He looked over her shoulder into the garage and then he glanced up at their business sign, the sign which she had proudly displayed over her first office under Kgale Hill and which they had brought with them when they made the move.

“And your father?” he said casually, looking at her now. “How is the old man? Still going on about cattle?”

She felt her heart lurch, and then a rush of emotion that seemed to stifle the very breath within her.

“Well?” he said. “What about him?”

She steadied herself. “My father is late,” she said. “It is many years ago now. He is late.”

Note shrugged. “There are many people who are dying. You may have noticed.”

For a moment Mma Ramotswe could think of nothing, but then she thought of her father, the late Daddy, Obed Ramotswe, who had never said anything unkind or dismissive to this man, although he had known full well what sort of person he was; of Obed Ramotswe who represented all that was fine in Botswana and in the world, whom she still loved, and who was as fresh in her memory as if he had been alive only yesterday.

She turned away and took a few faltering steps back towards the garage.

“Where are you going?” called Note, his voice harsh. “Where are you going, fat lady?”

She paused, still looking away from him. She heard him come towards her, and now he was standing directly behind her, his acrid body odour in her nostrils.

He leaned forward so that his mouth was close to her ear. “Listen,” he said. “You have married that man, haven’t you? But what about me? Am I not still your husband?”

She looked down at the ground, and at her toes sticking out of the sandals she was wearing.

“Now,” said Note. “Now you listen to me. I haven’t come back for you—don’t worry about that. I never really liked you, you know? I wanted a woman who could have a child, a strong child. You know that? Not a child who wasn’t going to last very long. So I haven’t come back for you. So you just listen to me. I’m planning a concert here—a big event at the One Hundred Bar. But I need a bit of help with the cost of that, you know? Ten thousand pula. I’ll come and collect it in two or three days, from your place. That’ll give you time to get the money together. Understand?”

She remained quite immobile, and he moved away suddenly.

“Goodbye,” he said. “I’ll come for that loan. And if you don’t pay, then maybe I can tell somebody—maybe the police, I don’t know—that you’ve married a man before you got rid of the first husband. That’s a careless thing to do, Mma. Very careless!”