Tears of the Giraffe tnlda-2

by Alexander McCall Smith

  "Learn what?" asked Mma Ramotswe. He was standing at the window, looking out on a group of students on the walkway below.

  "Learn that there is nothing to be learned," he said. "That boy is dead. He must have wandered off into the Kalahari and got lost. Gone for a walk and never come back. It's easily done, you know. One thorn tree looks much like another, you know, and there are no hills down there to guide you. You get lost. Especially if you're a white man out of your natural element. What do you expect?"

  "But I don't believe that he got lost and died," said Mma Ramotswe. "I believe that something else happened to him." He turned to face her. "Such as?" he snapped.

  She shrugged her shoulders. "I am not sure exactly what. But how should I know? I was not there." She paused, before adding, almost under her breath. "You were."

  She heard his breathing, as he returned to his chair. Down below, one of the students shouted something out, something about a jacket, and the others laughed. "You say I was there. What do you mean?" She held his gaze. "I mean that you were living there at the time. You were one of the people who saw him every day. You saw him on the day of his death. You must have some idea."

  "I told the police at the time, and I have told the Americans who came round asking questions of all of us. I saw him that morning, once, and then again at lunchtime. I told them what we had for lunch. I described the clothes he was wearing. I told them everything."

  As he spoke, Mma Ramotswe made her decision. He was lying. Had he been telling the truth, she would have brought the encounter to an end, but she knew now that her initial intuition had been right. He was lying as he spoke. It was easy to tell; indeed, Mma Ramotswe could not understand why everybody could not tell when another person was lying. In her eyes, it was so obvious, and Dr Ranta might as well have had an illuminated liar sign about his neck.

  "I do not believe you, Rra," she said simply. "You are lying to me."

  He opened his mouth slightly, and then closed it. Then, folding his hands over his stomach again, he leant back in his chair.

  "Our talk has come to an end, Mma," he announced. "I am sorry that I cannot help you. Perhaps you can go home and study some more logic. Logic will tell you that when a person says he cannot help you, you will get no help. That, after all, is logical."

  He spoke with a sneer, pleased with his elegant turn of phrase.

  "Very well, Rra," said Mma Ramotswe. 'You could help me, or rather you could help that poor American woman. She is a mother. You had a mother. I could say to you, Think about that mother's feelings, but I know that with a person like you that makes no difference. You do not care about that woman. Not just because she is a white woman, from far away; you wouldn't care if she was a woman from your own village, would you?"

  He grinned at her. "I told you. We have finished our talk."

  "But people who don't care about others can sometimes be made to care," she said.

  He snorted. "In a minute I am going to telephone the Administration and tell them that there is a trespasser in my room. I could say that I found you trying to steal something. I could do that, you know. In fact, I think that is just what I might do. We have had trouble with casual thieves recently and they would send the security people pretty quickly. You might have difficulty explaining it all, Mrs Logician."

  "I wouldn't do that, Rra," she said. "You see, I know all about Angel."

  The effect was immediate. His body stiffened and again she smelled the acrid odour, stronger now.

  "Yes," she said. "I know about Angel and the examination paper. I have a statement back in my office. I can pull the chair from under you now, right now. What would you do in Gaborone as an unemployed university lecturer, Rra? Go back to your village? Help with the cattle again?"

  Her words, she noted, were like axe blows. Extortion, she thought. Blackmail. This is how the blackmailer feels when he has his victim at his feet. Complete power.

  "You cannot do that... I will deny ,.. There is nothing to show..."

  "I have all the proof they will need," she said. "Angel, and another girl who is prepared to lie and say that you gave her exam questions. She is cross with you and she will lie. What she says is not true, but there will be two girls with the same story. We detectives call that corroboration, Rra. Courts like corroboration. They call it similar fact evidence. Your colleagues in the Law Department will tell you all about such evidence. Go and speak to them. They will explain the law to you."

  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 cle
an 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 talent. 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.