Alexander Mccall Smith - Ladies' Detective Agency 05 by The Full Cupboard of Life Page B

of
money to those mechanics and they had assured him that all was in order. And
the car, after all, worked reasonably well, even if there was a small problem
with oil.
    The butcher frowned, slipping a hand inside his collar and
tugging at it, as if to loosen the material. “I do not think there can be
anything wrong with my car,” he said. “I think that you must be
wrong, Rra.”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. Without saying
anything, he pointed to the edge of the dark oil stain, just discernible
beneath the body of the car. The butcher’s gaze followed his hand, and he
shook his head vigorously. “It is impossible,” he said. “I
take this car to a good garage. I pay a great deal of money to have it looked
after. They are always tinkering with the engine.”
    Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni raised an eyebrow. “Always tinkering? Who are these
people?” he asked.
    The butcher gave the name of the garage, and
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew immediately. He had spent years trying to improve the
image of the motor trade, but whatever he, and others like him, did they would
always be thwarted by the activities of people like the butcher’s
mechanics; if indeed they were mechanics at all—Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had
strong doubts about the qualifications of some of them.
    Mr J.L.B.
Matekoni took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.
    ‘If you would let me look at the engine, Rra,” he said.
“I could very quickly check your oil level. Then we would know whether it
was safe for you to drive off to have more oil put in.”
    The
butcher hesitated for a moment. There was something humiliating about being
called to account in this way, and yet it would be churlish to reject an offer
of help. This man was obviously sincere, and seemed to know what he was talking
about; so he reached into his pocket for the car keys, opened the
driver’s door, and set about pulling the silver-topped lever that would
release the catch on the engine cover.
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood back
respectfully. The revealing of an engine of this nature—an engine which
was older than the Republic of Botswana itself—was a special moment, and
he did not want to show unseemly curiosity as the beautiful piece of
engineering was exposed to view. So he stood where he was and only leaned
forward slightly once he could see the engine; and quickly drew in his breath,
and was silent—not in admiration, as he had expected, but in shock. For
this was not the engine of a 1955 Rover 90, lovingly preserved; he saw,
instead, an engine which had been cobbled together with all manner of parts. A
flimsy carburettor, of recent vintage and crude construction; a modern oil
filter, adapted and tacked onto the only original part that he could make
out—the great, solid engine block that had been put into the car at its
birth all those years ago. That at least was intact, but what mechanical
company it had been obliged to keep!
    The butcher looked at him
expectantly. “Well, Rra?”
    Mr J.L.B. Matekoni found it hard
to reply. There were times when, as a mechanic, one had to give bad news. It
was never easy, and one often wished that there were some way round the brute
truth. But there were occasions when just nothing could be done, and he feared
that this was one of them. “I’m sorry, Rra,” he began.
“This is very sad. A terrible thing has been done to this car. The engine
parts …” He could not go on. What had been done was an act of such
mechanical vandalism that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could not find the words to
express the feelings within him. So he turned away and shook his head, as might
one who had seen some great work of art destroyed before his eyes, cast low by
the basest Philistines.

    CHAPTER SIX

    MR MOPEDI BOBOLOGO
    M MA HOLONGA
sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. From the other side of the desk, Mma
Ramotswe watched her client. She had observed that some people found it easier
to tell a story if they shut their eyes, or if they looked down, or