He moved his tongue between his teeth, as if to moisten his lips. She saw that, and she saw the damp patch of sweat under his armpits; one of his laces was undone, she noted, and the tie had a stain, coffee or tea.
"I do not like doing this, Rra," she said. "But this is my job. Sometimes I have to be tough and do things that I do not like doing. But what I am doing now has to be done because there is a very sad American woman who only wants to say goodbye to her son. I know you don't care about her, but I do, and I think that her feelings are more important than yours. So I am going to offer you a bargain. You tell me what happened and I shall promise you-and my word means what it says, Rra-I shall promise you that we hear nothing more about Angel and her friend."
His breathing was irregular; short gasps, like that of a person with obstructive airways disease-a struggling for breath.
"I did not kill him," he said. "I did not kill him."
"Now you are telling the truth," said Mma Ramotswe. "I can tell that. But you must tell me what happened and where his body is. That is what I want to know."
"Are you going to go to the police and tell them that I withheld information? If you will, then I will just face whatever happens about that girl."
"No, I am not going to go to the police. This story is just for his mother. That is all."
He closed his eyes. "I cannot talk here. You can come to my house."
"I will come this evening."
"No," he said. "Tomorrow."
"I shall come this evening," she said. "That woman has waited ten years. She must not wait any longer."
"All right. I shall write down the address. You can come tonight at nine o'clock."
"I shall come at eight," said Mma Ramotswe. "Not every woman will do what you tell her to do, you know."
She left him, and as she made her way back to the tiny white van she listened to her own breathing and felt her own heart thumping wildly. She had no idea where she had found the courage, but it had been there, like the water at the bottom of a disused quarry-unfathomably deep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AT TLOKWENG ROAD SPEEDY MOTORS
WHILE MMA Ramotswe indulged in the pleasures of blackmail-for that is what it was, even if in a good cause, and therein lay another moral problem which she and Mma Makutsi might chew over in due course-Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, garagiste to His Excellency, the British High Commissioner to Botswana, took his two foster children to the garage for the afternoon. The girl, Motholeli, had begged him to take them so that she could watch him work, and he, bemused, had agreed. A garage workshop was no place for children, with all those heavy tools and pneumatic hoses, but he could detail one of the apprentices to watch over them while he worked. Besides, it might be an idea to expose the boy to the garage at this stage so that he could get a taste for mechanics at an early age. An understanding of cars and engines had to be instilled early; it was not something that could be picked up later. One might become a mechanic at any age, of course, but not everybody could have a feeling for engines. That was something that had to be acquired by osmosis, slowly, over the years.
He parked in front of his office door so that Motholeli could get into the wheelchair in the shade. The boy dashed off immediately to investigate a tap at the side of the building and had to be called back.
"This place is dangerous," cautioned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "You must stay with one of these boys over there."
He called over the younger apprentice, the one who constantly tapped him on the shoulder with his greasy finger and ruined his clean overalls.
"You must stop what you are doing," he said. "You watch over these two while I am working. Make sure that they don't get hurt."
The apprentice seemed to be relieved by his new duties and beamed broadly at the children. He's the lazy one, thought Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He would make a better nanny than a mechanic.
The garage was busy. There was a football team's minibus in for an overhaul and the work was challenging. The engine had been strained from constant overloading, but that was the case with every minibus in the country. They were always overloaded as the proprietors attempted to cram in every possible fare. This one, which needed new rings, had been belching acrid black smoke to the extent that the players were complaining about shortness of breath.
The engine was exposed and the transmission had been detached. With the help of the other apprentice, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni attached lifting tackle to the engine block and began to winch it out of the vehicle. Motholeli, watching intently from her wheelchair, pointed something out to her brother. He glanced briefly in the direction of the engine, but then looked away again. He was tracing a pattern in a patch of oil at his feet.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni exposed the pistons and the cylinders. Then, pausing, he looked over at the children.
"What is happening now, Rra?" called the girl. "Are you going to replace those rings there? What do they do? Are they important?"
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at the boy. "You see, Puso? You see what I am doing?"
The boy smiled weakly.
"He is a drawing a picture in the oil," said the apprentice. "He is drawing a house."
The girl said: "May I come closer, Rra?" she said. "I will not get in the way."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded and, after she had wheeled herself across, he pointed out to her where the trouble lay.
"You hold this for me," he said. "There."
She took the spanner, and held it firmly.
"Good," he said. "Now you turn this one here. You see? Not too far. That's right."
He took the spanner from her and replaced it in his tray. Then he turned and looked at her. She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes bright with interest. He knew that look; the expression of one who loves engines. It could not be faked; that younger apprentice, for example, did not have it, and that is why he would never be more than a mediocre mechanic. But this girl, this strange, serious child who had come into his life, had the makings of a mechanic. She had the art. He had never before seen it in a girl, but it was there. And why not? Mma Ramotswe had taught him that there is no reason why women should not do anything they wanted. She was undoubtedly right. People had assumed that private detectives would be men, but look at how well Mma Ramotswe had done. She had been able to use a woman's powers of observation and a woman's intuition to find out things that could well escape a man. So if a girl might aspire to becoming a detective, then why should she not aspire to entering the predominantly male world of cars and engines?
Motholeli raised her eyes, meeting his gaze, but still respectfully.
"You are not cross with me, Rra?" she said. "You do not think I am a nuisance?"
He reached forward and laid a hand gently on her arm. "Of course I am not cross," he said. "I am proud. I am proud that now I have a daughter who will be a great mechanic. Is that what you want? Am I right?"
She nodded modestly. "I have always loved engines," she said. "I have always liked to look at them. I have loved to work with screwdrivers and spanners. But I have never had the chance to do anything,"
"Well," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "That changes now. You can come with me on Saturday mornings and help here. Would you like that? We can make a special workbench for you-a low one-so that it is the right height for your chair." "You are very kind, Rra."
For the rest of the day, she remained at his side, watching each procedure, asking the occasional question, but taking care not to intrude. He tinkered and coaxed, until eventually the minibus engine, reinvigorated, was secured back in place and, when tested, produced no acrid black smoke.
"You see," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni proudly, pointing to the clear exhaust. "Oil won't burn off like that if it's kept in the right place. Tight seals. Good piston rings. Everything in its proper place."
Motholeli clapped her hands. "That van is happier now," she said.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. 'Yes," he agreed. "It is happier now."
He knew now, beyond all doubt, that she had the talen
t. Only those who really understood machinery could conceive of happiness in an engine; it was an insight which the non-mechanically minded simply lacked. This girl had it, while the younger apprentice did not. He would kick an engine, rather than talk to it, and he had often seen him forcing metal. You cannot force metal, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had told him time after time. If you force metal, it fights back. Remember that if you remember nothing else I have tried to teach you. Yet the apprentice would still strip bolts by turning the nut the wrong way and would bend flanges if they seemed reluctant to fall into proper alignment. No machinery could be treated that way.
This girl was different. She understood the feelings of engines, and would be a great mechanic one day-that was clear.
He looked at her proudly, as he wiped his hands on cotton lint. The future of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors seemed assured.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WHAT HAPPENED
MMA RAMOTSWE felt afraid. She had experienced fear only once or twice before in her work as Botswana's only lady private detective (a title she still deserved; Mma Makutsi, it had to be remembered, was only an assistant private detective). She had felt this way when she had gone to see Charlie Gotso, the wealthy businessman who still cultivated witch doctors, and indeed on that meeting she had wondered whether her calling might one day bring her up against real danger. Now, faced with going to Dr Ranta's house, the same cold feeling had settled in her stomach. Of course, there were no real grounds for this. It was an ordinary house in an everyday street near Maru-a-Pula School. There would be neighbours next door, and the sound of voices; there would be dogs barking in the night; there would be the lights of cars. She could not imagine that Dr Ranta would pose any danger to her. He was an accomplished seducer perhaps, a manipulator, an opportunist, but not a murderer.
On the other hand, the most ordinary people can be murderers. And if this were to be the manner of one's death, then one was very likely to know one's assailant and meet him in very ordinary circumstances. She had recently taken out a subscription to the Journal of Criminology (an expensive mistake, because it contained little of interest to her) but among the meaningless tables and unintelligible prose she had come across an arresting fact: the overwhelming majority of homicide victims know the person who kills them. They are not killed by strangers, but by friends, family, work acquaintances. Mothers killed their children. Husbands killed their wives. Wives killed their husbands. Employees killed their employers. Danger, it seemed, stalked every interstice of day-to-day life. Could this be true? Not in Johannesburg, she thought, where people fell victim to tsostis who prowled about at night, to car thieves who were prepared to use their guns, and to random acts of indiscriminate violence by young men with no sense of the value of life. But perhaps cities like that were an exception; perhaps in more normal circumstances homicide happened in just this sort of surrounding-a quiet talk in a modest house, while people went about their ordinary business just a stone's throw away.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sensed that something was wrong. He had come to dinner, to tell her of his visit earlier that evening to his maid in prison, and had immediately noticed that she seemed distracted. He did not mention it at first; there was a story to tell about the maid, and this, he thought, might take Mma Ramotswe's mind off whatever it was that was preoccupying her.
"I have arranged for a lawyer to see her," he said. "There is a man in town who knows about this sort of case. I have arranged for him to go and see her in her cell and to speak for her in court."
Mma Ramotswe piled an ample helping of beans on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's plate.
"Did she explain anything?" she asked. "It can't look good for her. Silly woman."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. "She was hysterical when I first arrived. She started to shout at the guards. It was very embarrassing for me. They said: 'Please control your wife and tell her to keep her big mouth shut.' I had to tell them twice that she was not my wife."
"But why was she shouting?" asked Mma Ramotswe. "Surely she understands that she can't shout her way out of there."
"She knows that, I think," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "She was shouting because she was so cross. She said that somebody else should be there, not her. She mentioned your name for some reason."
Mma Ramotswe placed the beans on her own plate. "Me? What have I got to do with this?"
"I asked her that," Mr J.L.B. Matekoni went on. "But she just shook her head and said nothing more about it."
"And the gun? Did she explain the gun?"
"She said that the gun didn't belong to her. She said that it belonged to a boyfriend and that he was coming to collect it. Then she said that she didn't know that it was there. She thought the parcel contained meat. Or so she claims."
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. "They won't believe that. If they did, then would they ever be able to convict anybody found in possession of an illegal weapon?"
"That's what the lawyer said to me over the telephone," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "He said that it was very hard to get somebody off one of these charges. The courts just don't believe them if they say that they didn't know there was a gun They assume that they are lying and they send them to prison for at least a year. If they have previous convictions, and there usually are, then it can be much longer."
Mma Ramotswe raised her teacup to her lips. She liked to drink tea with her meals, and she had a special cup for the purpose. She would try to buy a matching one for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, she thought, but it might be difficult, as this cup had been made in England and was very special.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked sideways at Mma Ramotswe. There was something on her mind. In a marriage, he thought, it would be important not to keep anything from one's spouse, and they might as well start that policy now. Mind you, he recalled that he had just kept the knowledge of two foster children from Mma Ramotswe, which was hardly a minor matter, but that was over now and a new policy could begin.
"Mma Ramotswe," he ventured. "You are uneasy tonight. Is it something I have said?"
She put down her teacup, glancing at her watch as she did so.
"It's nothing to do with you," she said. "I have to go and speak to somebody tonight. It's about Mma Curtin's son. I am worried about this person I have to see."
She told him of her fears. She explained that although she knew that it was highly unlikely that an economist at the University of Botswana would turn to violence, nonetheless she felt convinced of the evil in his character, and this made her profoundly uneasy.
"There is a word for this sort of person," she explained. "I read about them. He is called a psychopath. He is a man with no morality."
He listened quietly, his brow furrowed with concern. Then, when she had finished speaking, he said: "You cannot go. I cannot have my future wife walking into danger like that."
She looked at him. "It makes me very pleased to know that you are worried about me," she said. "But I have my calling, which is that of a private detective. If I was going to be frightened, I should have done something else."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked unhappy. "You do not know this man. You cannot go to his house, just like that. If you insist, then I shall come too. I shall wait outside. He need not know I am there."
Mma Ramotswe pondered. She did not want Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to fret, and if his presence outside would relieve his anxiety, then there was no reason why he should not come.
"Very well," she said. "You wait outside. We'll take my van. You can sit there while I am talking to him."
"And if there is any emergency," he said, "you can shout. I shall be listening."
They both finished the meal in a more relaxed frame of mind. Motholeli was reading to her brother in his bedroom, the children having had their evening meal earlier. Dinner over, while Mr J.L.B. Matekoni took the plates through to the kitchen, Mma Ramotswe went down the corridor to find the girl half-asleep herself, the book resting on her knee. Puso was still awake, but drowsy, one arm across his chest, the other hanging down over the edge
of the bed. She moved his arm back onto the bed and he smiled at her sleepily.
"It is time for you to go to bed too," she said to the girl. "Mr J.L.B. Matekoni tells me that you have had a busy day repairing engines."
She wheeled Motholeli back to her own room, where she helped her out of the chair and onto the side of the bed. She liked to have her independence, and so she allowed her to undress herself unaided and to get into the new nightgown that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had bought for her on the shopping trip. It was the wrong colour, thought Mma Ramotswe, but then it had been chosen by a man, who could not be expected to know about these things.
"Are you happy here, Motholeli?" she asked.
Alexander McCall Smith - No 1 LDA 2 - Tears of the Giraffe Page 17