that. It is the sort of car that is the problem. She has a Mercedes-Benz, you see.”
“A Mercedes-Benz!”
“And not just an ordinary one,” the security guard continued. “It is a new one—very smart. Everything included. Special tyres and so on. All made by Germans.”
“By Germans,” Mma Ramotswe muttered. She was thinking…Where did Nametso get a Mercedes-Benz?
“A wealthy daddy,” said the security guard. “She must have a wealthy daddy. That is how a young woman like her gets hold of a Mercedes-Benz.” He paused. “Would you like me to take a note inside for her?” he asked.
Mma Ramotswe hesitated. “That’s kind of you, Rra, but I think I need to go away and think about something.”
“About what, Mma?”
“About things I need to think about, Rra. There are so many of them, I find.”
“That’s very true,” he said. “Very true, Mma—make no mistake.”
“But thank you anyway, Captain.”
Captain! The word hung in the air like a shining, benevolent sun, imparting to those below a glow of warmth and pride. Captain! One word, one small word, could bring such pleasure, just as one word, one equally small word, might cause such distress. Envy, Mercedes-Benz—those words were, in the circumstances, thought Mma Ramotswe, deeply significant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE TRACK MARKED PRIVATE LIFE
WHILE MMA RAMOTSWE was engaged in conversation with her new friend, the informally promoted security consultant, Mma Makutsi was on her way to the home address of the teacher from whom Mr. Mogorosi, the husband until recently under suspicion, was receiving instruction in mathematics. This was a small house near the Mechanical Trades College, the sort of house which she might expect to be favoured by a government official on the cusp of promotion but unable yet to afford something in one of the more expensive suburbs. Such a person would be just outside the zone of comfort enjoyed by the next rung down on the social and economic ladder—a comfort that, paradoxically, came from not having to compete with those around you. Where everybody is poor, or on a tight budget, then there is little or no pressure to flaunt your possessions—everybody is in it together. Once you haul yourself up to the next level, though, life can become competitive. And one had to worry, too, about falling. The nearer the bottom, the less devastating is the prospect of a fall.
Mma Makutsi had driven to this house with Charlie, who had been briefed on the story that they would come up with if they found the teacher in.
“We are going to enquire about mathematics lessons,” said Mma Makutsi. “I shall be your auntie. I shall be enquiring about lessons for my nephew—you.”
Charlie giggled. “But I am not your nephew, Mma.”
“Of course you aren’t,” said Mma Makutsi. “This is to get information, Charlie.” She paused. “Haven’t you heard of cover stories?”
“Oh, I know all about those,” said Charlie. “You don’t have to tell me about all that, Mma.”
She glanced at him. Charlie had so much to learn, she thought; so much that it made it almost impossible to know where to start. That was the problem with ignorance: it tended to be so vast and so all-encompassing that tackling it became rather like struggling with a weed that had established itself in all parts of the garden. If you plucked the weed in one corner, then its offshoots might simply proliferate elsewhere behind your back.
“So,” said Mma Makutsi, “you let me do the talking, Charlie. Understand? I’ll do the talking.”
Charlie nodded. “You’re the boss, Mma.”
She liked that. Young men like that could be difficult when it came to accepting female direction. They still thought—or some of them did—that being men gave them the right to give orders to women, even when the women were older and more qualified than they. They had to be disabused of that belief, even if some pockets of society continued to believe in this unwarranted male assumption.
They parked the car directly outside the gate. The house had an unusually large garden for a place of its size—it was, thought Mma Makutsi, a double plot. With the city continuing to grow, that would mean it was now worth a fair amount—one could sell it and move out to a much bigger place on the outskirts of the city, or in a neighbouring village, such as Tlokweng. That’s what she would do, thought Mma Makutsi, if she lived in a place like that.
She opened the gate. “There’s a car, Charlie,” she said.
She pointed to the side of the house. Just