Mma Ramotswe felt helpless in the face of medical uncertainty. It was not for her to make a pronouncement about why somebody died, and if that was the case, as it undoubtedly was, then she felt that all that she could do here was to exclude, if possible, some non-medical factor, something unusual that had resulted in three people all becoming late at the same time of the week and in the same bed. It was for this reason that she decided that the only thing to do—indeed the final thing that she intended to do in this particular investigation—would be to go to the hospital on a Friday at ten o’clock, which was one hour before the incidents had taken place, and to find out if there was anything to be noticed. One would have thought that the hospital authorities, and in particular Tati Monyena, would have thought of doing something like this, but then it had often struck Mma Ramotswe that people who were in the middle of things just did not pick up what might be glaringly obvious to those outside. She often saw things which other people missed—a fact which rather bemused her; that is why I have found my calling, she said to herself; I am called to help other people because I am lucky enough to be able to notice things. Of course, she knew where that particular ability came from—its roots were back in those early years under the tutelage of her cousin, who trained her to keep her eyes open, to notice all the little things that were happening when one did something as simple as go for a walk in the bush. Here, along the path, would be the tracks of the animals that had passed that way; there were the tiny prints of a duiker, the skittish miniature buck with its delicate miniature hooves; there were the signs of the labours of the dung beetle, pushing its trophy, so much bigger than itself, leaving those marks in the sand. And there, look, somebody had come this way while he was eating and had thrown the maize cob down on the ground, not all that long ago because the ants had not yet come to take possession of it. The cousin had an eye for these things, and the habit had been engrained in Mma Ramotswe’s mind. At the age of ten, she had known by heart the number plate of virtually every car in Mochudi and had been able to say who had driven in the direction of Gaborone on any morning. “You have eyes like mine,” said the cousin. “And that is a good thing.”
Tati Monyena had responded enthusiastically to Mma Ramotswe’s suggestion that she should visit the ward that Friday. “Of course,” he said. “Of course. That is a very good idea, Mma. I shall give you a white coat if I can find one which is…” He had stopped himself, but Mma Ramotswe knew what he had been going to say, but had not, was if I can find one big enough. She did not mind. It was a good thing, in her view, to be of her particular construction, even if the manufacturers of white hospital coats failed to make adequate provision for the needs of those of traditional build.
“That will be fine,” she responded quickly. “I will not get in the way. I will just watch.”
“I shall tell the staff,” he said. “You have my full authority. Full authority.”
He was there to greet her when she arrived. He had been watching from his window, she thought, which suggested to her a certain anxiety on his part. That was interesting, but not really significant. This whole issue was not one which a hospital administrator would like; it had required an unsettling enquiry, it made people uneasy; there were far more important things to do. And of course there was probably a personal factor, as there so often was. Mma Ramotswe had asked about and had discovered that the next promotion for Tati Monyena would be to the post of Chief Administrator, a post which was already occupied by somebody else. But the woman who was in that post was also ambitious and there was a job in the Ministry of Health in Gaborone itself for which people thought she was the obvious candidate. That job was in the hands of a long-serving incumbent who was only eighteen months away from retirement and a return to a comfortable brick house he had built for himself in Otse. The last thing that Tati Monyena would want would be all these desirable changes to be disturbed by an administrative hiccup, a scandal of some sort. So of course the poor man would be looking out of his window and waiting for the arrival of the woman who was to put this whole awkward matter to bed, whose word would be final. Nothing untoward, she would say in her report. The end.
He greeted Mma Ramotswe outside and led her to his office. She saw a white coat on the chair. “For me?”
“Yes, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “It might be…it might be a slightly tight fit, I’m afraid. But it will mean that you will be unobtrusive. It’s amazing how easy it is to wander about a hospital with a white coat on. Nobody will ask you what you’re doing. You can do what you like.”
He said this with a smile as he handed the coat to her. As she slipped it on, though, his words lingered. Nobody will ask you what you’re doing. You can do what you like. If, for any reason, there was a mischief-maker in the hospital, then the way would be wide open for such a person to do what he liked. The thought had a strangely chilling effect. It would take a particular sort of evil, she imagined, to prey on patients in a hospital; but such things happened—the unimaginable did occur. Fortunately she had never encountered it, but perhaps that innocence of experience would inevitably be shattered if one was a detective, which, after all, she claimed to be. But I’m not that sort of detective, she told herself; not that sort…
In her white coat, tight at the arms, she remembered how on another occasion, at the very beginning of her career, she had impersonated a nurse to deal with the bogus father of Happy Bapetsi. That had worked, and the greedy imposter, who had claimed to be Happy’s father, had been sent to Lobatse whence he had come, Mma Ramotswe’s denunciations ringing in his ears. That had been a simple investigation, though, requiring no more than the wisdom of Solomon, and she had always had a clear idea of what she had to say, the lines she had to deliver. Her current circumstances were of course very different. She had no idea what she was going to say or do, or indeed of what she was looking for. She was searching for something unusual, something which had occurred at the same time on three Fridays, but she could not imagine what this might be. When she had asked the staff in the ward if anything special happened at that time of the morning, and on Fridays in particular, they had looked blank. “We have our tea round about then,” one said. She had seized at this. Would nobody be looking after the patients while the nursing staff gossiped over a cup of tea? Her question had been anticipated. “We take turns to have tea,” somebody else had quickly assured her. “Always. Always. This means that there is always somebody on duty. Always. That is the rule.”