The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (20 page)

“Who does he think he is?” Mma Ramotswe burst out. “Sitting there and lecturing us on the needs of hotels!”

“I didn’t like him,” said Clovis Andersen. “Not one bit.”

“And what did I say about Mma Potokwane? There was so much I could have said, but the words seemed to go from my head. I let my friend down.”

“You did not,” said Clovis Andersen. “You put it very well, Mma.”

“It was a waste of time.”

Clovis Andersen disagreed. “No, it wasn’t a waste of time. Not at all.”

She glanced at him quizzically. “How can that be?”

“We learned everything we needed to learn,” said Clovis Andersen. “First, the reason why he agreed to see you so quickly was that he thought you were investigating him. That tells us something: there are grounds for investigation. And then, when he realised that it was all about Mma Potokwane, he changed. He realised the heat was off, you see.”

She saw that, but wondered where it led.

“And then,” Clovis Andersen continued, “did you see how he reacted when you mentioned the building? He had been relaxed before that. Then suddenly he was worried. I could see it very clearly from where I was sitting. He clenched his fists—just a little, but I saw. It’s the building, Mma. He said it’s not about the building, but it is. That’s where we have to look.”

“I do not see, Rra …”

“The obvious question is this, Mma: Who is getting the contract for the building? And why? He volunteered the information that the contract had been put out to tender. Why did he say that? Because even if it’s true, you can be sure it wasn’t awarded on merit. No, he mentioned it because he has something to hide. He is very transparent, our Mr. Ditso.”

“Yes …”

“Yes indeed, Mma Ramotswe. And as you know, I don’t like to quote myself, but on this occasion may I be permitted to do so? Somewhere in the book—I forget where—I say that if you listen hard enough, people will give themselves away. They will always mention the things that are preying on their mind, the things that they have done wrong. All you have to do is listen: it always comes out.”

Mma Ramotswe took her eyes off the road to give Clovis Andersen a look of admiration.

“Be careful, Mma Ramotswe. There is a car coming.”

She swerved—just in time to avoid a car approaching from the other direction. The other driver waved; a friendly wave, for some reason, not an ill-tempered one.

“There certainly are nice people on the road in this country,” said Clovis Andersen.

“I think that driver was my cousin,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It looked like her.”

T
HERE WAS STILL
a general sense that everything was going wrong. It was a strange feeling—shared not only by Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, but by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as well—and it seemed to be there all the time, like ominous background music to some unsettling drama; always playing, filled with foreboding. Mma Ramotswe tried to get things in perspective, tried to project her usual optimism, and to an extent she succeeded—only to find that her efforts at cheering up herself and others would weaken after a while and the memory would return of the sheer bleakness of both Mma Potokwane’s and Fanwell’s positions: unemployment in Mma Potokwane’s case, and the destruction of a world that goes with it, and criminal charges in Fanwell’s, and all that such proceedings entail—although the less one thought about the consequences of that the better.

“I hear the food in prison is not too bad,” remarked Charlie over tea one morning. Fanwell was not present, having been sent by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to collect a part from the spares depot. “I have heard that from a friend who was sent to prison for hitting somebody too hard.”

Mma Ramotswe, Mma Makutsi, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni all looked at Charlie balefully.

“You should not talk about such things,” scolded Mma Makutsi. “Fanwell will not go to prison.”

“He might,” said Charlie. “I’m only talking about what could happen. What’s wrong with that?”

“Sometimes it’s better not to think about bad things that are not definitely going to happen,” Mma Ramotswe said mildly.

Mma Makutsi looked cross. “And you said that this friend of yours hit somebody too hard. So that means that you can hit people just the right amount? Not too soft but not too hard?”

Charlie defended himself. “I did not say that. I did not say that you could hit people. All I said is that he hit somebody too hard.”

Mma Ramotswe sought to end the argument. Mma Makutsi and Charlie rubbed each other up the wrong way even at the best of times; when there was tension in the air, as there was now, it was considerably worse. “I think that we should not talk about prison,” she said. “Nor about hitting people. We all know that Fanwell is innocent. What we must do now is hope that the lawyer will do a good job and make sure that the magistrate sees that.”

Charlie stared down into his tea. “That is a very useless lawyer, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “You should not say that, Charlie.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “You don’t know anything about it.”

Charlie looked up. “But I do, Mma. He is the lawyer who defended my friend who hit somebody too … who hit somebody.”

For a few moments nobody said anything. Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling, her attention seized by a small white gecko that was clinging upside down to the ceiling board. The gecko was stalking a fly that was only a leap away; and as she watched he leaped, bringing the little conflict to a rapid end. It was
so unlike our own dramas, she thought: they can drag on and on, can take so long. Fanwell was forced to wait a long, nerve-racking time before he knew his fate; in the world of the fly and the gecko it was seconds. The lawyer … She remembered the lawyer’s attitude of resignation and the way she had felt about it; and here was Charlie, confirming the fears that she had tried to suppress within her.

She looked at Charlie. “What happened, Charlie? What did your friend tell you?”

“He said that the lawyer came to court late. He said that—”

“Traffic,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “The traffic can be very bad in the mornings, as we all know. You cannot blame a lawyer for being late at court just because there is too much traffic on the road.”

It was a valiant attempt to paint the lawyer in the best light, but Charlie simply shook his head. “He was late because he had left the papers at the office,” he said. “He had to go back to collect them. My friend told me that. He said that the magistrate was cross and this made him worried. It is not good to have an angry magistrate dealing with your case. ‘That is very bad news,’ he said.”

“And then?” Mma Makutsi prompted. If there was to be bad news, then she, at least, was in favour of facing it.

“And then he said that he—the lawyer, that is—stood up and my friend realised that he thought he was somebody else.”

“The lawyer thought he was somebody else?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “The lawyer didn’t know who he was?” He looked at Mma Ramotswe in dismay. “That doesn’t sound like a very good lawyer, Mma.”

“No,” said Charlie. “It was not like that, Boss. The lawyer knew he was the lawyer. He thought that my friend—”

“The one who hit somebody too hard,” interjected Mma Makutsi.

Charlie glanced at her. “Him, yes, him. He thought my friend was another person—”

“Who had not hit anybody at all?” asked Mma Makutsi.

Charlie showed his irritation. “I’m trying to tell the story,” he complained. “And she keeps interrupting me.”

Mma Ramotswe urged him to go on. “Mma Makutsi is only trying to help,” she said. “Carry on, Charlie.”

Finishing his tea, Charlie put his mug down on the filing cabinet. “This lawyer—who is also going to be Fanwell’s lawyer—had got his clients mixed up. So my friend had to whisper to him that he was not the person he thought he was, but another person. And the lawyer got all flustered and began to mumble all sorts of things. So the magistrate told him to sit down and drink a glass of water.”

Charlie paused.

“Go on,” said Mma Ramotswe faintly.

“Then he stood up again and asked some questions. My friend said they were stupid questions, and the magistrate eventually said to him that he was to shut up.”

“That cannot be true,” Mma Makutsi interjected. “Magistrates don’t tell people to shut up. It is not how they talk.”

“You weren’t there, Mma,” snorted Charlie.

“Nor were you,” countered Mma Makutsi.

“My friend was. And he told me everything that happened. He said that that was why he got three weeks in prison. It was all that lawyer’s fault.”

Mma Makutsi was not prepared to let this pass. “Excuse me, did the lawyer hit the person? Did I get something wrong? Maybe the lawyer should have gone to prison for hitting somebody too hard.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his watch. “We should get back to work,” he said to Charlie. “There are cars out there needing
attention. They won’t get fixed if we stay in here talking to the ladies.”

“You’re right, Boss,” said Charlie. “Particularly talking to one lady …” He glanced at Mma Makutsi, who smiled sweetly in response.

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “All right,” she said, “but this business with the lawyer, Charlie, I don’t think you should say anything to Fanwell about that. I don’t think it will help him to know. And just because the lawyer did not do a very good job with that friend of yours doesn’t necessarily mean that he will not do a good job for Fanwell.”

“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “So don’t tell Fanwell about this, Charlie. I know how you talk. Just don’t mention it to him. It’s much better that he doesn’t know.”

The door that linked the office of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency to the courtyard of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors had been slightly ajar during the tea-break. Now it was suddenly pushed fully open, to reveal Fanwell standing on the step, holding in his left hand the car part that he had been sent to collect from the depot.

“Better for me not to know what?” he asked.

THERE ARE AWKWARD
moments from which one can retreat, and awkward moments from which there is no escape. This was one of the latter, as Mma Makutsi explained to Phuti Radiphuti when she met him that lunch time in his office at the Double Comfort Furniture Store.

“We couldn’t lie to him,” she said. “He had heard a bit of what was said and so we just had to tell him everything. He’s got a no-good lawyer, you see, and Charlie said that …”

She narrated the story of Charlie’s friend, of his inadequate
defence, and of the unfortunate consequences that followed. Phuti Radiphuti listened gravely. “They should get another lawyer,” he said. “Surely there are better people around. That man with the big nose—you know the one—they say that he’s very good. The judges can’t take their eyes off his nose, and so they always decide in his favour.”

Mma Makutsi wondered why a large nose should be an advantage in a lawyer, and decided that perhaps it had something to do with authority. Was it more difficult to argue with a large-nosed person? She had not considered the question before, but now it occurred to her that perhaps it was. But it was too late now to look for a lawyer with a more convincing nose, even if one were to be found. Money, she explained, had already been paid to the inadequate lawyer, and Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who were footing the bill for Fanwell’s defence, could not afford to pay a second time.

“How did he take it?” asked Phuti.

“He was very worried,” she replied. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni tried to tell him that it would be all right; that he would speak to the lawyer and make sure that he handled it properly.”

“And was Fanwell reassured?”

“No.”

Phuti Radiphuti shook his head sadly. “It is a very sad business. And if they send him to prison, you can imagine the men he will mix with there. He is just a young man, and they will corrupt him with their bad talk and their bad stories. It is very worrying.”

They looked at one another despairingly, but they had work to do that lunch time, and life, as Phuti Radiphuti pointed out, had to go on. “There are many sad things,” he said. “They are all around us, but we have to get on with our lives, don’t we? And that means that we must get on with choosing those things, Grace.”

Mma Makutsi agreed. The rapid progress with their new
house meant that in a couple of months they would have to furnish it. At present Phuti had no furniture of his own, as the house they were occupying, which belonged to the wider Radiphuti family, was filled with family furniture: chairs that had been left in the house by various aunts, tables that had belonged to grandmothers and were now of uncertain ownership, beds that belonged to nobody in particular but had simply always been there.

Of course, to Mma Makutsi and Phuti the task of furnishing a house was considerably less daunting than it would be to most young couples. Not only was money not an issue in the same way that it was for average newlyweds, but Phuti’s expertise when it came to choosing items would be invaluable. “Everything we sell,” he said, “is of the highest quality and built to last. But some things are of higher quality than others, and also built to last longer.”