Miracle at Speedy Motors (18 page)

Mma Ramotswe stood up. “Charlie,” she said, “we must go there now. You. Me. Mma Makutsi. Straightaway.”

THERE WAS NOT ENOUGH ROOM
for all three of them in the tiny white van, and so Charlie crouched in the back, clinging on to the side, while Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi occupied the driver’s and passenger’s seat, respectively. The van was making the suspicious knocking noise again, but that did not stop Mma Ramotswe from pressing the accelerator pedal flat to the floor. Even so, with the engine doing its utmost, there was no question of reaching such momentum as would break the speed limit, and Mma Ramotswe found herself glancing anxiously at her watch as they made their way along the Tlokweng Road in the direction of the Pick and Pay supermarket.

Fortunately the traffic, such as it was, was going in the opposite direction, streaming away from town, and there was little to hold them up. When they reached the lights at the southern edge of the village, the tiny white van was brought to a halt dutifully at the line.

“It’s a pity the lights are red,” said Mma Makutsi. “When you see detectives in films they do not let these things hold them up.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced from left to right. Everything was clear; there were no vehicles approaching.

“But it’s the law, Mma Makutsi,” she said. “You cannot have people deciding whether or not they will stop at lights. That is not the way we do things in Botswana—yet.”

“I was not saying that you should jump the lights, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi, somewhat huffily. “I do not jump the lights myself.”

“But you don’t drive,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “You can’t jump lights if you don’t drive.”

“When I am with Phuti,” said Mma Makutsi. “What I meant was that Phuti and I don’t jump lights. We always stop when the lights are red. Even when they are orange, we stop.”

Mma Ramotswe looked in both directions again. There was still nothing coming.

“Of course, if it’s an emergency,” she said hesitantly. “If one is heading somewhere to solve a crime, for example. Or taking a pregnant lady to the hospital. Then I think that it’s all right to go against the lights. As long as you’ve looked, of course.”

Mma Makutsi looked up the road. “Do you think that this is an emergency, Mma?”

“Well, writing threatening letters is a crime, I think,” said Mma Ramotswe. But she was not completely sure of that. She had a copy of the Botswana Penal Code in the office, which she occasionally waved at any client who might suggest doing something illegal—such as listening to the telephone calls of another—but was there anything in the code about threatening letters? There should be, she felt, but then there were many things that should be in the Botswana Penal Code but were not, because of some oversight on the part of the compilers—failing to support an indigent parent, for example, or conducting a loud telephone conversation on the verandah of the President Hotel when other people were trying to drink their tea in peace.

The lights changed, and they moved forward. Within a few moments they were in the parking area and she nosed the tiny white van into the nearest vacant space, switched off the ignition, and began to half run towards the supermarket entrance, accompanied by Charlie and Mma Makutsi.

“We must get a trolley,” said Mma Makutsi, as they entered.

“We must be careful to look like normal shoppers. Then we shall be able to see this person and observe her.”

“And then?” asked Charlie. “Should I detain her?”

Mma Makutsi scoffed. “You cannot detain people, Charlie. You are not a policeman! No, what we shall do is follow her and find out who she is. That’s what we should do, isn’t it, Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe had not thought that far. “I think so,” she said. “We will observe, I think.”

They moved towards the vegetable section. Charlie’s offer to push the trolley had been turned down by Mma Ramotswe, who thought it better for her to remain in control. Mma Makutsi walked beside her, one hand on the trolley bar.

“Do you mind if I pick up a few things as we go along?” asked Mma Makutsi. “I was going to have to come shopping later on, anyway. So I may as well get something for Phuti’s dinner while I’m about it.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that this was a good idea. “But don’t spend too much time choosing,” she said. “She could almost have finished her shopping by now, and so we had better get down towards the end of the store as soon as possible.”

The supermarket was not busy, although there were short lines of people at the bakery and meat sections. They avoided these, and walked instead down the curry and pasta lanes. Mma Makutsi reached for a jar of peri-peri sauce and put it into the tray.

“Phuti likes peri-peri chicken,” she explained. “He has a taste for hot things.”

“I can’t stand it,” said Charlie. “Why spoil good food by making it so hot that it burns your mouth? What’s so good about having a burnt mouth, Mma Makutsi?”

“It doesn’t really burn your mouth,” Mma Makutsi replied. “It just tastes like that.”

“Same thing,” said Charlie.

Mma Ramotswe was eager to return to the business in hand. “Let’s not argue about such matters,” she said. “Everybody likes different things. We are not all made the same way.”

They were approaching the tea section, and Mma Ramotswe began to slow down, her attention drawn to a display of brightly coloured boxes of tea. “Now that looks very nice,” she said. “Perhaps—”

She did not finish. Charlie had seen something; now he abruptly reached out and clapped his hand over hers on the trolley bar. “There she is, Mma! There. Look.”

They stood quite still. At the end of the lane, on the point of turning the corner, was a woman in a shiny green dress, pushing a trolley laden with foodstuffs.

It was Mma Makutsi who broke the silence. “Violet!” she exclaimed. “Violet Sephotho!”

Mma Makutsi’s voice carried, at least as far as Violet, who spun round to find out who it was who had called her name. For a moment she appeared confused, but then, turning sharply on her heel, she changed the direction of her shopping trolley and began to push it towards the household products section. Mma Ramotswe lost no time. Leaning into the trolley, she began to pursue Violet, the trolley wheels clattering noisily as they picked up speed.

After a few seconds, Violet half turned to glance behind her. Seeing herself pursued by Mma Ramotswe’s advancing trolley, she spun her own trolley round the approaching corner. For a short while she was out of sight of her pursuers, but Mma Ramotswe was now assisted in the pushing of the trolley by Mma Makutsi and Charlie, and they began rapidly to close the distance between them.

“Violet Sephotho!” called out Mma Makutsi. “You stop right now! You stop! In the name of…” In the name of what? she thought. And it came to her, even if she did not utter the words:
In the name of the Botswana Secretarial College.
Violet Sephotho had been her contemporary there, the leader of the glamorous girls, the seditious, lazy one who sat at the back of the classroom and read magazines. Mma Makutsi had not forgotten how it was Violet who had pretended to snore during a lecture on double-entry bookkeeping by a very important visitor, the secretary of the Botswana Association of Certified Accountants. Neither had Mma Makutsi forgotten the stream of eligible boyfriends paraded so shamelessly on Violet’s arm; nor the moment when she had announced that she had landed the best-paid job of that year’s graduates in spite of her appallingly bad examination results. And now she was revealed as the author of those unpleasant letters. But why, she wondered, would she have done that?

Violet showed no sign of stopping, but then, turning a corner past an elaborate display of stacked boxes of soap powder, she slipped. She righted herself quickly, but it was enough to send her trolley into the pile of boxes, which tumbled about her in a cloud of white powder. More from surprise than from anything else, she stood where she was, allowing Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi to catch up with her.

“We need to talk to you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“About those letters,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Violet.

Mma Makutsi’s eyes were wide. “You don’t? Those letters addressed to Mma Ramotswe. The ones that made those remarks about us. Those ones. You don’t know anything about them?”

Violet dusted soap powder off her dress. “No, I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about, Grace Makutsi. I really don’t.”

“Then why did you run away from us, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. She spoke calmly, and there was about her demean-our none of the outrage that had so obviously seized Mma Makutsi.

Violet hesitated. “Was I running away, Mma? What made you think I was running away?”

“But you were!” shouted Mma Makutsi.

“You saw us, and you ran away,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It did look a bit like that, Mma.”

For a few moments Violet said nothing. Then she laughed. “Oh, I see how you thought that. There’s a simple explanation, you know—even if it will be a bit hard for some of you to get into her head.” At this, she looked at Mma Makutsi, before continuing, “You see, I thought you were somebody else altogether. I thought that you were somebody who…well, I owe a bit of money to. I’m going to pay them back next month, but I didn’t want them to make a scene here, in public. So I decided to get away from them. Simple, you see.”

Mma Ramotswe studied Violet as she spoke. It was hard to judge, she thought. Most liars were transparent, but the really hardened ones, the ones who were cold inside, who felt nothing, could lie very convincingly precisely because they felt no guilt. Everything that she had heard about Violet suggested that she was a person of that sort, and so all this might be lies—or it could be truth; she simply could not tell. And yet there still were questions she could ask.

“Tell me, Mma,” she asked gently, “why did you think that we were those other people? Do we look like them? Is one of them a traditionally built person? And one a young man like this one here? Or one like Mma Makutsi?”

Violet frowned, as if trying to make sense of the question. Then her answer came. “I cannot see very well in the distance at the moment,” she said. “I have lost my glasses, you see.”

The look that Mma Makutsi exchanged with Mma Ramotswe was so obvious, so triumphant, that even Violet noticed it.

“So?” said Violet. “So what’s so odd about that?”

“Blue frames?” asked Mma Makutsi, leaning forward towards Violet as she spoke. “Small glasses with blue frames?”

“No, not those ones,” said Violet. “I have those with me here, not that it’s any of your business, Grace Makutsi. My other glasses. The ones I use for long distance.”

And with that, she took a small pair of blue glasses out of the pocket of her dress, polished them ostentatiously, and then put them away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THERE ARE MANY MIRACLES

I
T WAS HER,”
said Mma Makutsi as she filled Mma Ramotswe’s cup with tea and placed it on her desk, with rather more force, perhaps, than normally. “Of course it was her! Charlie was sure it was the same woman who had dropped off the letter. You heard him, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe lifted the cup to her lips and looked down into the dark, red-brown liquid. It seemed troubled; when Mma Makutsi made tea in a bad mood, the tea reflected this. She sighed. She did not like to quote Clovis Andersen too often, but this, surely, was an occasion when the words of
The Principles of Private Detection
were particularly apposite.

“Clovis Andersen,” Mma Ramotswe began, “says that you should never rely entirely on an identification. I remember his exact words, Mma Makutsi.
The human memory plays all sorts of tricks. You may think that you remember correctly, but you might not. Remember that people are very similar to one another—we all have arms and legs and noses, and these can look very, very alike.
That’s what he says, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi listened in silence. She was not one to argue with Clovis Andersen, but in this case, even if Charlie’s identification were to be discounted, Violet Sephotho was such an obvious suspect. The only matter to be sorted out was motive, and that, when one started to think about it, was clear enough. Envy. The last time the paths of the two women had crossed, Violet had shown herself to be envious of Phuti. She disparaged him, of course, and made fun of his awkwardness and his speech impediment, but the fact remained: Phuti was well off. Violet would have loved to have married a rich man, but presumably had failed. For her to see Mma Makutsi, whom she despised, with a rich fiancé on her arm must have been more than she could bear. And the hostile references to Mma Ramotswe? A smokescreen intended to conceal the real target: Mma Makutsi, fiancée of the proprietor of the Double Comfort Furniture Shop—and of a very large herd of cattle.

Mma Makutsi was so sure that Violet was the author of the letters that it frustrated her that Mma Ramotswe should not grasp this point. But in this she was mistaken: Mma Ramotswe did, in fact, think that it was Violet; it was just that she was reluctant to say that it had been
established
that she was the culprit. This point was now explained to Mma Makutsi.

“I agree, you know,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It was probably Violet Sephotho. The glasses were nothing to do with the case. And the reason why I believe that Charlie really was correct is this: Charlie looks at women very carefully. He studies them—we have all seen that. And he said something very significant, Mma. He said that when he saw her pushing the trolley in the supermarket—he saw her from behind, remember—he was more convinced than ever. He said that…well, it’s a bit indelicate, Mma, but I have to say it. He said that it was the same bottom.”

Mma Ramotswe’s embarrassment appeased Mma Makutsi, who let out a whoop of laughter. “That boy! That is all he ever thinks of. But this time, he was right. Good for Charlie!”

It was a tiny compliment—
good for Charlie
—the sort of thing that might be said without really meaning anything, but it was the first time Mma Ramotswe had heard Mma Makutsi say something positive about the apprentice, and she was struck by it. Something had happened; some sandbank of animosity had shifted, even if slightly.

Mma Makutsi brought her back to the matter in hand. “But what do we do, Mma Ramotswe?”

“We write to Violet,” she said. “We send a letter, which I shall dictate after I have finished my tea.”

Mma Makutsi showed her satisfaction at this. “Oh, that is a very good idea, Mma. We can inform her that we have handed the letters over to the police. We can also say that we have consulted our lawyers and that they are preparing a case against her. And we can tell her that we are not surprised to hear that the letters were written by such a silly, cowardly person, who was a disgrace to the Botswana Secretarial College—a complete disgrace.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “No, Mma. I don’t think we shall do that. Thank you, but no.” She picked up her cup and drained the last of the tea from it. I’m going to need all the support of this tea, she thought, as after this letter I am going to have to go and see Mma Sebina.

Mma Makutsi readied her notebook. “I am ready, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe cleared her thoat. “Dear Violet,” she began. “We met in the supermarket. You know who I am, but I do not think that we know one another well. I am sorry that I have not had the chance to get to know you better, but maybe in the future that will happen.

“I believe that you wrote me some letters. I know that you claim that you did not do this, but I think that there is enough evidence to satisfy me, at least, that it was you.

“I am writing now to say sorry to you. The only reason why anybody should have written those letters was that I—and my assistant, Mma Makutsi—must have done something in the past to make you feel angry with us. If we have done that—and I do not know what it could be—then I want you to know that I am very sorry for making you feel that way about us. You should not have written to us in the way you did, but I am still saying sorry for anything we have done, Mma, and I am asking you to accept that apology.

“I think, by the way, that I knew your aunt, the one who lived for some years in Mochudi and is now late. Sephotho is not a common name, so my late friend must have been your relative. I remember that she always spoke very highly of one of her nieces who was doing very well in Gaborone, and that must have been you! Your aunt was very proud of you, as I recall.

“Yours sincerely, Precious Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe finished. She lifted her gaze up to find Mma Makutsi, her pencil suspended in mid-air, staring at her. “You can’t say that, Mma Ramotswe. Violet Sephotho is—”

“Is a woman like you and me, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Who can feel bad about herself, the same as everyone. And who wants to be loved, the same as everyone. So saying what I have just said is better, far better, than making her feel even less loved than she is.”

She looked at Mma Makutsi, whose pencil still remained poised. “Did you get all of that, Mma Makutsi?”

The pencil descended again to the notepad and made further squiggles across the page.

“We won’t hear again from Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “That is the end of that.”

She paused. She could see that Mma Makutsi was not convinced.

“You don’t agree?” Mma Ramotswe asked.

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “Why will she stop? There is something that made her do that. That something will not have gone away.”

“Yes, there is something that made her do it,” Mma Ramotswe said. “It is called envy, and it can make people do very strange things, Mma. She is envious of you because you have everything that she does not. You did so well at the Botswana Secretarial College with your ninety-seven per cent. How does a fifty per cent—”

“At the most,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “Sometimes even less. Forty-two per cent once, I think.”

“There you are,” said Mma Ramotswe. She knew how hard it had been for Mma Makutsi: the younger woman had started with so little, had fought for everything she had; had lived with her bad skin, lived with her large glasses, lived with everything. And even now that she had something which many women would dearly love—a kind husband, or almost, with his own business—she could not believe that anybody would be envious of her.

“It’s your Phuti too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He has given you a position, security. Violet has none of that and she resents you for it. She wants to put you down. That’s why she wrote.”

“But she wrote to you, Mma Ramotswe. Your name was on the envelope.”

“Of course she did. That is because that would cover her tracks. She wrote to me and had you in her sights at the same time. I would probably be just as bad in her eyes. Good husband. A nice house. Cattle.” She paused. “And that is why we must answer her hatred with love. I can’t say whether it will change her in her heart—it probably won’t. But if it makes her feel even just a little bit better about herself, she will be less envious.”

Mma Makutsi laid aside her pencil and stared across the room at her employer. She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. There was much she wanted to say, but even these few moments of contemplation of what Mma Ramotswe had said had shown her that everything that she, Mma Makutsi, would have said was wrong. Mma Ramotswe was right: evil repaid with retribution, with punishment, had achieved half its goal; evil repaid with kindness was shown to be what it really was, a small, petty thing, not something frightening at all, but something pitiable, a paltry affair. So she picked up her pencil, opened a drawer in her desk, and dropped the pencil inside. “I think you’re probably right, Mma,” she said, through tight lips. “You usually are in these matters, because you are a kind lady. But I wish that you were wrong. Which you aren’t. But I still wish it.”

THE LETTER TO VIOLET
was an easy task by comparison with what now lay before Mma Ramotswe. She had managed to contact Mma Sebina by telephone and had told her that she needed to see her with some important information.

“About my brother?” asked Mma Sebina brightly. “He is coming to see me tonight. We are going to go to the cinema together.”

Mma Ramotswe swallowed. If she were to be completely honest, then the answer to that would be no, it is not about your brother, because he is not your brother. But she could not; the truth could be too cruel on occasion, and this was one such. And yet that same truth would have to be disclosed very soon.

“It is about your brother,” she said. “Yes, it is, Mma.”

And now she was standing in front of Mma Sebina’s gate and calling out
Ko! Ko!
And there was Mma Sebina coming out of her front door, wiping her hands on a piece of kitchen towel, and waving to her.

“Mma Ramotswe! You must come in and try what I have just baked. Some banana bread, Mma. It’s a special recipe. Kenneth told me he liked it.”

“Kenneth?”

“My brother. That is his first name. Kenneth Sekape.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at the ground, and Mma Sebina noticed.

“Is there something wrong?” There was panic in her voice.

“There’s something wrong, Mma. Oh, you have come to give me bad news…”

She started to wail, the wail of the bereaved, the widow, that heart-rending inimitable cry that signified the sudden, overwhelming onset of a grief. Mma Ramotswe reached forward and seized Mma Sebina by the arm, pulling her towards her. “No, Mma! It is not that! Mr. Sekape is all right. It is not that, Mma.”

Mma Sebina strangled her cries. She stared mutely at Mma Ramotswe. “Then…”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head, as if trying to make sense of some confusion within her. “It is all my fault. I should have checked up on what Mma Potokwane told me. She has too much to remember, Mma. She can get things mixed up.”

Mma Sebina frowned. “What is mixed up?”

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. Now, very suddenly, she felt herself acutely aware of where she was—standing in front of Mma Sebina’s house, under a sky from which the rain clouds had cleared and which was now empty, blue, limitless. And across which a bird of prey was describing huge, lazy circles. She thought it strange that at a moment like this one should notice such things, but she had heard that one did; as a person facing death may suddenly find that he is looking at some humdrum object in his room, and seeing its beauty.

“Mr. Sekape is not really your brother, I’m afraid, Mma. Mma Potokwane got things mixed up.” She would tell her in due course that there had been a brother and that he was late. Now was not the time, though, as she had caused Mma Sebina quite enough distress already.

Mma Ramotswe had half expected another wail, and was prepared for it. Instead she saw an expression of curiosity come over the other woman’s face. It was curiosity, but it was also a look of pleasurable discovery, as if the information that had just been given to her was not disappointing but welcome.

“So he is not my brother,” she said.

“No. He is not. I’m so sorry, Mma.”

Mma Sebina fingered the crumpled piece of kitchen towel that she had been carrying. “I am glad about that,” she said.

It took a moment or two, but then the realisation came to Mma Ramotswe. Of course, of course. “Oh, Mma,” she said. “I’m sorry that he proved to be one of those men who have a low opinion of women. I knew it was going to be difficult for you. I knew it. So, yes, you must be glad that such a man is not your brother.”

Mma Sebina looked at her in puzzlement. “But he does like women,” she said. “He said that he liked me very much. And…”

“Yes?”

“Well, Mma Ramotswe. What you have told me is very good news because…well, because I like Kenneth very much. I like him…more than one would normally like a brother. Well, more as one would like a man who might become a husband. Of course I could not think that while he was still my brother, and I thought that he would just be a very good friend. But now…”