The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (17 page)

T
HE NEXT THREE DAYS
were days of anxiety—and inactivity. Fanwell had been released from custody shortly after having been charged, but was told that it might be some time before his case was called in court. Until then, there was not much he could do, although Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had obtained the services of a lawyer, a rather distracted man who had described the case as “an open and shut one.”

“That is very good news,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

The lawyer looked surprised. “Good news?”

“Yes. You said it was open and shut …”

The lawyer laughed. “Yes, open and shut from the prosecution’s point of view.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked incredulous. “But he’s not guilty. They cannot convict him if he did not do it.”

The lawyer tapped the side of his nose; it was a curious gesture that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni could not quite interpret. “Oh, Mr. Mechanic, I’m afraid that they all do it. All these people who appear in court say, ‘I did not do it.’ But usually they did.” He tapped his nose again. “I haven’t had anybody come to me and say,
‘I did it, Rra.’ Not one. So I ask myself: If none of these people did it, then who did? Can you tell me? No, I didn’t think you would be able to.” He sighed. “But I’ll do my best for this young man. I’ll try to get them to give him a suspended sentence, although that depends on which magistrate gets the case. Some of those fellows have got very bad tempers. You never know.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not tell Fanwell of this exchange. All he did was to tell him that he had secured the services of a lawyer, and that the lawyer had assured him that he would do his best. Charlie, who was with Fanwell at the time, clapped his hands together and did one of those impromptu dances that he performed to mark pieces of good news. “Ace!” he exclaimed. “You hear that, Fanwell? A big-shot lawyer. Very smart.”

“Good,” said Fanwell. “I am very lucky then.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked away. He wondered whether he should try to get another lawyer, but he had already paid a substantial amount as a retainer, and he would probably lose that if he tried to change. Perhaps it was best to have a lawyer who was realistic—after all, one would not want one who showed unfounded optimism in the face of bleak prospects.

Mma Ramotswe did her best to comfort Fanwell, telling him of the character reference she was preparing and assuring him that justice was bound to be done. For the most part, though, she left the Fanwell affair to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; the apprentice had always been his responsibility, and it seemed that he was doing all that was required to see Fanwell through this. Her mind was more taken up with the issue of Mma Potokwane’s dismissal. She made a point of going out to the orphan farm each day to speak to her friend and to encourage her to challenge the dismissal.

“I’ve already done that,” said Mma Potokwane. “I have written to the board, but they say that they cannot consider my letter until
the next meeting, which will be in two weeks’ time. Until then, there is nothing I can do.”

Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. “I have been making enquiries about that man,” she said. “I have been speaking to a friend who writes articles on business matters for the
Botswana Daily News
. I have asked him whether he has any information.”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “Nobody knows anything. Your friend will say the same thing.”

This was true. The journalist had promised to see if there was any helpful information in the newspaper’s files but had come back with nothing to report. “He seems to be absolutely above board,” he said. “The money comes from straightforward businesses. A number of dry-cleaning places, a fleet of buses—that sort of thing.”

Mma Ramotswe thanked him for his efforts. She tried to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness, but she now felt quite despondent about the chance of being able to help Mma Potokwane in any way. Had she been able to provide her with ammunition, then she was sure that the redoubtable matron would have been able to stand up to Mr. Ditso and his friends on the board. But without that, then Mma Potokwane, it seemed, was powerless and all that she, like any of them, could do was to wait. So all three of them—Mma Ramotswe, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Mma Makutsi—found themselves bound up in a shared circle of anxiety, each unable to do anything much to reassure the others or to throw anything but a bleak light on the misfortunes of Fanwell and Mma Potokwane. “It seems as if everything has gone wrong,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know that we should not despair, but everything seems suddenly to have gone wrong.”

“The whole world is tumbling down,” said Mma Makutsi. “It is surely the end.”

That, it seemed to Mma Ramotswe, was possibly overstating it, but she knew how Mma Makutsi felt. In fact, they both felt powerless, and were unable even to seek Clovis Andersen’s advice, as he had taken the opportunity to accompany his friend to visit a library being built at Ghanzi, on the other side of the country, and had left word that he could not be contacted for four or five days.

“I’m sure he will have something to suggest when he comes back,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Maybe,” said Mma Makutsi, but then added gloomily: “But maybe not.”

Phuti Radiphuti had been kept informed, and had shaken his head sadly at the news. He had met Fanwell, and he thought it highly unlikely that he had done anything dishonest, but he knew that sometimes the police could, quite reasonably, believe they had a case against an innocent man. It had happened before to one of his employees, and the poor man had spent nine months in prison for an offence that Phuti Radiphuti was convinced he had not committed. There had been evidence, though, and the conviction had been sustained on appeal, which showed, Phuti decided, that even in a well-run system of criminal justice mistakes could be made.

He was busy, though, and, although sympathetic, he had no time to brood on these matters. He had received a large order to furnish a new hotel to be built on the edge of town, and there was a great deal of paperwork to be completed in that transaction. There was also the matter of his new house, for which the foundations had now been prepared. Concrete had been poured, and the lower parts of the walls were beginning to appear, allowing the layout of the rooms to be envisaged. Like the bones of a developing skeleton, of a creature still in formation, the structure of the house was taking shape. Soon the walls would reach the height where the window spaces could be seen, and not long after that, the first beams of the roof would begin to reach out to one another. After
that, it would simply be a matter of finishing, as the tilers and the plasterers, the electricians and the plumbers set about their respective tasks. Mr. Putumelo had promised to finish the whole job in two months, and it looked to Phuti as if he would easily meet that target.

Mr. Putumelo had gone out of his way to discourage visits to the site during construction. “It is best if the client doesn’t go tramping about the place,” he said. “Building sites are dangerous places, Rra. We had somebody, one of our clients, who put his hand into a cement mixer once—while it was turning.” He shook his head sadly; whether over the consequences, or whether over the whole issue of human foolishness, it was not apparent.

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.