THEY ENTERED the Pekwane garden the following evening, by arrangement with Mma Pekwane, who had promised that at the agreed time she would make sure that the dogs were inside and her husband would be busy eating a special meal she would prepare for him. So there was nothing to stop Mr J.L.B. Matekoni from wriggling under the Mercedes-Benz parked in the yard and flashing his torch up into the bodywork. Mma Ramotswe offered to go under the car as well, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni doubted whether she would fit and declined her offer. Ten minutes later, he had a serial number written on a piece of paper and the two of them slipped out of the Pekwane yard and made their way to the small white van parked down the road.
“Are you sure that’s all I’ll need?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Will they know from that?”
“Yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “They’ll know.”
She dropped him off outside his gate and he waved goodbye in the darkness. She would be able to repay him soon, she knew.
THAT WEEKEND, Mma Ramotswe drove her tiny white van over the border to Mafikeng and went straight to the Railway Café. She bought a copy of the Johannesburg Star and sat at a table near the window reading the news. It was all bad, she decided, and so she laid the paper to one side and passed the time by looking at her fellow customers.
“Mma Ramotswe!”
She looked up. There he was, the same old Billy Pilani, older now, of course, but otherwise the same. She could just see him at the Mochudi Government School, sitting at his desk, dreaming.
She bought him a cup of coffee and a large doughnut and explained to him what she needed.
“I want you to find out who owns this car,” she said, passing the slip of paper with the serial number written on it in the handwriting of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Then, when you’ve found out, I want you to tell the owner, or the insurance company, or whoever, that they can come up to Gaborone and they will find their car ready for them in an agreed place. All they have to do is to bring South African number plates with the original number on them. Then they can drive the car home.”
Billy Pilani looked surprised.
“All for nothing?” he asked. “Nothing to be paid?”
“Nothing,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just a question of returning property to its rightful owner. That’s all. You believe in that, don’t you Billy?”
“Of course,” said Billy Pilani quickly. “Of course.”
“And Billy I want you to forget you’re a policeman while all this is going on. There’s not going to be any arrest for you.”
“Not even a small one?” asked Billy in a disappointed tone.
“Not even that.”
BILLY PILANI telephoned the following day.
“I’ve got the details from our list of stolen vehicles,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the insurance company, who’ve already paid out. So they’d be very happy to get the car back. They can send one of their men over the border to pick it up.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They are to be in the African Mall in Gaborone at seven o’clock in the morning next Tuesday, with the number plates.”
Everything was agreed, and at five o’clock on the Tuesday morning, Mma Ramotswe crept into the yard of the Pekwane house and found, as she had been expecting, the keys of the Mercedes-Benz lying on the ground outside the bedroom window, where Mma Pekwane had tossed them the previous night. She had been assured by Mma Pekwane that her husband was a sound sleeper and that he never woke up until Radio Botswana broadcast the sound of cowbells at six.
He did not hear her start the car and drive out onto the road, and indeed it was not until almost eight o’clock that he noticed that his Mercedes-Benz was stolen.
“Call the police,” shouted Mma Pekwane. “Quick, call the police!”
She noticed that her husband was hesitating.
“Maybe later,” he said. “In the meantime, I think I shall look for it myself.”
She looked him directly in the eye, and for a moment she saw him flinch. He’s guilty, she thought. I was right all along. Of course he can’t go to the police and tell them that his stolen car has been stolen.
She saw Mma Ramotswe later that day and thanked her.
“You’ve made me feel much better,” she said. “I shall now be able to sleep at night without feeling guilty for my husband.”
“I’m very pleased,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And maybe he’s learned a lesson too. A very interesting lesson.”
“What would that be?” asked Mma Pekwane.
“That lightning always strikes in the same place
twice,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Whatever people say to the
contrary.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
MMA RAMOTSWE’S HOUSE IN
ZEBRA DRIVE
THE HOUSE had been built in 1968, when the town inched out from the shops and the Government Buildings. It was on a corner site, which was not always a good thing, as people would sometimes stand on that corner, under the thorn trees that grew there, and spit into her garden, or throw their rubbish over her fence. At first, when she saw them doing that, she would shout from the window, or bang a dustbin lid at them, but they seemed to have no shame, these people, and they just laughed. So she gave up, and the young man who did her garden for her every third day would just pick up the rubbish and put it away. That was the only problem with that house. For the rest, Mma Ramotswe was fiercely proud of it, and daily reflected on her good fortune in being able to buy it when she did, just before house prices went so high that honest people could no longer pay them.
The yard was a large one, almost two-thirds of an acre, and it was well endowed with trees and shrubs. The trees were nothing special—thorn trees for the most part—but they gave good shade, and they never died if the rains were bad. Then there were the purple bougainvillaeas which had been enthusiastically planted by the previous owners, and which had almost taken over by the time Mma Ramotswe came. She had to cut these back, to give space for her pawpaws and her pumpkins.
At the front of the house there was a verandah, which was her favourite place, and which was where she liked to sit in the mornings, when the sun rose, or in the evenings, before the mosquitoes came out. She had extended it by placing an awning of shade netting supported by rough-hewn poles. This filtered out many of the rays of the sun and allowed plants to grow in the green light it created. There she had elephant-ear and ferns, which she watered daily, and which made a lush patch of green against the brown earth.
