The woman led them back towards the office, a round building, made of stone, with a thatched roof that came down in low eaves. A man stepped from the door, looked momentarily surprised when he saw Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, and then gave a broad grin.

“Dumela, Mma Ramotswe,” he said, raising a hand in greeting. “And Mma …”

“This is Mma Makutsi, Neil,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Of course,” said Neil. “This is the lady who keeps cobras under her desk!”

Mma Makutsi laughed. “I do not wish to think about cobras, Rra,” she said. “I am only glad that you came when you did. I do not like snakes.”

“Those apprentices were not going about it the right way,” said Neil, smiling at the recollection. “You don’t throw spanners at snakes. It doesn’t help.”

He gestured for the two women to follow him to the terrace in front of the verandah. Several chairs were set under the shade of a tree, and they sat on these and looked out over the tops of the trees to the hills in the distance. A cicada was screeching somewhere in the grass nearby, a shrill, persistent sound, a call for another cicada, a warning, a protest against some injustice down in the insect world. The sky above was clear, a great echoing bowl of blue, drenched in light. There could be nothing wrong.

“It is very beautiful here,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If I worked here I would do no work, I think. I would sit and look at the hills.”

“You are welcome to come and look at these hills any time, Mma,” said Neil. He paused before continuing. “Are you here on business?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes, we are.”

Neil signalled to a young woman to bring them tea. “One of our people is in trouble? Is that it?” He frowned as he spoke.

For a moment Mma Ramotswe looked confused. Then she realised. “No, not my business—Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s business. Garage business.”

The misunderstanding cleared up, they sat and waited for the tea. Their conversation wandered. Mma Makutsi seemed to be thinking of something else, and Mma Ramotswe found herself expressing a view on something she knew nothing about—a plan to build some houses nearby. Then the subject of ostriches came up. This was more interesting to Mma Ramotswe, although when she came to think of it, what did she know about ostriches? Very little.

“We’ve got a number of ostriches over there,” said Neil, pointing in the direction of a small hillock in the mid-distance.

Mma Ramotswe followed his gaze. The expanse of bush was wide, the acacia trees like small umbrellas dotted thickly over the land. A patch of high grass on the edge of the clearing in which the camp sat moved slightly in the wind. There was nothing wrong; or was there? Why, thought Mma Ramotswe, do I feel that sensation, not fear, but something like it? Dread, perhaps; the sort of dread that can be felt in broad daylight, like this, with the sun all about and the shadows short and the presence of people—a man whistling as he attended to a task outside the office building, a woman leaning against her broom, chatting with somebody through a window.