The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Phuti said nothing. He resented the implication that he was the sort of man to put his hand into a cement mixer, but his customary mildness of manner prevented his engaging in dispute with the rather arrogant builder. He thought, though, that if he wanted to visit his house, he would do so, irrespective of what Mr. Putumelo had to say about it. It was his land, after all, and he was surely entitled to walk over it if he wished, taking care, of course, not to insert his hand into any cement mixer.

  He decided that it would be best to go shortly after five one evening. Work would have stopped at that time of day, and he would be able to inspect the work without incurring the displeasure of Mr. Putumelo. So one afternoon, a few days after Fanwell’s arrest, he drove down to the road-end opposite his plot, parked his car, and walked up the rough track that the builders’ vehicles had made to the house.

  It was that time of evening when the sun, although still in the sky, had given clear notice of its intentions. Shadows, lengthening, merged with one another; birds exchanged their late afternoon messages, reporting food here, shelter there, or drawing noisy attention to the presence of some predator, a snake perhaps, lurking in a treetop. The soft light seemed to paint everything with warm gold, and for a moment he imagined the scene that was likely to play out in a few months’ time; of him coming up the drive and seeing Mma Makutsi waiting for him on the verandah, a fine stew bubbling away in the kitchen and then, maybe a bit later—but not too late, he hoped—children running out to meet him and him holding them up to the sky, as children love to be lifted, to their squeals of delight.

  As he approached the house, he felt a sudden rush of excitement. It really was happening; this really was his house—their house; the low brick walls were his, the expanses of cement, laid where the floor would be, were made up of his cement, bought with his money. He could not help smiling, and he even said, “Well, well, well,” although there was nobody to hear him.

  Or so he thought. It was as he was stepping over one of the low walls in order to stand in what would in future be a bathroom that he heard the voice.

  “Yes, Rra. Can I help you?”

  Phuti Radiphuti spun round. A short man in a set of blue overalls, a battered grey hat atop his head, had appeared as if from nowhere.

  “I am Radiphuti,” Phuti said. “This is my house.”

  The man wiped his hands on a piece of grimy towelling. “I have heard of you,” he said, switching to English; they had started in Setswana, but the man spoke hesitantly and with an accent. “Mr. Putumelo has told us about you.” He folded the piece of towel and put it into his blue overalls. “Have you come to look at the house?”

  It seemed to Phuti to be a rather superfluous question. Of course he had come to look at the house. Why else would he be climbing over these little walls and standing in the middle of the future bathroom? But he checked himself and simply nodded.

  “We are making good progress,” said the man. “I am one of the carpenters, but I also do bricklaying and other things. My name is Thomas.”

  Phuti reached out to shake the man’s hand, which was rough to the touch, like sandpaper. That was the effect of lime; he had heard about how it pitted the skin. Lime and bricks.

  “You are not from here,” said Phuti.

  The man pointed. “Up there.”

  “The other side?”

  “Yes.”

  There was hardship on the other side of the border; people crossed over to earn a living, to survive. It was not easy for them; those who stayed, or were sent back, had little to look forward to.

  The man rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot. “I have been here for three years now. I have managed to be in work all that time. I have worked every day.”

  Phuti frowned. “Every day for three years? Even Sundays?”

  The man nodded. “Especially Sundays. I have not had one day off. Three years.”

  Phuti was silent. It was not all that surprising, he supposed. Every thebe this man earned would be doing some important work up there; perhaps even paying for the drugs that kept some relative alive through the illness that stalked Africa, that could be kept at bay but only if you had the money, or somebody had the money, to pay.

  “This will be a very good house,” said the man. “Lots of room. It is good to see a house with as much room as this.”

  Phuti acknowledged the compliment. “I designed it myself. There was a draughtsman who drew the plans, but I designed it.”

  “You have designed it very well,” said Thomas. “Everything will be in the right place. Perfect.”

  They walked into what would be the living room. The walls there were slightly higher—two or three feet by now—and the bricklayer showed Phuti how they were constructed.

  “I have asked for very good-quality bricks,” said Phuti, examining the outer layer. “These are the ones. They come from South Africa, I think. Mr. Putumelo ordered them specially.”

  “They are very expensive,” said Thomas. “Good bricks always are.”

  “And I’m very pleased,” said Phuti, “that they are being laid by a good tradesman like you, Rra. I’m very pleased.”

  Thomas looked at him. There was something in his expression that disturbed Phuti, but he was unsure as to what it was. Distrust? But why should this man distrust him, or even feel uneasy? Was he working illegally? That was perfectly possible, but then if it were the case that he did not have a work permit it would have been unlikely that he would have spoken so openly. Those who worked illegally kept to the shadows, claimed to be from the north of the country, protested that they had a Motswana parent; did anything but talk too openly about their necessarily clandestine lives.

  Thomas held Phuti’s gaze for a few moments, and then looked away.

  “Is there something wrong?” asked Phuti.

  Thomas again fixed him with an intense stare. It was difficult for Phuti to look directly into his bloodshot eyes—disconcerted, he wanted to pass him something with which to wipe them.

  “I cannot always say what I’m thinking,” muttered Thomas.

  Phuti thought about this. “No, it is not always easy.” He paused. A go-away bird—a grey lourie—had perched on one of the acacia trees and uttered its accusing cry; the world, for some birds, was always unfair. As it was for some people too. “But I think you can talk to me, Rra. You can talk to me if you are troubled in some way. I may not be able to help you, but it might help you just to say what you need to say.”

  Thomas shook his head. “There are some things I cannot speak of. I have a family, you see, Rra, and I am sending money …”

  Phuti nodded. “I know what you people do. It is a good thing.” There was a world of difference between this man’s circumstances and his own. Phuti was a citizen, and a secure one at that, of a well-ordered country; this man, he imagined, had known real fear and could not return to a place that was his, his own, the place to which he was entitled. Nobody spoke for him; nobody.

  “So I cannot say anything that would put my job at risk. Do you see that?”

  Phuti stiffened. There was only one way in which this could be interpreted: this man, this bricklayer from over the border, knew something about Mr. Putumelo that Mr. Putumelo did not want anybody to know. And that could be anything, ranging from not declaring income for tax purposes, to using stolen materials, or building unsafe structures … He looked about the site. Was everything being built correctly, or was Mr. Putumelo cutting corners in exactly the way he condemned in others?

  He decided to ask directly. “Please tell me, Rra; please tell me man to man, as one brother to another; tell me—is this house being built properly?”

  Thomas seemed to be taken aback by the question. “But of course it is, Rra. Mr. Putumelo is a very good builder, and I can promise you that I am taking great care with the work I am doing. I would never build anything that was not solid.”

  Phuti breathed a sigh of relief. So the disclosure, whatever it was, had nothing to do with his house. If Thomas did not
want to make it, then he would not press him; he would not be at all surprised to learn that Mr. Putumelo was up to something, but what that might be was not really his business. Phuti himself was honest—scrupulously so—but one honest man could not make the rest of the world honest, no matter how hard he tried: Where would he start?

  Phuti bent down to examine one of the walls. They were in a part of the building where Thomas must have been working that day; the mortar around the bricks was wet to the touch, cool against the skin, soft too. Our house, thought Phuti. Our house.

  And then he thought of something that Mr. Putumelo had said. Your house has got my name on it. That was strange, but there were many aspects of the building trade that Phuti found odd, just as he had no doubt others found aspects of the furniture business hard to fathom. He completed his examination of the incipient wall. “This is very well made,” he said. “This is very good work.” It was: the wall hugged the plumb line, set by a practised and conscientious eye.

  He turned round. Thomas, who had been standing immediately behind him only a few moments before, had gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THERE ARE SOME NICE PEOPLE ON THE ROAD

  CLOVIS ANDERSEN returned from the far side of the country, exhausted by the journey, to receive the message that Mma Ramotswe had left for him. In this she gave him no news of the awful events that had occurred, but simply proposed that they meet for tea at the President Hotel, suggesting that if he telephoned her they could agree on a time. He did, and they met on the day after his return. It was a hot morning, but even though the air was heavy, it held a hint of what might come; somewhere, still far away, but building up, there were rain clouds. And the rain would bring relief from the heat and the dryness, and the earth would drink it up thirstily and suddenly be touched with the green of new growth.

  “So hot,” said Clovis Andersen, as he sat down opposite Mma Ramotswe on the hotel verandah. “So awfully hot.”

  “Then we shall have tea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That will make you feel better.”

  The tea did not take long to arrive, and as Mma Ramotswe poured it from the stout white pot she began to reveal to Clovis Andersen the troubles they were facing.

  “I know these are not your problems, Rra,” she began, “but we … that is, Mma Makutsi and I, feel that you will have some idea of what to do.”

  Clovis Andersen stopped her. “Hold on, Mma Ramotswe. I may have written that book, but really I wouldn’t hold myself out as … as an expert.”

  Mma Ramotswe could not believe that he was serious. “But, Rra, your book is famous. You have a rule for just about everything. Rule No. 6, for example …” She began to quote Rule No. 6; Clovis Andersen, barely concealing his surprise that there should be anybody who remembered that there was a Rule No. 6, let alone anybody who was capable of quoting it verbatim, listened in silence. Then: “Yes, Mma, that is indeed Rule No. 6, but all I’m saying is that I’m not necessarily able to sort everything out.” He stared at her, as if willing her to read something into his protestations.

  Mma Ramotswe was not deterred. “Let me tell you, Rra,” she said. “Let me tell you about a very dreadful thing that has happened. We have a lady here who is the matron of an orphan farm. She is called Mma Potokwane, and she has many fine qualities. She is traditionally built, and she makes very famous fruit cake. She will do anything for those orphans—anything—and for many of them she is their mother. Mma Potokwane has more children than any other woman in Botswana—she is mother to many hundreds of children who are now grown up. That is what she is like, Rra.”

  Clovis Andersen listened politely. “It sounds as if she must be much appreciated, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe replied that this was true, but it seemed to her that this appreciation did not extend to some members of her board. She told him of the dismissal, and of Mr. Ditso Ditso’s suspected role in it. “It must have been him, Rra,” she said. “Nobody else would think of such a thing. People like that think they should control everything—just because they are a success in business.”

  “Indeed,” said Clovis Andersen, looking vaguely out over the square. He had no idea who Mma Potokwane was, but it seemed to him that to dismiss a woman like that—if she was like that—was not only foolish, but perverse too. When Mma Ramotswe finished, he tapped the table thoughtfully. “This sounds very nasty,” he said. “I don’t like that sort of thing. It’s a form of bullying, isn’t it? Hounding somebody out of her job because she sees things differently.” He shook his head. “Not nice.”

  Mma Ramotswe waited for him to say more, but he seemed to be thinking about something else altogether. For a few moments she felt uncertain: Should she really be asking the great Clovis Andersen for advice on something as small, as local—at least in his eyes—as the dismissal of Mma Potokwane? But then he turned to her and said, “Mma Ramotswe, I think you’re going to ask me what to do. Is that right?”

  She answered him with relief. “Oh yes, Rra. That is quite right. You see, I cannot seem to think of anything that we can do to help Mma Potokwane, and I thought that since you had written that book, and we all know how—”

  He held up a hand. “You misjudge me, Mma Ramotswe. I’m not the man you think I am.”

  She shrugged.

  “Anybody can write a book …”

  She brushed his objections aside. “Rra, you are very modest—and that is good too. But we do not have to talk about that. The real question is what I should do.”

  Clovis Andersen sighed. “Somewhere in the book I say something about going to the source of a problem. I forget …”

  “It is on page one hundred twenty-six,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The chapter is called ‘Seeing the Wood from the Trees.’ ”

  Clovis Andersen nodded. “Yes, I think it’s there. I think I said something about finding out where a problem originates and then going directly there.”

  “Yes, Rra. That is what you said.” She looked at him expectantly. “The source of the problem here is Mr. Ditso.”

  Clovis Andersen nodded. “Yes. So you ask the question: Why is he doing this?”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up at the sky. There were so many reasons for bad behaviour, for meanness and unkindness. Sometimes the explanation of such things was very simple; people caused harm to others because they were of malevolent disposition. That was sheer human wickedness, something that had always existed and always would. Some people, it seemed, derived pleasure from inflicting suffering on others, and any enquiry as to why they did it could stop there. But then there were those other cases where the real explanation lay elsewhere, where there was some quite different motive in play—greed, ambition, a grudge … There was so much to choose from.

  “He wants to build a new hall at the orphan farm,” she said. “He wants the children to eat in one place and save money. It’s cheaper, you see, to cook all the meals in one place.”

  Clovis Andersen considered this. “Is he a frugal man, this Mr. Ditso? Does he live simply?”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s words were coming back to her. “My husband could answer that, I think, Rra. He says that you can tell what a person is like by looking at his car.”

  This seemed to interest Clovis Andersen. “He’s got something there, Mma Ramotswe. Yes, he’s certainly got something there.” He paused. “So, what sort of car has our friend got? Something simple?”

  “No, Rra. It is very fancy. Fancy and shiny.”

  Clovis Andersen absorbed this. “So maybe he doesn’t want just to save money. Maybe he wants to spend it.”

  Mma Ramotswe pointed out that it was not Mr. Ditso’s money that would be spent: it would be the orphan farm’s.

  “Sure,” said Clovis Andersen. “But who’s getting the money? Where’s it being spent? Remember what I said in the book. Follow the money. It always works, Mma Ramotswe.”

  She looked at him. Of course he was right. And it had never occurred to her to ask herself this question, not once in the course of all
the pondering and worrying of the last few days. And now this man who was so modest, who seemed reluctant to discuss The Principles of Private Detection unless pressed to do so, this nice man had gone right to the nub of the matter, and had done it effortlessly, as if he had hardly had to think about it at all.

  She struggled to contain her excitement. “I think you are right, Rra. That is the very question we should be asking ourselves.”

  Clovis Andersen made a gesture with his hand—a turning movement that suggested the reframing of the question. “Ask ourselves, or ask him?”

  “You think we should speak to him, Rra?”

  Clovis Andersen nodded. “Yes. Let’s go and talk to him about the building project. And while you’re talking to him, I’ll watch him.”

  “You’ll watch?”

  “Yes. Because in my experience, Mma Ramotswe, people give themselves away. Even if he doesn’t say anything, he’ll tell us.”

  They drank their tea. Mma Ramotswe felt almost euphoric. As far as she was concerned, the investigation was now in the hands of one who must, on any view of it, be one of the most highly regarded private detectives in the world. And he was here, in Botswana, with her, working on a case in which they were, without the slightest shadow of doubt, on the right side. If the last few days had been difficult ones, that was now almost completely forgotten. She now felt optimistic that they would come up with something that might bring about a reversal of Mma Potokwane’s dismissal. And that had to happen, because if it did not, then there would be no justice left in the country—and that was a thought that Mma Ramotswe was not willing to entertain for anywhere, least of all for the place she loved so much, her Botswana.

  IT DID NOT prove easy to track down Ditso Ditso, who was not listed under his own name in the telephone directory. It was Mma Makutsi who remembered the name of one of his companies and found a number for that. “It is here,” she said proudly, pointing to an entry in the directory. “DD Industries. That is what he calls himself. It is his initials, you see.”