Read Online Ladies' Detective Agency 01 - The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
Tags: Fiction, General, África, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Women Private Investigators, Women Detectives, Detectives, Botswana, No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (Imaginary organization), Ramotswe; Precious (Fictitious character), Women private investigators - Botswana, Ramotswe; Precious, Today's Book Club Selection, Women Privat Investigators
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not the father of any
baby.”
MALE HANDS again, but this time
in thin rubber gloves, which made the hands pale and unfinished, like a white
man’s hands.
“Do you feel any pain here? No? And
here?”
She shook her head.
“I think that the baby
is all right. And up here, where these marks are. Is there pain just on the
outside, or is it deeper in?”
“It is just the
outside.”
“I see. I am going to have to put in stitches
here. All the way across here, because the skin has parted so badly. I’ll
spray something on to take the pain away but maybe it’s better for you
not to watch me while I’m sewing! Some people say men can’t sew,
but we doctors aren’t too bad at it!”
She closed her eyes
and heard a hissing sound. There was cold spray against her skin and then a
numbness as the doctor worked on the wound.
“This was your
husband’s doing? Am I right?”
She opened her eyes. The
doctor had finished the suture and had handed something to the nurse. He was
looking at her now as he peeled off the gloves.
“How many times
has this happened before? Is there anybody to look after you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“I
suppose you’re going to go back to him?”
She opened her
mouth to speak, but he interrupted her.
“Of course you are.
It’s always the same. The woman goes back for more.”
He
sighed. “I’ll probably see you again, you know. But I hope I
don’t. Just be careful.”
SHE
WENT back the next day, a scarf tied around her face to hide the bruises and
the cuts. She ached in her arms and in her stomach, and the sutured wound stung
sharply. They had given her pills at the hospital, and she had taken one just
before she left on the bus. This seemed to help the pain, and she took another
on the journey.
The door was open. She went in, her heart thumping
within her chest, and saw what had happened. The room was empty, apart from the
furniture. He had taken his tapes, and their new metal trunk, and the yellow
curtains too. And in the bedroom, he had slashed the mattress with a knife, and
there was kapok lying about, making it look like a shearing room.
She
sat down on the bed and was still sitting there, staring at the floor, when the
neighbour came in and said that she would get somebody to take her in a truck
back to Mochudi, to Obed, to her father.
There she stayed, looking
after her father, for the next fourteen years. He died shortly after her
thirty-fourth birthday, and that was the point at which Precious Ramotswe, now
parentless, veteran of a nightmare marriage, and mother, for a brief and lovely
five days, became the first lady private detective in Botswana.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHAT
YOU NEED TO OPEN
A DETECTIVE AGENCY
M MA RAMOTSWE had thought
that it would not be easy to open a detective agency. People always made the
mistake of thinking that starting a business was simple and then found that
there were all sorts of hidden problems and unforeseen demands. She had heard
of people opening businesses that lasted four or five weeks before they ran out
of money or stock, or both. It was always more difficult than you thought it
would be.
She went to the lawyer at Pilane, who had arranged for her
to get her father’s money. He had organised the sale of the cattle, and
had got a good price for them.
“I have got a lot of money for
you,” he said. “Your father’s herd had grown and
grown.”
She took the cheque and the sheet of paper that he handed
her. It was more than she had imagined possible. But there it was—all
that money, made payable to Precious Ramotswe, on presentation to Barclays Bank
of Botswana.
“You can buy a house with that,” said the
lawyer. “And a business.”
“I am going to buy both of
those.”
The lawyer looked interested. “What sort of
business? A store? I can give you advice, you know.”
“A
detective agency.”
The lawyer looked blank.
“There
are none for sale. There are none of those.”
Mma Ramotswe
baby.”
MALE HANDS again, but this time
in thin rubber gloves, which made the hands pale and unfinished, like a white
man’s hands.
“Do you feel any pain here? No? And
here?”
She shook her head.
“I think that the baby
is all right. And up here, where these marks are. Is there pain just on the
outside, or is it deeper in?”
“It is just the
outside.”
“I see. I am going to have to put in stitches
here. All the way across here, because the skin has parted so badly. I’ll
spray something on to take the pain away but maybe it’s better for you
not to watch me while I’m sewing! Some people say men can’t sew,
but we doctors aren’t too bad at it!”
She closed her eyes
and heard a hissing sound. There was cold spray against her skin and then a
numbness as the doctor worked on the wound.
“This was your
husband’s doing? Am I right?”
She opened her eyes. The
doctor had finished the suture and had handed something to the nurse. He was
looking at her now as he peeled off the gloves.
“How many times
has this happened before? Is there anybody to look after you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“I
suppose you’re going to go back to him?”
She opened her
mouth to speak, but he interrupted her.
“Of course you are.
It’s always the same. The woman goes back for more.”
He
sighed. “I’ll probably see you again, you know. But I hope I
don’t. Just be careful.”
SHE
WENT back the next day, a scarf tied around her face to hide the bruises and
the cuts. She ached in her arms and in her stomach, and the sutured wound stung
sharply. They had given her pills at the hospital, and she had taken one just
before she left on the bus. This seemed to help the pain, and she took another
on the journey.
The door was open. She went in, her heart thumping
within her chest, and saw what had happened. The room was empty, apart from the
furniture. He had taken his tapes, and their new metal trunk, and the yellow
curtains too. And in the bedroom, he had slashed the mattress with a knife, and
there was kapok lying about, making it look like a shearing room.
She
sat down on the bed and was still sitting there, staring at the floor, when the
neighbour came in and said that she would get somebody to take her in a truck
back to Mochudi, to Obed, to her father.
There she stayed, looking
after her father, for the next fourteen years. He died shortly after her
thirty-fourth birthday, and that was the point at which Precious Ramotswe, now
parentless, veteran of a nightmare marriage, and mother, for a brief and lovely
five days, became the first lady private detective in Botswana.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHAT
YOU NEED TO OPEN
A DETECTIVE AGENCY
M MA RAMOTSWE had thought
that it would not be easy to open a detective agency. People always made the
mistake of thinking that starting a business was simple and then found that
there were all sorts of hidden problems and unforeseen demands. She had heard
of people opening businesses that lasted four or five weeks before they ran out
of money or stock, or both. It was always more difficult than you thought it
would be.
She went to the lawyer at Pilane, who had arranged for her
to get her father’s money. He had organised the sale of the cattle, and
had got a good price for them.
“I have got a lot of money for
you,” he said. “Your father’s herd had grown and
grown.”
She took the cheque and the sheet of paper that he handed
her. It was more than she had imagined possible. But there it was—all
that money, made payable to Precious Ramotswe, on presentation to Barclays Bank
of Botswana.
“You can buy a house with that,” said the
lawyer. “And a business.”
“I am going to buy both of
those.”
The lawyer looked interested. “What sort of
business? A store? I can give you advice, you know.”
“A
detective agency.”
The lawyer looked blank.
“There
are none for sale. There are none of those.”
Mma Ramotswe
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