Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “She’s an amazing lady! She knows everything that’s going on. If I ask her, she’ll be able to find out who did this thing. She might even be able to get the property back. What was it, by the way?”
“Property. A small thing belonging to Mr Charlie Gotso.”
“I see.”
The man took the rag off his wound and flung it on the floor.
“Can you ask that lady then,” he said grudgingly. “Ask her to get this thing back to Mr Gotso.”
“I will,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “I will speak to her this evening, and I am sure she will get results. In the meantime, that car is ready and Mr Gotso can collect it anytime. I will clear up the last bits of glass.”
“You’d better,” said the visitor. “Mr Gotso doesn’t like to cut his hand.”
Mr Gotso doesn’t like to cut his hand! You’re a little boy, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. You’re just like a truculent little boy. I know your type well enough! I remember you—or somebody very like you—in the playground at Mochudi Government School—bullying other boys, breaking things, pretending to be tough. Even when the teacher whipped you, you made much about being too brave to cry.
And this Mr Charlie Gotso, with his expensive car and sinister ways—he’s a boy too. Just a little boy.
HE WAS determined that Mma Ramotswe should not get away with it. She seemed to assume that he would do whatever she told him to do and very rarely asked him whether he wanted to take part in her schemes. And of course he had been far too meek in agreeing with her; that was the problem, really—she thought that she could get away with it because he never stood up to her. Well, he would show her this time. He would put an end to all this detective nonsense.
He left the garage, still smarting, busy rehearsing in his mind what he would say to her when he reached the office.
“Mma Ramotswe, you’ve made me lie. You’ve drawn me into a ridiculous and dangerous affair which is quite simply none of our business. I am a mechanic. I fix cars—I cannot fix lives.”
The last phrase struck him for its forcefulness. Yes—that was the difference between them. She was a fixer of lives—as so many women are—whereas he was a fixer of machines. He would tell her this, and she would have to accept its truth. He did not want to destroy their friendship, but he could not continue with this posturing and deception. He had never lied—never—even in the face of the greatest of temptations, and now here he was enmeshed in a whole web of deceit involving the police and one of Botswana’s most powerful men!
She met him at the door of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. She was throwing the dregs from a teapot into the yard as he drew up in his garage van.
“Well?” she said. “Did everything go as planned?”
“Mma Ramotswe, I really think …”
“Did he come round himself, or did he send one of his men?”
“One of his men. But, listen, you are a fixer of lives, I am just …”
“And did you tell him that I could get the thing back? Did he seem interested?”
“I fix machines. I cannot … You see, I have never lied. I have never lied before, even when I was a small boy. My tongue would go stiff if I tried to lie, and I couldn’t.”
Mma Ramotswe upended the teapot for a final time.
“You’ve done very well this time. Lies are quite all right if you are lying for a good cause. Is it not a good cause to find out who killed an innocent child? Are lies worse than murder, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? Do you think that?”
“Murder is worse. But …”
“Well there you are. You didn’t think it through, did you? Now you know.”
She looked at him and smiled, and he thought: I am lucky. She is smiling at me. There is nobody to love me in this world. Here is somebody who likes me and smiles at me. And she’s right about murder. It’s far worse than lies.
“Come in for
tea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Makutsi has boiled the kettle and we
can drink tea while we decide what to do next.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MR CHARLIE GOTSO, BA
MR CHARLIE Gotso looked at Mma Ramotswe. He respected fat women, and indeed had married one five years previously. She had proved to be a niggling, troublesome woman and eventually he had sent her down to live on a farm near Lobatse, with no telephone and a road that became impassable in wet weather. She had complained about his other women, insistently, shrilly, but what did she expect? Did she seriously think that he, Mr Charlie Gotso, would restrict himself to one woman, like a clerk from a Government department? When he had all that money and influence? And a BA as well? That was the trouble with marrying an uneducated woman who knew nothing of the circles in which he moved. He had been to Nairobi and Lusaka. He knew what people were thinking in places like that. An intelligent woman, a woman with a BA, would have known better; but then, he reminded himself, this fat woman down in Lobatse had borne him five children already and one had to acknowledge that fact. If only she would not carp on about other women.
“You are the woman from Matekoni?”
She did not like his voice. It was sandpaper-rough, and he slurred the ends of the words lazily, as if he could not be bothered to make himself clear. This came from contempt, she felt; if you were as powerful as he was, then why bother to communicate properly with your inferiors? As long as they understood what you wanted—that was the essential thing.
“Mr J.L.B. Matekoni asked me to help him, Rra. I am a private detective.”
Mr Gotso stared at her, a slight smile playing on his lips.
“I have seen this place of yours. I saw a sign when I was driving past. A private detective agency for ladies, or something like that.”
“Not just for ladies, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We are lady detectives but we work for men too. Mr Patel, for example. He consulted us.”
The smile became broader. “You think you can tell men things?”
Mma Ramotswe answered calmly. “Sometimes. It depends. Sometimes men are too proud to listen. We can’t tell that sort of man anything.”
He narrowed his eyes. The remark was ambiguous. She could have been suggesting he was proud, or she could be talking about other men. There were others, of course …
