“She is stopping me from seeing Phuti.”
“Then phone him. He has a mobile phone, doesn’t he?”
Mma Makutsi explained that she had tried to do so, but that she had not got through. “I think that the battery is flat,” she said. “He was always forgetting to charge it, and I do not think he has been able to do that since he was in hospital.” She thought of other possibilities. “Maybe he has lost the phone, or it was stolen in hospital. There are always thieves in those places.”
Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. What Mma Makutsi said about thieves in hospitals was quite true. Recently she had heard of a thief who had become ill and had to spend a couple of weeks in hospital. He not only stole food and money from other patients in his ward, but he took the soap from the bathrooms and several bottles of aspirin from the nurses’ cupboard. Finally he lifted a stethoscope from the pocket of the doctor attending him and was caught trying to sell it to another doctor.
“Whatever has happened,” said Mma Ramotswe, “you know that sooner or later Phuti will be in touch. He will telephone. He will send a message. He’s not going to ignore you, is he?”
Mma Makutsi knew that this was probably true, but she was worried that the aunt would try to prevent him from getting in touch. She had shown her cards, and they did not favour Mma Makutsi.
“It’s very unfair, Mma. It really is. That woman has kidnapped him-that’s what she’s done.”
Mma Ramotswe took Mma Makutsi’s arm and patted it reassuringly. “I don’t think it’s kidnapping, Mma. He’s an adult, and he must have gone with her of his own free will. That is not kidnapping, Mma.” She searched her assistant’s face and found only anxiety.
“Listen, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “You need to take your mind off all this. We are going to go up to Maun, and, if you like, we can go up a day or two early. Then, when we come back to Gaborone, I’m sure that Phuti will be ready to see you. There will be a message, I’m sure there will.”
Mma Makutsi was not entirely persuaded, but she felt calmer now. Talking to Mma Ramotswe had that effect, she had noticed: everybody felt calmer when they had discussed things with her. It did not have to be anything important-although Mma Ramotswe was always willing to talk about weighty matters-you could talk to her about something as simple as the weather or the price of sausages, and you would come away reassured. Perhaps the weather was not going to be as dry and hot as everybody feared-perhaps there really would be good rains; perhaps sausages were not as expensive as they appeared to be, given that they contained all that meat, and there was no wastage with a sausage.
“A day or two early, Mma?” she asked. “When…”
“The day after tomorrow,” said Mma Ramotswe impulsively. She had a case to work on the next day, but after that she would be free. “We now have our boots, don’t we? Then we are ready. All you need to do, Mma, is to pack a small bag of clothes and we can go.”
Mma Makutsi closed her eyes. She felt a delicious anticipation. Maun, she thought. The day after tomorrow! And here, ladies and gentlemen, we have Mma Makutsi, Dip. Sec., Chief Detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, photographed recently while working on an important investigation in the Delta. Mma Makutsi is wearing a pair of special safari boots purchased from a high-class retailer in Gaborone. The traditionally built lady at the back of the photograph is Mma Makutsi’s assistant and secretary, Precious Ramotswe…
She opened her eyes. Mma Ramotswe was looking at her with curiosity. She could not have read my mind, Mma Makutsi thought, dispelling a pang of guilt over the fantasy. Of course not…
But her shoes had known what she was thinking. Fat chance, Boss, they suddenly said. In your dreams!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN. MR. JOE BOSILONG, LLB, ATTORNEY
THE CASE that Mma Ramotswe had to deal with before leaving for Maun was that of Mr. Kereleng. She had been putting it off because she was convinced that it was hopeless, but now that she had sorted out the Mateleke inquiry she felt that she had no excuse for ignoring this tricky Kereleng-Sephotho matter. And tackle it she did the following morning, when she went to see her old friend Joe Bosilong, an attorney who had acted for her in one or two disputes over unpaid bills. He had won these disputes not because of any great forensic skills on his part, but because Mma Ramotswe’s case was so strong. But she gave him the credit for this, calling him, to his evident amusement and pleasure, the finest attorney south of the Limpopo River.
“So it’s Mma Ramotswe,” he said heartily as she came into his waiting room in the modest office building near the Private Hospital. “Is this a business call or a social one? Both are equally welcome-from you.”
She greeted him warmly. “It is a call for advice. Not for me, you’ll understand, but for one of my clients.”
“Your friends are my friends,” said Mr. Bosilong. “Your clients are my clients. Or maybe not, but you know what I mean. Come in, Mma Ramotswe.”
He led her into the office beyond the waiting room. His desk, unusually for a lawyer, was devoid of papers. On the wall behind him, neatly shelved, was a set of the Botswana Law Reports and the Statutes of Botswana. He noticed her looking at them. “So many laws,” he said, shaking his head. “Our legislators sit there dreaming up so many laws. It’s difficult enough getting on top of them as a lawyer-imagine what it’s like for an ordinary person. How can an ordinary person know what the law is?”
“It is very hard,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m an ordinary person, and I can assure you, it’s very hard. Mind you, I think that most people know whether or not they’re doing wrong.”
“In some cases, perhaps. But there are lots of ways you can break the law without knowing that you’re doing so. And ignorance of the law is no excuse, as Professor Frimpong taught me at law school all those years ago.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “So I believe.” She knew that Mr. Bosilong liked to talk at great length about anything, and she would have to move the conversation on if she was to get the advice she wanted.
“Tell me, Rra,” she said. “If I buy a house and I put it in the name of another person, and I then change my mind, is there anything I can do?”
Mr. Bosilong frowned. “You’ve bought a house, have you, Mma Ramotswe? What about Zebra Drive?”
“Not me,” she said. “Remember, I told you that this question was for a client. I have a client, you see, who bought a house and put it in the name of-”
She was about to say “in the name of Violet Sephotho,” but the lawyer beat her to it. “Violet Sephotho.”
Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. Gaborone was a small town in many ways, and people talked. It was perhaps not all that surprising that he should have heard of this. “You have heard of this, Rra?”
Mr. Bosilong hesitated. “You put me in a very awkward position, Mma. I am not sure what to say. Indeed, I’m not sure if I should say anything at all.”
She looked at him quizzically. And then it dawned on her: he had acted for Violet Sephotho, or possibly for Mr. Kereleng. Again, this should not have surprised her. There were only so many lawyers in Gaborone, and only so many clients; the odds that he should have acted for either of them were small enough. Yet that gave rise to an immediate problem: as an attorney, he was bound by the rules of confidentiality, and he would therefore not be able to say anything about the matter.
“I do not want you to break a confidence, Rra,” she said. “I am a detective, and I understand professional confidentiality.”