“She has not come to pay anything,” he said. “This lady has come all the way from Gaborone to ask you why you keep claiming for lost fingers.”
Mma Ramotswe watched Moretsi’s expression as the attorney spoke. Even if there had not been the evidence of the changed date on the hospital report, his crestfallen look would have convinced her. People always collapsed when confronted with the truth; very, very few could brave it out.
“Keep claiming … ?” he said limply.
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You claim, I believe, to have lost three fingers. And yet if I look at your hand today I see that two have miraculously grown back! This is wonderful! Perhaps you have discovered some new drug that enables fingers to grow back once they have been chopped off?”
“Three?” said the attorney, puzzled.
Mma Ramotswe looked at Moretsi.
“Well,” she said. “There was Kalahari Accident. Then there was … Could you refresh my memory? I’ve got it written down somewhere.”
Moretsi looked to his attorney for support, but saw only anger.
“Star Insurance,” he said quietly.
“Ah!” said Mma Ramotswe. “Thank you for that.”
The attorney picked up the medical report and waved it at his client.
“And you expected to be able to fool me with this … crude alteration? You expected to get away with that?”
Moretsi said nothing, as did Mma Ramotswe. She was not surprised, of course; these people were utterly slippery, even if they had a law degree to write after their names.
“Anyway,” said Jameson Mopotswane, “that’s the end of your tricks. You’ll be facing fraud charges, you know, and you’ll have to get somebody else to defend you. You won’t get me, my friend.”
Moretsi looked at Mma Ramotswe, who met his gaze directly.
“Why did you do it?” she asked. “Just tell me why you thought you could get away with it?”
Moretsi took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.
“I am looking after my parents,” he said. “And I have a sister who is sick with a disease that is killing everybody these days. You know what I’m talking about. She has children. I have to support them.”
Mma Ramotswe looked into his eyes. She had always been able to rely on her ability to tell whether a person was telling the truth or not, and she knew that Moretsi was not lying. She thought quickly. There was no point in sending this man to prison. What would it achieve? It would merely add to the suffering of others—of the parents and of the poor sister. She knew what he was talking about and she understood what it meant.
“Very well,” she said. “I will not tell the police about any of this. And my client will not either. But in return, you will promise that there will be no more lost fingers. Do you understand?”
Moretsi nodded rapidly.
“You are a good Christian lady,” he said. “God is going to make it very easy for you in heaven.”
“I hope so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I am also a very nasty lady sometimes. And if you try any more of this nonsense with insurance people, then you will find that I will become very unpleasant.”
“I understand,” said Moretsi. “I understand.”
“You see,” said Mma Ramotswe, casting a glance at the attentive attorney, “there are some people in this country, some men, who think that women are soft and can be twisted this way and that. Well I’m not. I can tell you, if you are interested, that I killed a cobra, a big one, on my way here this afternoon.”
“Oh?” said Jameson Mopotswane. “What did you do?”
“I cut it in two,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Two
pieces.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
THE THIRD METACARPAL
ALL THAT was a distraction. It was gratifying to deal with a case like that so quickly, and to the clear satisfaction of the client, but one could not put out of one’s mind the fact that there was a small brown envelope in the drawer with contents that could not be ignored.
She took it out discreetly, not wanting Mma Makutsi to see it. She thought that she could trust her, but this was a matter which was very much more confidential than any other matter they had encountered so far. This was dangerous.
She left the office, telling Mma Makutsi that she was going to the bank. Several cheques had come in, and needed to be deposited. But she did not go to the bank, or at least not immediately. She drove instead to the Princess Marina Hospital and followed the signs that said PATHOLOGY.
A nurse stopped her.
“Are you here to identify a body, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I have come to see Dr Gulubane. He is not expecting me, but he will see me. I am his neighbour.”
The nurse looked at her suspiciously, but told her to wait while she went to fetch the doctor. A few minutes after she returned and said that the doctor would be with her shortly.
“You should not disturb these doctors at the hospital,” she said disapprovingly. “They are busy people.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at the nurse. What age was she? Nineteen, twenty? In her father’s day, a girl of nineteen would not have spoken to a woman of thirty-five like that—spoken to her as if she was a child making an irritating request. But things were different now. Upstarts showed no respect for people who were older, and bigger too, than they were. Should she tell her that she was a private detective? No, there was no point in engaging with a person like this. She was best ignored.
Dr Gulubane arrived. He was wearing a green apron—heaven knows what awful task he had been performing—and he seemed quite pleased to have been disturbed.
