The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection Read online

  “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 Maku
tsi 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%).

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE EFFECT OF LIME

  THE NEXT THREE DAYS were days of anxiety—and inactivity. Fanwell had been released from custody shortly after having been charged, but was told that it might be some time before his case was called in court. Until then, there was not much he could do, although Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had obtained the services of a lawyer, a rather distracted man who had described the case as “an open and shut one.”

  “That is very good news,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  The lawyer looked surprised. “Good news?”

  “Yes. You said it was open and shut …”

  The lawyer laughed. “Yes, open and shut from the prosecution’s point of view.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked incredulous. “But he’s not guilty. They cannot convict him if he did not do it.”

  The lawyer tapped the side of his nose; it was a curious gesture that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni could not quite interpret. “Oh, Mr. Mechanic, I’m afraid that they all do it. All these people who appear in court say, ‘I did not do it.’ But usually they did.” He tapped his nose again. “I haven’t had anybody come to me and say, ‘I did it, Rra.’ Not one. So I ask myself: If none of these people did it, then who did? Can you tell me? No, I didn’t think you would be able to.” He sighed. “But I’ll do my best for this young man. I’ll try to get them to give him a suspended sentence, although that depends on which magistrate gets the case. Some of those fellows have got very bad tempers. You never know.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not tell Fanwell of this exchange. All he did was to tell him that he had secured the services of a lawyer, and that the lawyer had assured him that he would do his best. Charlie, who was with Fanwell at the time, clapped his hands together and did one of those impromptu dances that he performed to mark pieces of good news. “Ace!” he exclaimed. “You hear that, Fanwell? A big-shot lawyer. Very smart.”

  “Good,” said Fanwell. “I am very lucky then.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked away. He wondered whether he should try to get another lawyer, but he had already paid a substantial amount as a retainer, and he would probably lose that if he tried to change. Perhaps it was best to have a lawyer who was realistic—after all, one would not want one who showed unfounded optimism in the face of bleak prospects.

  Mma Ramotswe did her best to comfort Fanwell, telling him of the character reference she was preparing and assuring him that justice was bound to be done. For the most part, though, she left the Fanwell affair to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; the apprentice had always been his responsibility, and it seemed that he was doing all that was required to see Fanwell through this. Her mind was more taken up with the issue of Mma Potokwane’s dismissal. She made a point of going out to the orphan farm each day to speak to her friend and to encourage her to challenge the dismissal.

  “I’ve already done that,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have written to the board, but they say that they cannot consider my letter until the next meeting, which will be in two weeks’ time. Until then, there is nothing I can do.”

  Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. “I have been making enquiries about that man,” she said. “I have been speaking to a friend who writes articles on business matters for the Botswana Daily News. I have asked him whether he has any information.”

  Mma Potokwane shrugged. “Nobody knows anything. Your friend will say the same thing.”

  This was true. The journalist had promised to see if there was any helpful information in the newspaper’s files but had come back with nothing to report. “He seems to be absolutely above board,” he said. “The money comes from straightforward businesses. A number of dry-cleaning places, a fleet of buses—that sort of thing.”

  Mma Ramotswe thanked him for his efforts. She tried to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness, but she now felt quite despondent about the chance of being able to help Mma Potokwane in any way. Had she been able to provide her with ammunition, then she was sure that the redoubtable matron would have been able to stand up to Mr. Ditso and his friends on the board. But without that, then Mma Potokwane, it seemed, was powerless and all that she, like any of them, could do was to wait. So all three of them—Mma Ramotswe, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Mma Makutsi—found themselves bound up in a shared circle of anxiety, each unable to do anything much to reassure the others or to throw anything but a bleak light on the misfortunes of Fanwell and Mma Potokwane. “It seems as if everything has gone wrong,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know that we should not despair, but everything seems suddenly to have gone wrong.”

  “The whole world is tumbling down,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is surely the end.”

  That, it seemed to Mma Ramotswe, was possibly overstating it, but she knew how Mma Makutsi felt. In fact, they both felt powerless, and were unable even to seek Clovis Andersen’s advice, as he had taken the opportunity to accompany his friend to visit a library being built at Ghanzi, on the other side of the country, and had left word that he could not be contacted for four or five days.

  “I’m sure he will have something to suggest when he comes back,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Maybe,” said Mma Makutsi, but then added gloomily: “But maybe not.”

  Phuti Radiphuti had been kept informed, and had shaken his head sadly at
the news. He had met Fanwell, and he thought it highly unlikely that he had done anything dishonest, but he knew that sometimes the police could, quite reasonably, believe they had a case against an innocent man. It had happened before to one of his employees, and the poor man had spent nine months in prison for an offence that Phuti Radiphuti was convinced he had not committed. There had been evidence, though, and the conviction had been sustained on appeal, which showed, Phuti decided, that even in a well-run system of criminal justice mistakes could be made.

  He was busy, though, and, although sympathetic, he had no time to brood on these matters. He had received a large order to furnish a new hotel to be built on the edge of town, and there was a great deal of paperwork to be completed in that transaction. There was also the matter of his new house, for which the foundations had now been prepared. Concrete had been poured, and the lower parts of the walls were beginning to appear, allowing the layout of the rooms to be envisaged. Like the bones of a developing skeleton, of a creature still in formation, the structure of the house was taking shape. Soon the walls would reach the height where the window spaces could be seen, and not long after that, the first beams of the roof would begin to reach out to one another. After that, it would simply be a matter of finishing, as the tilers and the plasterers, the electricians and the plumbers set about their respective tasks. Mr. Putumelo had promised to finish the whole job in two months, and it looked to Phuti as if he would easily meet that target.

  Mr. Putumelo had gone out of his way to discourage visits to the site during construction. “It is best if the client doesn’t go tramping about the place,” he said. “Building sites are dangerous places, Rra. We had somebody, one of our clients, who put his hand into a cement mixer once—while it was turning.” He shook his head sadly; whether over the consequences, or whether over the whole issue of human foolishness, it was not apparent.