“I’m glad you came, Mma Ramotswe,” began Mma Potokwane. “I was going to telephone you about something.”
Mma Ramotswe looked up from her contemplation of her plate of cake. “And I was going to call you too, Mma.”
Mma Potokwane looked interested. “There are things to be talked about, Mma?”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “There are two matters that have been worrying me.”
Mma Potokwane laughed. “I may have one to add, I’m afraid…But, tell me, what’s on your mind, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe broke off a small piece of fruit cake and washed it down with a sip of tea. Her curiosity had been aroused by the mention of a third worry, and she asked whether they could talk about that first.
Mma Potokwane looked out of the window. This was a bad sign: when Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window, it was usually because there was a problem that defied internal solution. And if no solution could be found in the office, then what alternative was there but to look outside, out into the bush with its almost unbroken panoply of acacia trees and its dusty paths wandering this way and that?
“This is not very good news, I’m afraid,” said Mma Potokwane.
Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. Somebody was ill—very ill. That was what that sort of preface usually announced. She shivered.
“I have a friend who works in the Standard Bank in town,” said Mma Potokwane. “She is one of their tellers.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. Her first feeling was one of relief; this was not about illness but about a different danger: money. She had her savings—such as they were—in a deposit account in the Standard Bank. Did Mma Potokwane know something about the bank’s solvency?
“I hope the bank is all right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have a savings account there.”
“The Standard Bank is a very good bank,” Mma Potokwane reassured her. “It is perfectly sound.”
“That is good news, Mma.”
Mma Potokwane continued. “This friend said to me the other day that she had seen somebody come into the bank whom she recognised. She told me who it was. I asked her whether her friend was quite sure, and she said that she was. She had served as a clerk in the police before going into the bank, and she had been trained to be very good at identifying people. She said she would not have mistaken this person, and anyway, when he came into the bank to change some South African rands into pula he had to sign a slip, and she saw his name on it.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. She was not sure why this man in the bank should be of concern to her. Was it somebody she had exposed in the course of one of her investigations—Charlie Gotso, for instance—the ruthless businessman and sponsor of witchcraft, whom she had exposed all those years ago.
Mma Potokwane delivered the blow in lowered tones. “Note Mokoti.”
Mma Ramotswe had not been prepared for this. She had last seen her abusive first husband some years ago, and she had by and large stopped thinking about him. Of course, he came to mind every so often—it is hard to write trauma completely out of your life—but he was not somebody she worried about. On his last visit to Gaborone she had given him some money and told him that she did not hate him. She had forgiven him, in effect, and sent him on his way saying that she did not wish to see him again. Forgiveness was never easy, but Mma Ramotswe believed in it because she knew that without forgiveness we cluttered our lives with old business. Not forgiving was like scratching at a sore to keep the healing scab from forming.
It took her a few moments to regain her composure. “Note?” she said.
Mma Potokwane inclined her head. “I had hoped we would never again have to discuss that man,” she said.
“So had I,” muttered Mma Ramotswe.
“I had to warn you,” said Mma Potokwane.
Mma Ramotswe agreed, and thanked her. “It is better to know when there is something like that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The worst thing is bumping into somebody like that without any notice. It must be like stepping on a snake.”
“That’s a very good way of putting it, Mma,” said Mma Potokwane. “But the question we have to ask ourselves is this: What is Note Mokoti doing in Gaborone?”
“Is there a concert?” Note was a trumpeter and occasionally toured with a group of better-known jazz musicians. His own career had stalled; he made a living, thought Mma Ramotswe, but only just.
Mma Potokwane said that she had asked somebody who knew about these matters and he had told her that there were no jazz concerts that month. The next one, he said, would be in six weeks’ time and featured a band from Zambia. There was nothing from South Africa, where Note now lived.
Mma Ramotswe became silent. Memories had faded, but could so easily be reactivated, as they were now, and her memories were of fear. Mma Potokwane, watching her, guessed at this, and sought to reassure her. “He can’t harm you, Mma—not any more. You are a married woman and you have a husband who will not allow that. And you have a position—you have a detective agency, you have been mentioned in the Botswana Daily News; you are not the vulnerable girl you were back then.”
It was some consolation, and Mma Ramotswe did her best to put on a brave face.
“And another thing,” said Mma Potokwane. “Note has not tried to contact you. That is a good sign. It means that he is here for some other reason—he is not here to make life difficult for you.”
Mma Ramotswe thought that Mma Potokwane was probably right. “Let’s not talk about him,” she said. “There are other things to think about.” But although she said this—and tried to feel it at the same time—there was a cold knot of dread somewhere within her. Note…even the name, uttered inside her, without speaking, could do its icy work.
Mma Potokwane seemed relieved to be able to change the subject. “You said that there were some matters that were preying on your mind, Mma. What are these matters?”
It took Mma Ramotswe a moment or two to compose herself. Forget Note…forget him. Forget.
“Mma?” pressed Mma Potokwane.
“I’m sorry, Mma. Yes, we have a rather tricky matter on our hands.”
She told her about the Charity Mompoloki case.
“I’m afraid that Mma Makutsi and I have opposite views on this,” Mma Ramotswe said. “She thinks that Charity is telling the truth; her mother thinks the opposite.”
“Mothers always know,” said Mma Potokwane.
Mma Ramotswe confessed her suspicions. “I think that Mma Makutsi is being swayed by her loyalty to the Botswana Secretarial College,” she said. “You know what she’s like. She’s not looking at it in a sensible way.”
Mma Potokwane made a disapproving sound. “It’s very important to be detached,” she said. “When I’m dealing with a problem out here, I always try to pretend that I don’t know everybody involved. I look at it as if I’m a stranger.”
“Mma Makutsi is not doing that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I think that she’ll influence poor Mr. Polopetsi.”
Mma Potokwane looked thoughtful. “Yes, Mr. Polopetsi has many merits, but he is easily led,” she said. “Perhaps, Mma, you need to run a parallel investigation. You can let Mr. Polopetsi and Mma Makutsi investigate in their way, while you investigate in yours. Then, when they get stuck or go up the wrong path, you will quietly sort the whole thing out in your way. They will then see the advantages of being detached.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her friend. Was there something underhand about this, or was it simply a way of defusing a disagreement? A moment’s thought convinced her: there was no need for anybody to be deceived—she could follow her own line of enquiry, and Mma Makutsi, along with Mr. Polopetsi, could follow theirs. Not only would this prevent arguments, but it would mean that more possibilities were explored. No, Mma Potokwane, in her inimitable way, had come up with a solution.
“You know, Mma Potokwane,” she said at last, “I think that’s exactly what I need to do.”
“Good,” said Mma Potokwane, sounding businesslike. “Now, what is this other matter you were talk
ing about?”
Mma Ramotswe looked pointedly at her empty plate.
The unspoken request was picked up immediately. Old friends know one another’s weaknesses, and Mma Potokwane knew exactly how Mma Ramotswe felt about cake—and many other things too, but particularly cake. “Of course,” she said. “Here, let me give you another slice of this.”
Mma Ramotswe did not demur, and fortified by a further helping of fruit cake, she told the matron about how she had discovered the existence of Mingie Ramotswe. Mma Potokwane listened with interest, and closely examined the newspaper cutting when Mma Ramotswe produced it.
Looking up from the cutting, she fixed Mma Ramotswe with an enquiring gaze. “Are you wanting my advice, Mma?” she asked.
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I would like to hear what you think, Mma. I always like that. But I do have some views on what I should do.”
“Oh, and what are those views, Mma?”
“I could find out about this lady from the nursing authorities. They should know where she is.”
She became aware that Mma Potokwane was shaking her head rather vigorously. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t,” said Mma Potokwane.
“You wouldn’t try to contact her?”
“That’s right—I wouldn’t.”
Mma Ramotswe was puzzled. “But why, Mma? Surely if there is a relative you don’t know about and then you discover this person, surely you would want to get to know her.”
Mma Potokwane started to shake her head again. “I think there are big risks in doing that without first making enquiries,” she said. “What if such a person is not the sort of relative you want?”
From her generous perspective, in which people were invariably given the benefit of the doubt, it had not occurred to Mma Ramotswe that this Mingie Ramotswe might not be the sort of person she would wish to know. But now, with that possibility bluntly articulated by Mma Potokwane, she saw that this could well be so.
“There may be a way of doing this,” said Mma Potokwane. “If you were to find out something about this person before you met her, then you could decide whether or not this is a relative you want to find—if she is, in fact, a relative.”
“Which she might not be,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“That’s right. And of course, if she isn’t, then it doesn’t matter at all what she’s like.”
“Except for one thing,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Even if she isn’t a relative, people might still think she is and that could reflect badly on me—and the family in general.” She paused, as she mulled over the possibility. She had known of a case where a well-known family in Mochudi had been grossly embarrassed by a person who had arrived in the village and claimed to have the same name as them. He had been a drunkard and a womaniser and had brought nothing but shame until he eventually disappeared—in unexplained circumstances, some murmured, although others believed he had fallen into an old ant hole while staggering about drunk. There was much to be said for a common name—the sort of name that many hundreds, if not thousands, of people bore. In those circumstances, if some namesake did something wrong, one might escape embarrassment simply because the name was so ubiquitous and nobody would associate you with the wrongdoer.
“Well,” said Mma Potokwane, “whatever you decide to do, I’m sure that you’ll be very careful.” She paused. “There aren’t any other problems at the moment, are there?”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I don’t think there are.”
“In that case,” said Mma Potokwane, “there’s a small slice of cake left in the tin. It would be a pity to let it become stale.”
“A very big pity,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Potokwane reached for a knife. “I shall divide it, Mma, and then you choose. That is always a guarantee of fairness, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
NOT A GOVERNMENT-LOOKING PERSON
MMA MAKUTSI was surprised by Mma Ramotswe’s suggestion.
“You mean, you want me to take charge of this Charity business, Mma? As…” She took off her spectacles as she searched for the right words. “…as Principal Investigating Officer?”
It was an entirely new term, never before used in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and it took Mma Ramotswe by surprise. Principal Investigating Officer: it had an impressive ring to it, there was no doubt about that, but was it too official? As a private detective one had to be careful not to give the impression that one was in some way working on behalf of the Government. Would people think this of a Principal Investigating Officer?
Mma Makutsi replaced her spectacles as she waited for Mma Ramotswe’s reply.
“You’ll be in charge,” said Mma Ramotswe guardedly.
“As Principal Investigating Officer?” pressed Mma Makutsi.
“You’ll be the one in the driving seat,” Mma Ramotswe reassured her.
Mma Makutsi appeared satisfied. “As Principal Investigating Officer I shall do my best,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe decided that perhaps it did not matter too much. If Mma Makutsi wanted to be a Principal Investigating Officer—if it meant so much to her—then she should be allowed to call herself that. People were sensitive about how they were described, and if it gave Mma Makutsi pleasure to create new titles for herself, then there was no real harm in that—as long as she did not mislead anybody.
“It’s important that we remember we’re acting in a private capacity,” she said.
Mma Makutsi nodded. “Yes, that’s very important.”
“So if you introduce yourself as a Principal Investigating Officer, make sure that nobody thinks you’re from the Government.”
Mma Makutsi laughed. “Nobody would think that, Mma. Do you think I look as if I’m from the Government?”
Mma Ramotswe was not sure how to answer. Admittedly there was an official look that some government people cultivated—a sort of stern, rule-bound look—but there were plenty of civil servants who were indistinguishable from the general population.
Mma Makutsi repeated her question. “Do you think that, Mma?”
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are not a government-looking person, Mma.”
“I am very relieved to hear that, Mma, because it is important in our line of work not to look like anything in particular.”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But we have to look like something, Mma. We can’t look like…” She shrugged. “…like nothing.”
Mma Makutsi smiled. “Of course, Mma. What I meant is that we should not look unusual. We mustn’t stand out.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed with the aim of a discreet appearance. “I think there is something in The Principles of Private Detection about that. I think Clovis Andersen had something to say about not—”
Mma Makutsi interrupted her with chapter and verse. “It is in his chapter entitled ‘Watching and Waiting.’ That is what the chapter is called, Mma. Page eighty-five.”
Mma Ramotswe was impressed. “That is very good, Mma. You know that book backwards.”
Mma Makutsi clearly appreciated the compliment. Taking off her spectacles again, she gave them a further polish. “There is so much in that book, Mma. Every page has some bit of important information. It is one of the very great books of our times.”
“That is true,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is a great man, Mr. Andersen.”
Mma Makutsi replaced her spectacles. “A very great man. And he says, if I remember correctly, that you should always try to be typical. That is the word he uses, Mma—typical. If you’re typical, then nobody will notice you.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I think that’s right.”
“It is definitely right, Mma,” continued Mma Makutsi. “So if people see you in the street, Mma Ramotswe, they probably just think, There goes another traditionally built lady. And they don’t think: Who is that woman, and what is she doing?” She paused. “We don’t want them to think that, do we, Mma?”
“We do not, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe replied
. But she was thinking that Mma Makutsi, for all her claims to invisibility, was quite a striking-looking person, particularly with her large glasses. And it was all very well for her to dismiss Mma Ramotswe as just another traditionally built lady, but what was Mma Makutsi herself? She was taller and more large-boned, but there were definitely parts of her that were traditionally built, although Mma Ramotswe did not feel it appropriate to think about these matters.
Mma Ramotswe smiled. This odd conversation had made her remember something that Mr. Polopetsi had done. It had been some time ago, when he first became associated with the agency; he was helping with an investigation that involved watching a married man who was suspected, quite rightly as it turned out, of meeting a lover in his parked car, and Mr. Polopetsi had been detailed to keep watch in the car park in which these trysts were thought to be taking place. Mma Ramotswe had driven him there in her tiny white van and had noticed that he had an unusually large hat with him. It was the sort of hat cattle ranchers liked to wear—as wide brimmed as a verandah—and circled round the crown, where a leather hat-band might once have been, with a strip of zebra skin.
Mma Ramotswe had found it difficult to keep her eyes off this hat, even while driving. Eventually she had asked him about it. “This hat of yours, Rra, is a very fine one. Where did you get it?”
Mr. Polopetsi explained that a friend had given it to him. “He said he no longer wore it, Mma, and that it was too good a hat to be thrown away.”
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