Injustice heaped upon injustice—in Charlie’s view at least—and now just this silence.
Then Mma Ramotswe nodded and said, “Exactly, Charlie.”
Mma Makutsi pursed her lips. Then she said, “How right you are.” But then added, “Well done, Charlie. Sometimes you can get things right—if you’re pointed in the right direction.”
Mma Ramotswe thought about this. The thought of diamond theft had occurred to her, but she wondered whether it was feasible or likely. The security surrounding the handling of diamonds was legendary for its strictness. It could safely be assumed that nobody would get away with any attempt to circumvent it. And if that was the case, then Nametso must have bought the Mercedes-Benz with the proceeds of some other activity.
She raised this possibility with Mma Makutsi and Charlie. They listened attentively.
“We need to follow her,” said Charlie when Mma Ramotswe had finished. “Follow somebody, and you find out the truth.”
Even Mma Makutsi was impressed with this observation. “That is very good, Charlie,” she said. “You are becoming rather a good assistant detective. Follow somebody down the track and at the end of the track you will find the truth.”
“What track?” asked Charlie.
“Mma Makutsi is thinking of no particular track,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Actually, I am thinking of the track marked private life,” said Mma Makutsi, examining her fingernails. “That is the track to follow, I think.”
CHAPTER NINE
GOOD DRINKS, PLENTY FOOD
CHARLIE MET QUEENIE-QUEENIE that night at The Gaborone Dance Studio, a bar that prided itself on its dance floor. The best music south of the Zambezi, the club claimed on the lurid hoarding above its entrance. Below that boast, in somewhat less florid lettering, was the more practical advertisement: Good drinks, plenty food. No geographical distinction was asserted for these; certainly not that they were better than anything else obtainable south of any river. The place was popular, though, particularly among younger, more affluent government officials—it was not far from the headquarters of several ministries—and among aspiring socialites.
Charlie was wary of meeting there, on the grounds of expense, but had been assured by Queenie-Queenie that since the purpose of their tryst was a meeting with her brother, Hector, who had suggested it, he would pay for the drinks. “He has an account there,” she said. “He always goes there to speak to his business associates.”
Charlie had enquired as to what Hector’s business was, and who the associates were. Queenie-Queenie had not answered directly, but had waved a hand airily. “He does business deals,” she said. “With this person, then with that person. Then with somebody down in Mozambique, even. He sometimes goes there, Maputo. He says they have great seafood there. Big prawns. You like prawns, Charlie?”
Charlie had never tasted seafood of any description. He shook his head. “I do not eat prawns,” he said.
“When we’re married, Charlie, I’ll cook you prawns. They have frozen prawns in the supermarket—you don’t have to go to Mozambique, although we could go if we liked.”
Charlie had never been anywhere, not even to Johannesburg. Would it ever be possible to go to Mozambique—with somebody like Queenie-Queenie? Dancing? Eating prawns? Staying in a hotel?
“And peri-peri chicken,” Queenie-Queenie went on. “You must like peri-peri chicken, Charlie? Everybody likes peri-peri chicken—even vegetarians. They have a vegetarian version of it.”
Yes, he liked peri-peri chicken.
“That comes from those Portuguese,” said Queenie-Queenie. “When they were in Mozambique, they liked to eat peri-peri chicken. They said to people: ‘You will eat peri-peri chicken.’ And you did not argue with the Portuguese.”
“No,” said Charlie. “They were not very nice.”
“There were some nice Portuguese,” said Queenie-Queenie. “But they have all gone home now. That is African history, you see. People come and take what they want, and then they go home.”
Charlie shook his head. “That was very bad. But it is finished now.”
“I don’t know,” said Queenie-Queenie. “There are others. They are always looking for their chance.”
Now Charlie sat in a booth at The Gaborone Dance Studio, nursing his drink—a small soft drink, mostly ice, served to him by a disdainful waitress who had looked at his trousers with what seemed close to contempt. And there was indeed an old oil stain that he had tried, and failed, to remove; how that had happened, he had no idea, as his work trousers were kept rigorously separate from his social trousers, but there it was—Queenie-Queenie had never said anything about his clothes, and he thought she probably did not notice. Women, thought Charlie, are keen for you to notice what they are wearing but are often not particularly interested in what you are wearing, which was just as well, he thought, because his clothes had a thin, scrappy look to them, like the skin of an undernourished cow, perhaps, or the cheap upholstery of an old car seat. It will be different, he told himself; it will be different in the future when I am somebody to reckon with: a leading private investigator, with offices in Gaborone and Lobatse, and possibly Francistown; with a secretary—no, two secretaries—and a switchboard to put calls in from one line to the other, and a room of his own, not one shared with two younger cousins, one of whom currently had a dry, rasping cough. You could not be angry with a cough, nor with the indignities visited on the other poor little boy, but you could yearn for freedom from such things, for escape from need, from the limitations of a world made small by poverty.
And he was looking down at his trousers when Queenie-Queenie came in with Hector, her brother, whose hobby was body-building and whose clothes clung to his body, tight and shining, safe from the condescension of any waitress.
Queenie-Queenie did not kiss him, but reached out briefly and touched his hand before she sat down beside him, all the while watching her brother, Charlie noticed, as if she were anxious that he should approve of her demeanour.
“Hector drove me here,” she said. “He has been very busy, but he is happy that he can be here.”
Hector had greeted Charlie formally. Now, still standing, he said, “Come with me to the bar, Charlie. I need a drink.”
“The waitress will come,” said Charlie. “They have a waitress here.”
“That woman is no good,” said Hector. “She knows nothing.”
Queenie-Queenie nudged Charlie. “You should go with Hector,” she whispered. “Then come back and we can talk.”
Charlie rose obediently, and walked across the dance floor to the bar with the other young man. There was no band yet—just a tired recording from somewhere behind the bar, marred by a faulty lead to the speaker.