CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROUTINE ARM-WORK (FOR LEGS)
the next day, Mma Ramotswe outlined to Mma Makutsi and Charlie what she had in mind to do about Nametso. Charlie, she suggested, should take up position in the van, discreetly parked, ready to follow Nametso when she left work that evening.
“People leave that sort of office at five on the dot,” she said. “They are always ready to pack up and go the moment the clock says the working day is over.”
“Unlike us,” said Mma Makutsi. “We self-employed people are always working odd hours. If the work is there, we do it.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed, refraining from pointing out that both Mma Makutsi and Charlie had always had a very keen sense of when it was five o’clock.
“I shall come too,” offered Mma Makutsi. “I think this is a sensitive matter, Mma, and…” She looked at Charlie. “I think there is a need for a senior operative.”
Charlie looked to Mma Ramotswe for support. “That’s very kind, Mma Makutsi,” he said. “But I am sure I shall manage.”
“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “You do not need to thank me, Charlie. It is for the best.”
Mma Ramotswe made her decision. There was something about this case—if one could call it a case—that made her uncomfortable, and she wanted to watch over it carefully. Diamonds were involved, and you did not tread lightly with diamonds—not in a country that prided itself on the careful regulation of the industry. Diamonds were sensitive, and Charlie and Mma Makutsi might easily wander into something that would have to be handed over to the authorities. “I shall come too,” Mma Ramotswe announced. “That way there will be many eyes watching her.”
“Six,” said Charlie. “Six eyes, Mma.”
“That’s correct, Charlie,” she said. “Six eyes. Three pairs.”
At four-fifteen, in time to beat the traffic that built up after five, the three of them left the agency in the tiny white van, with Charlie at the wheel, Mma Makutsi in the middle of the ancient bench seat that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had installed in the cab, and, up against the passenger door, its uncomfortable broken handle pressing into her side, Mma Ramotswe. They were so squashed that in unspoken agreement their breathing fell into a sequence, with Charlie breathing in first, while Mma Makutsi breathed out, and this gave room for Mma Ramotswe to fall into synchronicity with Charlie. In this way they drove slowly along the street that approached the diamond-sorting office and found, more or less exactly where they had expected it, a gleaming silver Mercedes-Benz parked in between a pick-up truck and a modest, somewhat battered car bearing a large Be Careful sticker.
“There,” said Mma Ramotswe, wanting to point, but unable to disentangle her elbow from Mma Makutsi’s rib cage.
“That’s the car,” said Charlie, swerving in his excitement. “That’ll be her car, Mma.”
“Don’t park too close, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi. “You don’t want her to see us.”
Mma Ramotswe thought: And how could they possibly avoid being seen? Two women and a young man shoehorned into a cab meant for two, if not one, in a van listing markedly to the left and emitting, she now noticed, a small cloud of steam from its front. That was worrying, she thought, and made a mental note to draw Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s attention to it, although she was loath to do so. He was looking for an excuse, she suspected, once again to urge her to retire the van and replace it with something more modern. She would have to resist that, because one did not lightly retire an old friend, which is what it would seem like to her.
As luck would have it, Charlie found a spot not far away that was in the process of being vacated by another driver, and the van fitted neatly into that. This afforded them a view of the Mercedes-Benz, but from such a distance that would allow them to slip out without it being too obvious, they hoped, that they were following the driver. Once the van was parked, Mma Ramotswe opened her door, not completely, but sufficiently to allow for a release of the pressure.
Charlie was gazing across the street, in the direction of the parked silver car. “Why does that sticker say Be Careful?” he asked. “You see it? It says Be Careful. That’s all: Be Careful.”
“That is good advice,” said Mma Makutsi. “You have to be careful.”
“About what?” asked Charlie.
Mma Makutsi was patient. “About everything, Charlie. You have to watch out these days.” She half turned to Mma Ramotswe. It was still a bit difficult to move, even with the passenger door partly open. “That’s good advice, don’t you think, Mma? The sort of advice Charlie should listen to, wouldn’t you say?”
“I am always careful,” protested Charlie. “Always. Crossing the road. Coming to work. Going home. Careful, careful, careful.”
“I’m sure you are, Charlie,” Mma Ramotswe said. She stopped. They had parked facing a dry-cleaning depot. This had a door in the front and a large shop window through which they could see the counter and several large machines beyond it. A young woman had emerged from this door, holding a large folded plastic bag in which a dress was stored. As she came out into the light, the young woman blinked, shading her eyes from the low-angled rays of the sun. At that moment, her gaze met Mma Ramotswe’s, and Mma Ramotswe knew that this was Nametso. She had never met her, and had no idea of her appearance, but she knew, almost instinctively, that this was the woman she was there to observe.
Nametso looked puzzled, evidently wondering about the odd combination in the van: the two women, one of them traditionally built, the other with large round spectacles—far too big for her face—and hints of a troublesome skin; and the young man with the rather loud shirt, staring at her as if he recognised her.
Mma Ramotswe looked away, whispering to the others, “Don’t stare, don’t stare. Just look somewhere else.”
“She was staring at me, Mma,” Charlie whispered. “She is the one who was staring.”
“Now she has seen us,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “How can we follow somebody who has seen us? We are finished, Mma Ramotswe.”
But Mma Ramotswe was not one to give up so readily. She pointed out that there was no reason to suspect them of taking an undue interest in her. From her point of view, she said, they were just a van full of people who had probably come into town from somewhere out in the bush and were gaping at everything they saw. They could be people who had perhaps never seen a dry-cleaner’s place before and were marvelling at the machinery. Sometimes you saw that in town: people, particularly elderly people from outlying areas, would come into the city and be astonished by what they saw. You noticed them standing on street corners simply staring and wondering how all these people could be living in one place and going about their business like this. And where were the cattle? What was there for the cattle to eat here where the only grass seemed to be that grown in front of houses—which would have been heaven for cattle, if only they were allowed to eat it.
Nametso crossed the road and, as they expected, unlocked the silver Mercedes-Benz.
“You see,” said Charlie. “I told you.” He craned his neck. “I know that model. It is very expensive. One hundred and sixty-three horsepower. That’s max. Automatic gearbox, one, two, three—”
“Yes, yes, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi. “But just concentrate. We have to get ready to follow.”
Mma Ramotswe squeezed herself back into her share of the seat and, breathing in, just managed to get the door shut. On the other side of the road, the reversing lights of the silver Mercedes-Benz flicked on.
“See those lights,” said Charlie. “They come on automatically, of course. And there’s an extra one you can switch on if you really need to see what’s behind you in the dark. There’s a camera in the car too, you know, and—”
Mma Makutsi cut him short once more. “We do not need to hear all this, Charlie.”
The Mercedes-Benz reversed out of its parking place. For a few moments it seemed as if the driver was hesitating, uncertain as to which way to go. Then the decision was made, and the car sped off down the road, heading away from the centre of town.
“Quick,” urged Mma Makutsi. “We must not lose her, Charlie.”
Charlie struggled with the gears, pushing Mma Makutsi’s legs away from the lever. “It is very hard, Mma, if you are sitting like that.”
Somehow Charlie managed to get the van under way. The other car, though, had almost disappeared, and Charlie had to coax the van’s badly struggling engine to the limits of its capacity to keep up.
“Do you think she’s noticed us?” asked Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe looked at the back of the Mercedes-Benz. “If she’s looked in the mirror, perhaps. But people often don’t.”
By the traffic circle near the university gate, Nametso slowed down. It seemed for a few moments as if she was about to turn off to the left, but she did not, and continued to the far end of the road that skirted the university grounds. There were several large blocks of flats there, and it was through the gates of one of these buildings that the Mercedes now swung, braked sharply, and then came to a halt. Charlie slowed the van down to a snail’s pace, keeping to the road outside. From there, they watched as Nametso got out of her car, retrieved her dry-cleaning, and walked the short distance into one of the flats.
“Now?” asked Charlie.
Mma Ramotswe told Charlie to park further down the road.
“This is not where she lives,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Her mother told me she lived with some other people over near the railway station.”
“So what is she doing here?” asked Charlie.
Mma Makutsi tapped the window. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Some people have places where they live part of the time. They live there, but they don’t live there all the time.”
Mma Ramotswe waited.
“So I think this woman lives here,” Mma Makutsi continued. “She is leading a double life. She doesn’t want anybody to know about her car. She doesn’t want anybody to know about this flat.”
Charlie whistled. “She is a big thief, then. She is definitely stealing diamonds. You can only have two lives if you’re stealing something.”
“Possibly,” said Mma Ramotswe. She paused. “Of course, people who are leading two lives are usually very secretive. One of those lives will be led in the shadows, you know.”
“So how are we going to find out?” asked Charlie.
Mma Ramotswe smiled. There were times when it was appropriate to quote Clovis Andersen, but there were also times when it seemed right to quote herself. Not that she would do that, of course, but she had always maintained that the best way of finding out about something was simply to ask somebody. There was always somebody who would have the information you needed, and, in just about every case, such a person would be happy to give it to you. It was just a question of finding out whom one should ask and then asking. It was no more complicated than that.
She smiled at Charlie. “We ask.”
“Who do we ask, Mma?”
The answer to that was simple. “Who are the people who see everything that goes on, Charlie? Neighbours. They are the ones. Neighbours know everything, Charlie. And they are also usually the ones who are keenest to talk.”
Mma Makutsi gestured towards the block of flats. “Over there, Mma?”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There are plenty of neighbours over there, and I think that they will be keen to talk to us.” She paused. Windows were open. A smell of distant cooking drifted over from the nearest of the flats. People were home, and of course they would talk—especially about a young woman who appeared to own a silver Mercedes-Benz and who had something to do with diamonds.
Mma Ramotswe opened her door and began to manoeuvre herself out of the van. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was right about at least one thing: a more modern van would not only be more reliable, but would have more room. “People have been becoming more traditionally built over recent years,” he had pointed out. “And the people who make cars know that. They have made the seats much bigger, Mma. You would find that out if you let me buy you a new van.”
He was right, but there was more to life than just having more room to spread out in. Having more room did not in itself make you happier; having something you loved did that, and she still loved her van, just as one might love a comfortable pair of shoes, or a scarf somebody gave you—somebody you had in turn loved very much—or a teacup from which you had drunk your tea for years and years. Such love did not go away when something new and shiny came along.
“We shall all go,” she said. “I’ll go and speak to the people in the flat on the left. Mma Makutsi, you take the neighbours in the flat upstairs, and Charlie…”
“But what do I say?” asked Charlie. “I can’t just go up to their door and say, ‘Tell me all about your neighbour, please.’ They could say, ‘What business is it of yours?’ and tell me to go away.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “You have a story, Charlie. You say you’re looking for somebody and ask them if that person lives next door.”
“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “Then they’ll say, ‘Oh no, that person doesn’t live there. That is a young woman called Nametso.’ ”
“And then?” asked Charlie.
Mma Makutsi took off her spectacles and gave them a cursory wipe. “Then you say, ‘Oh, I think I know her. Is she the one from Molepolole?’ ”
Mma Ramotswe joined in. “Mma Makutsi is right,” she reassured Charlie. “It is what Clovis Andersen calls routine arm-work.”
Mma Makutsi corrected her: “Leg-work, Mma. He calls it leg-work.”
“It is all the same,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Arm-work, leg-work—it is all the same thing. It is what we do, Charlie, and I think you are getting better and better at it.”
He beamed with pleasure. It was so easy to make Charlie happy, thought Mma Ramotswe. Indeed, it was so easy to make anybody happy. All that was required was a kind word or two—a kind word that cost nothing, and yet could have such a profound effect.
“Yes,” she said. “You are doing very well, Charlie.”
His smile broadened. “You are like my mother, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. And then, becoming aware of Mma Makutsi’s gaze upon him, he added, “And you, Mma Makutsi, you are like my auntie.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” said Mma Makutsi—a bit primly, thought Mma Ramotswe, but then he had described her as his aunt, and aunts, of all people, could be allowed to be prim.
But Mma Ramotswe thought: this young man is not yet there. She was not quite sure where there was, but it was the place that he wanted to get to, a place where he would not be poor, where he would be able to feel proud of himself, a place where he would be something. He might get there, but it would be something of a miracle if he did, given the odds stacked against him.