the file and handed it to the secretary. “I think we are going to go and look for Mma Potokwane,” she said, indicating to Clovis Andersen that he should follow her. “We have some very interesting news to give her.”

THEY TOLD MMA POTOKWANE
about what they had discovered. She listened carefully, then rushed forward and threw her arms around an astonished Clovis Andersen. “Oh, thank you, Rra! Thank you,
thank you!” If, over the last few days, there had been signs of depression in her demeanour, these now disappeared with extraordinary rapidity.

Clovis Andersen extracted himself from the embrace. “It wasn’t me, Mma. You should thank Mma Ramotswe. She found this out.”

“You did,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It was your idea.”

He refused to accept the credit. “No, Mma, it was you.”

“Does it matter?” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe it was the two of you.”

“It was definitely her,” said Clovis Andersen, pointing at Mma Ramotswe. “It was not me.”

They returned to Mma Potokwane’s office, where tea was poured and accompanied by liberal slices of fruit cake. Then Mma Ramotswe and Clovis Andersen travelled back to the agency.

“Paper,” said Clovis Andersen as they turned on to the Tlokweng Road. “You’d be surprised, Mma Ramotswe, by how often people leave a paper trail. It’s the undoing of so many malefactors—so many.”

Mma Ramotswe repeated the word
malefactors
. “That is a very interesting word, Rra. We do not use it very much here in Botswana. What exactly does it mean?”

Clovis Andersen explained. “It means people who do wrong—any sort of wrong.”

Mma Ramotswe repeated the word several times. “It is a good word,” she said. “I shall use it more often. Malefactors. Malefactors. There are many malefactors.”

“There are,” agreed Clovis Andersen.

“Are there many malefactors in Munchie?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Muncie. No, no more than anywhere else. In fact, maybe fewer. Muncie, Indiana, is not a bad place.”

“Like Gaborone?”

He smiled. “Yes, a bit like Gaborone. The human heart, you see, Mma Ramotswe, is pretty much the same wherever one goes.”

She nodded her agreement. “Yes, Rra, that is certainly true. All human hearts are the same, no matter how different we are on the outside.”

They travelled in silence for a short while. Then Clovis Andersen turned to Mma Ramotswe and said, “What now, Mma?”

“I have an idea,” she said. “I have an idea why Mr. Ditso gave the contract to that firm.”

“And why is that?”

She smiled. “Would you mind, Rra, if I didn’t tell you just yet? I think I’m right, but I’m not absolutely certain.”

“Not one hundred per cent certain?”

“No, not one hundred per cent. More like … more like ninety-seven per cent, I think.”

Clovis Andersen frowned. “Where have I heard that figure before? Where has ninety-seven per cent cropped up before?”

“It is just a guess, Rra. Ninety-seven per cent is a figure that I have also heard before. So it just came into my mind.”

MMA MAKUTSI WAS
sitting at her desk drinking a cup of tea when they arrived back at the office. She glanced up at Mma Ramotswe and knew immediately that something important had happened.

“You have found something?” she asked. “You look very happy.”

“We sure do,” said Clovis Andersen. “We are feeling very happy, Mma Makutsi.”

Mma Makutsi gave him an encouraging smile.
Star-struck
, thought Mma Ramotswe.
You are still star-struck
.

“Mr. Ditso Ditso has not been behaving very well,” said Mma
Ramotswe. “And this means, I hope, that we shall be able to persuade him to drop his plans.”

Mma Makutsi clapped her hands together. “That is very good news, Mma—very good news.”

There was still a further step, though, and Mma Ramotswe now made the request that would make it possible for that step to be taken. “Mma Makutsi,” she began, “am I right in remembering that you have a picture of your graduation from the Botswana Secretarial College?”

Mma Makutsi seemed surprised, but was obviously pleased by the question. “As it happens, Mma, I do have that photograph in my drawer here. Would you like to see it?”

“It would be very useful, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi opened a drawer in her desk and took out a photograph that had been pasted onto a piece of stiff cardboard. “Here it is,” she said, dusting it reverentially. “There were fifteen ladies who graduated in my group. Here we all are, sitting with the Principal. And there, you see, is the college crest and the motto.” She turned to Clovis Andersen. “Ninety-seven per cent, Rra. That is what I got in the final examinations.”

“Ninety-seven per cent!” he said. “That’s almost impossible. Virtually flawless.”

She bobbed her head. “That is what some people said. I am very lucky.”

“Not luck, Mma Makutsi,” he said. “Talent.”

Mma Ramotswe took the proffered photograph and examined it. “Yes,” she said. “This is what I need.” She looked up. “May I borrow this photograph, Mma? Not for very long, and I will take very good care of it, I promise you.”

Mma Makutsi sounded puzzled. “Of course you may, Mma. But why do you need it?”

“I need a photograph of Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this is the only one we have, I think. This is her in the middle row, isn’t it?”

Mma Makutsi wrinkled her nose. “She looked the same then as she looks today. Look at all that lipstick. Look at it.”

“And the nails,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “Those nails. They have a lot to do with this.”

“With what?”

“With this enquiry,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Nails, Mma?”

“I shall explain everything very soon, Mma Makutsi. In the meantime, Mr. Andersen and I need to go into town.”

There was something in Mma Makutsi’s look that made Mma Ramotswe hesitate. It was a look of disappointment, coupled, perhaps, with yearning.

“Unless you would like to come with us, Mma Makutsi?” she said.

Mma Makutsi blurted out her answer. “I think I would, Mma. Thank you very much.”

Mma Ramotswe picked up the keys to the van. “Of course, there is a bit of a problem about seats. The van only has two seats in the cab, which means that somebody will need to sit in the back. That will not be very comfortable.”