Neil had replaced his cup on the table and was rubbing the rim of it gently, as if to coax out a sound. Mma Ramotswe noticed that one of his fingers had been scratched: a small line of dried blood ran across the skin, which was weathered, cracked, the skin of a man who worked with stone and machinery and the branches of thorn trees. She waited for him to speak.

“This is generally a pretty happy place,” he began. “You know what it’s like, don’t you?”

Mma Ramotswe did. She remembered when Mokolodi had first been set up, the dream of Ian Kirby, who had been a friend of Seretse Khama and his family. He had created the game park and had given it over to a trust for the nation so that people could come out from Gaborone, which was so close, and see animals in the wild. It was an idealistic place, and it attracted people who loved the bush and wanted to preserve it. These were not people to argue or fight with one another. Nor was it the sort of place where a dishonest or difficult person would wish to work. And yet there was something wrong. What was it? What was it? She closed her eyes, but opened them again quickly. It was fear; it was unmistakable.

“I know what this place is like normally,” she said. “It is happy. I have a cousin here, you know. She has always liked working here.”

“Well, it’s not like that now,” said Neil. “There’s something very odd going on, and I don’t seem able to find out what the trouble is. I’ve asked people and they just clam up. They look away. You know how people do that when they don’t want to talk. They look away.”

Mma Ramotswe understood that. People did not always talk about the things that were worrying them. Sometimes this was because they thought it rude to burden others with their troubles; sometimes it was because they did not know how to say what had to be said; there were many reasons. But fear was always a possible explanation: you did not talk about things that you were worried might happen. If you did, then the very things you worried about could come to pass.

“Tell me, Rra,” she asked, “how do you know that there is something? How can you tell?”

Neil picked up a dried leaf which had blown onto the table and crushed it slowly between his fingers. “How do I know? Well, I’ll give you an example. Last Saturday I wanted to drive round the reserve at night. I do that from time to time—we’ve had a bit of trouble with poachers, and I like to go out at odd times, without lights, so that if there’s anybody thinking of getting up to anything they will know that we’re in the habit of coming round the corner at any time, night or day. I usually take two or three of the men when I do this.