“People steal,” said Mma Makutsi. “No matter how kind you are to them, there are some people who will steal. Even from their own family, in their own house. That happens, you know.”
Teenie fixed her pleading eyes on Mma Makutsi. It occurred to Mma Makutsi that the woman in front of her wanted her to say that people did not steal, that the world was not a place where this sort of thing happened. She could not give her that reassurance, because, well, because it would be absurd. One could not say the world was other than it was.
“I’m sorry about that,” Mma Makutsi went on. “It obviously makes you unhappy, Mma.”
Teenie was quick to agree. “It’s like being hurt somewhere here,” she said, moving her hand to her chest and placing it above the sternum. “It’s a horrible feeling. This thief is not a person who comes at night and takes from you—it’s somebody you see every day, who smiles at you, who asks how you have slept; all of that. It is one of your brothers or sisters.”
Mma Makutsi could see that. She had been stolen from when she was at the Botswana Secretarial College. Somebody in the class had taken her purse, which contained all her money for that week, which was not very much anyway, but which was needed, every thebe of it. Once that was gone, there was no money for food, and she would have to depend on the help of others. Did the person who took the purse know that? Would that person care if he or she knew that the loss of the money would mean hunger?
“It always hurts,” she said. There had been two days of hunger because she had been too proud to ask, and then a friend, who had heard what had happened, had shared her food with her.
Mma Makutsi folded her hands; they would have to progress from these observations on the human condition to the business in hand. “You would like me to find out who is doing this?” She paused and stared at Teenie with a serious look; it would be best for her to know that these things were far from easy. “When something is being stolen by somebody on the inside,” she said, “it is not always easy. In fact, it can be very hard to discover who is doing it. We have to look at who’s spending what, at who’s living beyond their means. That’s one way. But it can be hard…”
Teenie interrupted her. The pleading look now became something more confident. “No, Mma,” she said. “It will not be hard. It will not be hard because I can tell you who is doing it. I know exactly who it is.”
Mma Makutsi could not conceal her surprise. “Oh yes?”
“Yes. I can point to the person who’s stealing. I know exactly who it is.”
Well, thought Mma Makutsi, if she knows who is responsible, then what is there for me to do? “So, Mma,” she said. “What do you want me to do? It seems that you have already been a detective.”
Teenie took this in her stride. “I cannot prove anything,” she said. “I know who it is, but I have no proof. That is what I want you to find for me. Proof. Then I can get rid of that person. The employment laws say: proof first, then dismissal.”
Mma Makutsi smiled. Clovis Andersen in The Principles of Private Detection had something to say about this, she recalled—as had Mma Ramotswe. You do not know anything until you know why you know it, he had written. And Mma Ramotswe, who had read the passage out to Mma Makutsi with an admonitory wagging of her finger, had qualified this by saying that although this was generally true, sometimes she knew that she knew something because of a special feeling that she had. But what Clovis Andersen said was nonetheless correct, she felt.
“You will have to tell me why you think you know who it is,” Mma Makutsi said to Teenie. “Have you seen this person taking something?”
Teenie thought for a moment. “Not exactly.”
“Ah.”
There was a short period of silence. “Has anybody else seen this person taking something?” Mma Makutsi went on.
Teenie shook her head. “No. Not as far as I know.”
“So, may I ask you, Mma: How do you know who this person is?”
Teenie closed her eyes. “Because of the way he looks, Mma. This man who is taking things, he just looks dishonest. He is not a nice man. I can tell that, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi reached for a piece of paper and wrote down a few words. Teenie watched the pencil move across the paper, then she looked up expectantly at Mma Makutsi.
“I shall need to come and have a look round,” said Mma Makutsi. “You must not tell the staff that I am a detective. We shall have to think of some reason for me to be visiting the works.”
“You could be a tax inspector,” ventured Teenie.
Mma Makutsi laughed. “That is a very bad idea,” she said. “They will think that I am after them. No, you can say that I am a client who is interested in giving the firm a big job but who wants to have a good look at how things are run. That will be a good story.”
Teenie agreed with this. And would Mma Makutsi be available that afternoon? Everybody, including the man under suspicion, would be there and she could meet them all.
“How will I know which is the one you suspect?” asked Mma Makutsi.
“You’ll know,” said Teenie. “The moment you see him. You’ll know.”
She looked at Mma Makutsi. Still pleading.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DR CRONJE
WHILE MMA MAKUTSI dealt with her diminutive client, Mma Ramotswe made the brief drive out to Mochudi; forty minutes if one rushed, an hour if one meandered. And she did meander, slowing down to look at some cattle who had strayed onto the verge of the road. She was her father’s daughter after all, and Obed Ramotswe had never been able to pass by cattle without casting his expert eye over them. She had inherited some of that ability, a gift really, even if her eye would never be as good as his had been. He had cattle lineages embedded in his memory, like a biblical narrative setting out who begat whom; he knew every beast and their qualities. And she had always dreamed that when he died, at the very moment at which that bit of the old Botswana went, the cattle had somehow known. She understood that this was impossible, that it was sentimental, but the thought had given her comfort. When we die there are many farewells, spoken and unspoken—and the imagined farewell of the cattle was one of these.
The cattle by the roadside were not in particularly good condition, Mma Ramotswe thought. There was little grazing for them at this time of the year, with the rains a few months away and such grass as there was dry and brittle. The cattle would find something, of course, leaves, bits and pieces of vegetation that would provide some sustenance; but these beasts looked defeated and listless. They would not have a good owner, Mma Ramotswe concluded as she continued on her journey. To start with, they should not be out on the verge like that. Not only was that a risk to the cattle themselves, but it was a terrible danger to anybody driving on the road at night. Some cattle were the colour of night and seemed to merge perfectly into the darkness; a driver coming round a corner or surmounting a hump in the road might suddenly find himself face-to-face with one of these cattle and be unable to stop in time. If that happened, then those in the car could be impaled on the horns of the cow as it was hurled through the windscreen—that had happened, and often. Mma Ramotswe shuddered, and concentrated on the winding strip of tar ahead. Cattle, goats, children, other drivers—there were so many perils on the road.
By the time she arrived in Mochudi, her dawdling on the road had made her late. She looked at her watch. It was twelve o’clock and she had arranged to meet the doctor at a restaurant on the edge of the town fifteen minutes earlier; he had to have an early lunch, he explained, as he would be on duty at the hospital at two. She wondered if he would wait; she had telephoned him out of the blue and asked to see him—there were many who would decline an invitation of that sort, but he had agreed without any probing into what her business with him might be. All she had said was that she was a friend of Tati Monyena; that, it seemed, was enough.