and had just passed their general typing and secretarial examinations with an average grade of 97 percent; she would be ideal-they were certain of it.
Mma Ramotswe liked her immediately. She was a thin woman with a rather long face and braided hair in which she had rubbed copious quantities of henna. She wore oval glasses with wide plastic frames, and she had a fixed, but apparently quite sincere smile.
They opened the office on a Monday. Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk and Mma Makutsi sat at hers, behind the typewriter. She looked at Mma Ramotswe and smiled even more broadly.
'I am ready for work,' she said. 'I am ready to start.'
'Mmm,' said Mma Ramotswe. 'It's early days yet. We've only just opened. We will have to wait for a client to come.'
In her heart of hearts, she knew there would be no clients. The whole idea was a ghastly mistake. Nobody wanted a private detective, and certainly nobody would want her. Who was she, after all? She was just Precious Ramotswe from Mochudi.
She had never been to London or wherever detectives went to find out how to be private detectives. She had never even been to Johannesburg. What if somebody came in and said 'You know Johannesburg of course,' she would have to lie, or just say nothing.
Mma Makutsi looked at her, and then looked down at the typewriter keyboard. She opened a drawer, peered inside, and then closed it. At that moment a hen came into the room from the yard outside and pecked at something on the floor. 'Get out,' shouted Mma Makutsi. 'No chickens in here!' At ten o'clock Mma Makutsi got up from her desk and went into the back room to make the tea. She had been asked to make bush tea, which was Mma Ramotswe's favourite, and she soon brought two cups back. She had a tin of condensed milk in her handbag, and she took this out and poured a small amount into each cup. Then they drank their tea, watching a small boy at the edge of the road throwing stones at a skeletal dog.
At eleven o'clock they had another cup of tea, and at twelve Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and announced that she was going to walk down the road to the shops to buy herself some perfume. Mma Makutsi was to stay behind and answer the telephone and welcome any clients who might come. Mma Ramotswe smiled as she said this. There would be no clients, of course, and she would be closed at the end of the month. Did Mma Makutsi understand what a parlous job she had obtained for herself? A woman with an average of 97 percent deserved better than this.
Mma Ramotswe was standing at the counter of the shop looking at a bottle of perfume when Mma Makutsi hurtled through the door.
'Mma Ramotswe,' she panted. 'A client. There is a client in the office. It is a big case. A missing man. Come quickly. There is no time to lose.'
THE WIVES of missing men are all the same, thought Mma Ramotswe. At first they feel anxiety, and are convinced that something dreadful has happened. Then doubt begins to creep in, and they wonder whether he's gone off with another woman (which he usually has), and then finally they become angry. At the anger stage, most of them don't want him back anymore, even if he's found. They just want to have a good chance to shout at him.
Mma Malatsi was in the second stage, she thought. She has begun to suspect that he is off somewhere having a good time, while she's left at home, and of course it's beginning to rankle. Perhaps there are debts to be paid, even if she looks as if she's got a fair bit of money.
'Maybe you should tell me a little bit more about your husband,' she said, as Mma Malatsi began to drink the cup of strong bush tea which Mma Makutsi had brewed for her.
'His name is Peter Malatsi,' Mma Malatsi said. 'He's forty and he has-had-has a business selling furniture. It's a good business and he did well. So he hasn't run away from any creditors.'
Mma Ramotswe nodded. 'There must be another reason,' she began, and then, cautiously. 'You know what men are like, Mma. What about another woman? Do you think…'
Mma Malatsi shook her head vigorously.
'I don't think so,' she said. 'Maybe a year ago that would have been possible, but then he became a Christian and took up with some Church that was always singing and marching around the place in white uniforms.'
Mma Ramotswe noted this down. Church. Singing. Got religion badly? Lady preacher lured him away?
'Who were these people?' she said. 'Maybe they know something about him?'
Mma Malatsi shrugged. 'I'm not sure,' she said, slightly irritably. 'In fact, I don't know. He asked me to come with him once or twice, but I refused. So he just used to go off by himself on Sundays. In fact, he disappeared on a Sunday. I thought he'd gone off to his Church.'
Mma Ramotswe looked at the ceiling. This was not going to be as hard as some of these cases. Peter Malatsi had gone off with one of the Christians; that was pretty clear. All she had to do now was find which group it was and she would be on his trail. It was the old predictable story; it would be a younger Christian, she was sure of that.
BY THE end of the following day, Mma Ramotswe had compiled a list of five Christian groups which could fit the description. Over the next two days she tracked down the leaders of three of them, and was satisfied that nothing was known of Peter Malatsi. Two of the three tried to convert her; the third merely asked her for money and received a five-pula note.
When she located the leader of the fourth group, the Reverend Shadreck Mapeli, she knew that the search was over. When she mentioned the Malatsi name, the Reverend gave a shudder and glanced over his shoulder surreptitiously.
'Are you from the police?' he asked. 'Are you a policeman?'
'Policewoman,' she said.
'Ah!' he said mournfully. 'Aee!'
'I mean, I'm not a policewoman,' she said quickly. 'I'm a private detective.'
The Reverend appeared to calm down slightly.
'Who sent you?'
'Mma Malatsi.'
'Ooh,' said the Reverend. 'He told us that he had no wife.'
'Well, he did,' said Mma Ramotswe. 'And she's been wondering where he is.'
'He's dead,' said the Reverend. 'He's gone to the Lord.'
Mma Ramotswe sensed that he was telling the truth, and that the enquiry was effectively at an end. Now all that remained to be done was to find out how he had died.
'You must tell me,' she said. 'I won't reveal your name to anybody if you don't want me to. Just tell me how it happened.'
They drove to the river in Mma Ramotswe's small white van. It was the rainy season, and there had been several storms, which made the track almost impassable. But at last they reached the river's edge and parked the van under a tree.
'This is where we have our baptisms,' said the Reverend, pointing to a pool in the swollen waters of the river. 'This is where I stood, here, and this is where the sinners entered the water.'
'How many sinners did you have?' asked Mma Ramotswe.
'Six sinners altogether, including Peter. They all went in together, while I prepared to follow them with my staff.'
'Yes?' said Mma Ramotswe. 'Then what happened?'
'The sinners were standing in the water up to about here.' The Reverend indicated his upper chest. 'I turned round to tell the flock to start singing, and then when I turned back I noticed that there was something wrong. There were only five sinners in the water.' 'One had disappeared?'
'Yes,' said the Reverend, shaking slightly as he spoke. 'God had taken one of them to His bosom.'
Mma Ramotswe looked at the water. It was not a big river, and for much of the year it was reduced to a few stagnant pools. But in a good rainy season, such as that year's, it could be quite a torrent. A nonswimmer could easily be swept away, she reflected, and yet, if somebody were to be swept away the body would surely be found downstream. There were plenty of people who went down to the river for one purpose or another and who would
