for unimaginable miles, to the singing emptinesses of the Namib. If she turned her tiny white van off on one of the tracks that struck off from the main road, she could drive for perhaps thirty or forty miles before her wheels would begin to sink into the sand and spin hopelessly. The vegetation would slowly become sparser, more desert-like. The thorn trees would thin out and there would be ridges of thin earth, through which the omnipresent sand would surface and crenellate. There would be patches of bareness, and scattered grey rocks, and there would be no sign of human activity. To live with this great dry interior, brown and hard, was the lot of the Batswana, and it was this that made them cautious, and careful in their husbandry.
If you went there, out into the Kalahari, you might hear lions by night. For the lions were there still, on these wide landscapes, and they made their presence known in the darkness, in coughing grunts and growls. She had been there once as a young woman, when she had gone with her friend to visit a remote cattle post. It was as far into the Kalahari as cattle could go, and she had felt the utter loneliness of a place without people. This was Botswana distilled; the essence of her country.
It was the rainy season, and the land was covered with green. Rain could transform it so quickly, and had done so; now the ground was covered with shoots of sweet new grass, Namaqualand daisies, the vines of Tsama melons, and aloes with stalk flowers of red and yellow.
They had made a fire at night, just outside the crude huts which served as shelter at the cattle post, but the light from the fire seemed so tiny under the great empty night sky with its dipping constellations. She had huddled close to her friend, who had told her that she should not be frightened, because lions would keep away from fires, as would supernatural beings,tokoloshes and the like.
She awoke in the small hours of the morning, and the fire was low. She could make out its embers through the spaces between the branches that made up the wall of the hut. Somewhere, far away, there was a grunting sound, but she was not afraid, and she walked out of the hut to stand underneath the sky and draw the dry, clear air into her lungs. And she thought: I am just a tiny person in Africa, but there is a place for me, and for everybody, to sit down on this earth and touch it and call it their own. She waited for another thought to come, but none did, and so she crept back into the hut and the warmth of the blankets on her sleeping mat.
Now, driving the tiny white van along those rolling miles, she thought that one day she might go back into the Kalahari, into those empty spaces, those wide grasslands that broke and broke the heart.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS three days after the satisfactory resolution of the Patel case. Mma Ramotswe had put in her bill for two thousand pula, plus expenses, and had been paid by return of post. This astonished her. She could not believe that she would be paid such a sum without protest, and the readiness, and apparent cheerfulness with which Mr Patel had settled the bill induced pangs of guilt over the sheer size of the fee.
It was curious how some people had a highly developed sense of guilt, she thought, while others had none. Some people would agonise over minor slips or mistakes on their part, while others would feel quite unmoved by their own gross acts of betrayal or dishonesty. Mma Pekwane fell into the former category, thought Mma Ramotswe. Note Mokoti fell into the latter.
Mma Pekwane had seemed anxious when she had come into the office of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. Mma Ramotswe had given her a strong cup of bush tea, as shealways did with nervous clients, and had waited for her to be ready to speak. She was anxious about a man, she thought; there were all the signs. What would it be? Some piece of masculine bad behaviour, of course, but what?
'I'm worried that my husband has done a dreadful thing,' said Mma Pekwane eventually. 'I feel very ashamed for him.'
Mma Ramotswe nodded her head gently. Masculine bad behaviour.
'Men do terrible things,' she said. 'All wives are worried about their husbands. You are not alone.'
Mma Pekwane sighed. 'But my husband has done a terrible thing,' she said. 'A very terrible thing.'
Mma Ramotswe stiffened. If Rra Pekwane had killed somebody she would have to make it quite clear that the police should be called in. She would never dream of helping anybody conceal a murderer.
'What is this terrible thing?' she asked. Mma Pekwane lowered her voice. 'He has a stolen car.' Mma Ramotswe was relieved. Car theft was rife, almost unremarkable, and there must be many women driving around the town in their husbands' stolen cars. Mma Ramotswe could never imagine herself doing that, of course, and nor, it seemed, could Mma Pekwane.
'Did he tell you it's stolen?' she asked. 'Are you sure of it?' Mma Pekwane shook her head. 'He said a man gave it to him. He said that this man had two Mercedes-Benzes and only needed one.'
Mma Ramotswe laughed. 'Do men really think they can fool us that easily?' she said. 'Do they think we're fools?' 'I think they do,' said Mma Pekwane. Mma Ramotswe picked up her pencil and drew several lines on her blotter. Looking at the scribbles, she saw that she had drawn a car.
She looked at Mma Pekwane. 'Do you want me to tell you what to do?' she asked. 'Is that what you want?'
Mma Pekwane looked thoughtful. 'No,' she replied. 'I don't want that. I've decided what I want to do.'
'And that is?'
'I want to give the car back. I want to give it back to its owner.'
Mma Ramotswe sat up straight. 'You want to go to the police then? You want to inform on your husband?'
'No. I don't want to do that. I just want the car to get back to its owner without the police knowing. I want the Lord to know that the car's back where it belongs.'
Mma Ramotswe stared at her client. It was, she had to admit, a perfectly reasonable thing to want. If the car were to be returned to the owner, then Mma Pekwane's conscience would be clear, and she would still have her husband. On mature reflection, it seemed to Mma Ramotswe to be a very good way of dealing with a difficult situation.
'But why come to me about this?' asked Mma Ramotswe. 'How can I help?'
Mma Pekwane gave her answer without hesitation.
'I want you to find out who owns that car,' she said. 'Then I want you to steal it from my husband and give it back to the rightful owner. That's all I want you to do.'
LATER THAT evening, as she drove home in her little white van, Mma Ramotswe thought that she should never have agreed to help Mma Pekwane; but she had, and now she was committed. Yet it was not going to be a simple matter-unless, of course, one went to the police, which she clearly could not do. It may be that Rra Pekwane deserved to be handed over, but her client had asked that this should not happen, and her first loyalty was to the client. So some other way would have to be found.
That evening, after her supper of chicken and pumpkin, Mma Ramotswe telephoned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
'Where do stolen Mercedes-Benzes come from?' asked Mma Ramotswe.
'From over the border,' said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. 'They steal them in South Africa, bring them over here, respray them, file off the original engine number, and then sell them cheaply or send them up to Zambia. I know who does all this, by the way. We all know.'
'I don't need to know that,' said Mma Ramotswe. 'What I need to know is how you identify them after all this has happened.'
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni paused. 'You have to know where to look,' he said. 'There's usually another serial number somewhere-on the chassis-or under the bonnet. You can usually find it if you know what you're doing.'
'You know what you're doing,' said Mma Ramotswe. 'Can you help me?'
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. He did not like stolen cars. He preferred to have nothing to do with them, but this was a request from Mma Ramotswe, and so there was only one answer to give.
'Tell me where and when,' he said.
THEY ENTERED the Pekwane garden the following evening, by arrangement with Mma Pekwane, who had
