Mr Polopetsi approached the box cautiously. “I will open the lid just a little bit,” he said. “I do not want the bird to escape.”
Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi stood immediately behind him as he gently tugged at one of the flaps of the box. “Look inside,” he whispered. “There he is. He is resting.”
Mma Ramotswe peered into the box. There at the bottom lay the great shape of the ground hornbill, its unwieldy bill lying across its chest, half open. She stared for a moment, and then she stood up.
“The bird is dead, Rra,” she said. “It is not resting. It is late.”
SHE WAS GENTLE with Mr Polopetsi, who was too upset to help them bury the bird in the bush behind Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. She did not point out to him the foolishness of leaving the bird for several hours out in the hot sun, in a box in which the temperature must have climbed too high for the bird to survive. She did not say that, and a warning glance to Mma Makutsi prevented her from pointing it out either. Instead she said that anybody could make a mistake and that she knew that he was trying to be helpful. And then, as politely as she could, she told him that he should in future get her agreement to any proposed solutions he might have to problems. “It’s better that way,” she said quietly, touching him gently on the shoulder in an act of reassurance and forgiveness.
She and Mma Makutsi carried the lifeless form of the bird out into the bush. They found a place, a good place, under a small acacia tree, where the earth looked soft enough to dig a hole. And Mma Ramotswe dug a hole, a grave for a bird, using an adze borrowed from a man who had a plot of land next to the garage. She swung the adze high and brought it down into the ground in much the same way as women before her, many generations of women of her family and her tribe, had done in years gone past as they readied the soil of Botswana, the good soil of their country, for the crops. And Mma Makutsi scraped the soil away and prepared the bird for its grave, lowering it in gently, as one may lay a friend to rest.
Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Makutsi. She wanted to say something, but somehow she could not bring herself to say it. This bird is one of our brothers and sisters. We are returning it to the ground from which it came, the ground from which we came too. And now we put the soil upon it … And they did that, breaking the soil gently upon the bird, on the great beak, on the large, defeated body, so unfortunate in its short life and its ending, until it was covered entirely.
Mma Ramotswe nodded to Mma Makutsi, and together they walked back to the garage, barefoot, in simplicity, as their mothers and grandmothers had walked before them across the land that meant so much to them, and which was the resting place of us all—of people, of animals, of birds.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DR MOFFAT MAKES A DIAGNOSIS
MR POLOPETSI, mortified by what he had done, was now anxious to do anything to make up for the awful outcome of his venture. The next morning he put his head round the door of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency several times, asking if there was anything Mma Ramotswe wanted him to do. She replied politely that there was nothing very much that needed doing, but that she would call on him if something arose.
“Poor man,” said Mma Makutsi. “He is feeling very bad, don’t you think, Mma?”
“Yes, he is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It cannot be easy for him.”
“You were very kind to him, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “You didn’t shout. You didn’t show that you were angry.”
“What’s the point of being angry?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “When we are cross with somebody, what good does that do? Especially if they did not mean to cause harm. Mr Polopetsi was sorry about it—that’s the important thing.”
She thought for a moment. It was clear that Mr Polopetsi wanted some sign from her, some sign that she still trusted him in the performance of occasional tasks. He dearly wanted to do more detective work—he had made that much very plain—and he was no doubt concerned that this debacle would put an end to that. She would find something. She would give him a sign that she still respected his abilities.
Mma Ramotswe thought about her list of tasks. The Mokolodi matter had been resolved—in a very unfortunate way, of course, but still resolved. That left the matter of the doctor and the matter of Mma Tsau’s being blackmailed. She already had an idea of what to do about the doctor, and she would attend to that soon, but the blackmail affair still had to be dealt with. Could she use Mr Polopetsi for that? She decided that she could.
Mma Makutsi summoned Mr Polopetsi into the office, and he sat down in the client’s chair, wringing his hands anxiously.
“You know, Mr Polopetsi,” began Mma Ramotswe. “You know that I have always respected your ability as a detective. And I still do. I want you to know that.”
Mr Polopetsi beamed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mma. You are very kind. You are my mother, Mma Ramotswe.”
Mma Ramotswe waved the compliment aside. I am nobody’s mother, she thought, except for my little child in heaven. I am the mother of that child.
“You were asking earlier on for something to do, Rra. Well, I have something for you to look into. There is a young woman called Poppy who came to see us. She works for a lady who had been stealing government food to feed to her husband. This lady, Mma Tsau, has received a blackmail threat. She thought it came from Poppy, because Poppy was the only one who knew.”
“And was she?” asked Mr Polopetsi.
“I don’t think so,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that she must have told at least one other person.”
“And if we can find out who that person is, then that will be the blackmailer?”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “There you are!” she said. “I knew that you were a good detective. That is exactly the conclusion one should draw.” She paused. “Go and speak to this Poppy and ask her this question. Ask her this: Did you write to anybody, anybody about your troubles? That is all you have to ask her. Use those exact words, and see what she says.”
She explained to Mr Polopetsi where Poppy worked. He could go there immediately, she said, and ask to see her. He could tell them that he had a message for her. People were always sending messages to one another, and she would come to receive it.
After Mr Polopetsi had left, Mma Ramotswe smiled at Mma Makutsi. “He is a good detective, that man,” she said. “He would be a very good assistant for you, Mma Makutsi.”
Mma Makutsi welcomed this. She relished the thought of having an assistant, or indeed anybody who was junior to her. She had done a course in personnel management at the Botswana Secretarial College and had secured a very good mark in it. She still had her notes somewhere and would be able to dig them out and read them through before she started to exercise actual authority over Mr Polopetsi.
“But now,” said Mma Ramotswe, glancing at her watch, “I have a medical appointment. I mustn’t miss it.”
“You aren’t ill, are you, Mma Ramotswe?” enquired Mma Makutsi. “This diet of yours …”
Mma Ramotswe cut her off. “My diet is going very well,” she said. “No, it is nothing to do with the diet. It’s just that I thought I should go and have my blood pressure checked.”
IT HAD BEEN EASY to find out which doctor Boitelo had been talking about. She had let slip, without thinking, that he was Ugandan, and that his clinic was close enough to where she lived for her to walk to work. She had Boitelo’s address and that meant a simple trawl of the list of medical practitioners in the telephone book. The Ugandan names were easily enough spotted—there were a number of them—and after that it was a simple matter to see that Dr Eustace Lubega ran a clinic just round the corner from the street in which Boitelo lived. After that, all that was required was a telephone call to the clinic to make an appointment.
It had been Boitelo who answered the telephone. Mma Ramotswe announced who she was, and there was a silence at the other end of the line.
“Why are you phoning this place?” said Boitelo, her voice lowered.
“I want to make an appointment—as a patient—with your go
od Dr Lubega,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And don’t worry. I shall pretend not to recognise you. I shall say nothing about you.”
This reassurance was followed by a brief silence. “Do you promise?” asked Boitelo.
“Of course I promise, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I will protect you. You don’t need to worry.”
“What do you want to see him about?” asked Boitelo.
“I want my blood pressure checked,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Now, parking the tiny white van in front of the sign that announced the clinic of Dr Eustace Lubega, MB, ChB (Makerere), she made her way through the front door and into the waiting room. The clinic had been a private house before—one of those old Botswana Housing Corporation houses with a small verandah, not unlike her own house in Zebra Drive—and the living room was now used as the reception area. The fireplace, in which many wood fires would have burned in the cold nights of winter, was still there, but filled now with an arrangement of dried flowers and seed pods. And on one wall a large noticeboard had been mounted, on which were pinned notices about immunisation and several large warnings about the care that people should take now in their personal lives. And then there was a picture of a mosquito and a warning to remain vigilant about stagnant water.
There was another patient waiting to see the doctor, a pregnant woman, who nodded politely to Mma Ramotswe as she came in. Boitelo gave no sign of recognising Mma Ramotswe and invited her to take a seat. The pregnant woman did not seem to need long with the doctor, and so now it was Mma Ramotswe’s turn to go in.
Dr Lubega looked up from his desk. Gesturing for Mma Ramotswe to sit down beside his desk, he held out a card in front of him.
“I don’t have any records for you,” he said.
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I have not seen a doctor for a long time, Dr Lubega. My records would be very old.”
The doctor shrugged. “Well, Mma Ramotswe, what can I do for you today?”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “My friends have been talking to me about my health,” she said. “You know how people are. They said that I should have my blood pressure taken. They say that because I am a bit traditionally built …”
Dr Lubega looked puzzled. “Traditionally built, Mma?”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am the shape that African ladies are traditionally meant to be.”
Dr Lubega started to smile, but his professional manner took over and he became grave. “They are right about blood pressure. Overweight people need to be a little careful of that. I will check that for you, Mma, and give you a general physical examination.”
Mma Ramotswe sat on the examination couch while Dr Lubega conducted a cursory examination. She glanced at him quickly as he listened to her heart; she saw the spotless white shirt with its starched collar, the tie with a university crest, the small line of hair beneath the side of his chin that his razor had missed.
“Your heart sounds strong enough,” he said. “You must be a big-hearted lady, Mma.”
She smiled weakly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Now, then,” he said. “Your blood pressure.”
He started to wrap the cuff of the sphygmomanometer around her upper arm, but stopped.
“This cuff is too small,” he muttered, unwrapping it. “I must get a traditionally built cuff.”
He turned away and opened a cabinet drawer from which he extracted a larger cuff. Connecting this to the instrument, he wound it round Mma Ramotswe’s arm and took the reading. She saw that he noted figures down on a card, but she did not see what he wrote.
Back at the side of the doctor’s desk, Mma Ramotswe listened to what he had to say.
“You seem in reasonable shape,” he said, “for a … for a traditionally built lady. But your blood pressure is a bit on the high side, I’m afraid. It’s one hundred and sixty over ninety. That’s marginally high, and I think that you will need to take some drugs to get it down a bit. I can recommend a very good drug. It is two drugs in one—what we call a beta-blocker and a diuretic. You should take these pills.”
“I will do that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I will do as you say, Doctor.”
“Good,” said Dr Lubega. “But there is one thing I should tell you, Mma. This very good drug is not cheap. It will cost you two hundred pula a month. I can sell it to you here, but that is what it will cost.”
Mma Ramotswe whistled. “Ow! That is a lot of money just for some little pills.” She paused. “But I really need it, do I?”
“You do,” said Dr Lubega.
“In that case I will take it. I do not have two hundred pula with me, but I do have fifty pula.”
Dr Lubega made a liberal gesture with his hands. “That will get you started. You can come back for some more, once you have the money.”
ARMED WITH HER SMALL BOTTLE of light blue pills, Mma Ramotswe went that evening to the house of her friend Howard Moffat. He and his wife were sitting in their living room when she called at their door. Dr Moffat’s bad-tempered brown dog, of whom Mma Ramotswe had a particular distrust, barked loudly but was silenced by his master and sent to the back of the house.
“I’m sorry about that dog,” said Dr Moffat. “He is not a very friendly dog. I don’t know where we went wrong.”
“Some dogs are just bad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not the fault of the owners. Just like some children are bad when it is not the fault of the parents.”
“Well, maybe my dog will change,” said Dr Moffat. “Maybe he will become kinder as he grows older.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I hope so, Doctor,” she said. “But I have not come here to be unkind about that dog of yours. I have come to ask you a quick favour.”
“I am always happy to do anything for you, Mma Ramotswe,” said Dr Moffat. “You know that.”
“Will you take my blood pressure, then?”
If Dr Moffat was surprised by the request, he did not show it. Ushering Mma Ramotswe into his study at the back of the house, he took a sphygmomanometer out of his desk drawer and began to wrap the cuff round Mma Ramotswe’s proffered arm.
“Have you been feeling unwell?” he asked quietly as he inflated the instrument.
“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that I needed to know.”
Dr Moffat looked at the mercury. “It’s a tiny bit higher than would be wise,” he said. “It’s one hundred and sixty over ninety. In a case like that we should probably do some other tests.”
Mma Ramotswe stared at him. “Are you sure about that reading?” she asked.
Dr Moffat told her that he was. “It’s not too bad,” he said.
“It’s exactly what I thought it would be.”
He gave her a curious look. “Oh? Why would you think that?”
She did not answer the question, but reached into her pocket and took out the bottle of pills which Dr Lubega had sold her. “Do you know these pills?” she asked.
Dr Moffat looked at the label. “That is a well-known pill for high blood pressure,” he said. “It’s very good. Rather costly. But very good. It’s a beta-blocker combined with a diuretic.”
He opened the bottle and spilled a couple of pills out onto his hand. He seemed interested in them, and he held one up closer to examine it.
“That’s a bit odd,” he said, after a moment. “I don’t remember this drug looking like that. I seem to recall it was white. I could be wrong, of course. These are … blue, aren’t they? Yes, definitely blue.”
He replaced the pills in the bottle and crossed the floor of his study to reach for a volume from the bookshelf. “This is a copy of the British National Formulary,” he said. “It lists all the proprietary drugs and describes their appearance. Let me take a look.”
It took him a few minutes to find the drug, but when he did he nodded his agreement with what he read. “There it is,” he said, reading from the formulary. “White tablets. Each tablet contains fifty milligrams of beta-blocker and twelve point five milligrams of diuretic.” He closed the book and looked at Mma Ramotswe over the
top of his spectacles.
“I think you’re going to have to tell me where these came from, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “But would it be easier to do so over a cup of tea? I’m sure that Fiona would be happy to make us all a cup of tea while you tell me all about it.”
“Tea would be very good,” said Mma Ramotswe.
At the end of the story, Dr Moffat shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that the only conclusion we can reach is that this Dr Lubega is substituting a cheap generic for a costly drug but charging his patients the full cost.”
“And that would harm them?” she asked.
“It could,” said Dr Moffat. “Some of the generics are all right, but others do not necessarily do what they’re meant to. There’s an issue of purity, you see. Of course, this doctor may have thought that everything would be all right and that no harm would come to anybody, but that’s not good enough. You don’t take that sort of risk. And you definitely don’t commit fraud on your patients.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to report this, of course. You know that?”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. That was the trouble with getting involved in these things; one got drawn in. There were reports. Dr Moffat sensed her weariness. “I’ll have a word with the ministry,” he said. “It’s easier that way.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled her appreciation and took a sip of her tea. She wondered why a doctor would need to defraud his patients when he could already make a perfectly comfortable living in legitimate practice. Of course, he could have hire-purchase payments or school fees or debts to pay off; one never knew. Or he could need the money because somebody was extorting money out of him. Blackmail drove people to extremes of desperation. And a doctor would be a tempting target for blackmail if he had a dark secret to conceal … But it seemed a little bit unlikely to her. It was probably just greed, simple greed. The desire to own a Mercedes-Benz, for example. That could drive people to all sorts of mischief.