“Yes, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, trying to put to the back of her mind the sudden mental picture which had come to her of Mma Tsau tipping a pot of soup over … Charlie. What a picture! And it was replaced immediately by an image of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, frustrated by some piece of sloppy work, doing a similar thing to the apprentice; and Mma Makutsi pouring soup over … She stopped herself. “I would like to talk to you, please.”

Mma Tsau wiped her brow. “I am listening,” she said. “I can hear you.”

“This is private,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We could talk in my van, if you don’t mind.”

Mma Tsau frowned. “What is this private business?” she asked. “Are you trying to sell something, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe looked about her, as one might do if about to impart a confidence. “It is about your husband,” she said.

The words had their desired effect. When her husband was mentioned, Mma Tsau gave a start, as if somebody had poured … She moved her head back and squinted at Mma Ramotswe through narrowed eyes.

“My husband?”

“Yes, Mma, your husband.” Mma Ramotswe nodded in the direction of the passenger door. “Why don’t you get into the van, Mma? We can talk in here.”

For a moment it seemed as if Mma Tsau was going to turn around and go back to her office. There was a moment of hesitation; the eyes moved; she continued to stare at Mma Ramotswe. Then she started to walk round the front of the van, slowly, her eyes still on Mma Ramotswe.

“You can wind down that window, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe as the other woman lowered herself into the seat beside her. “It will be cooler that way. It is very hot today, isn’t it?”