She corrected herself quickly. “Of course not.” Her tone became concerned. “You are going to have to do something about that.” She paused. Poor Mr J.L.B. Matekoni: he was far too gentle and kind. He would never be able to take on a shebeen queen. She herself would have to sort this out; shebeen queens held no dread for her.

“Would you like me to sort all that out?” she asked. “I can get rid of those people. It’s the sort of thing that a detective agency can do quite easily.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s gratitude was palpable. “You are very kind,” he said. “It is really my problem, but I am not very good at these things. I am happy sorting out cars, but people …”

“You are a great mechanic,” said Mma Ramotswe, reaching across to pat him on the forearm. “That is enough for one person.”

“And you are a very great detective,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. This was true, of course, and he meant every word of the compliment, but it was also inadequate. He knew that not only was Mma Ramotswe a great detective, but she was also a great cook, and a great wife, and a great foster-mother for the children. There was nothing that Mma Ramotswe could not do—in his view, at least. She could run Botswana if only they would give her the chance.

Mma Ramotswe drained the last of the tea from her cup and rose to her feet. She looked at her watch. It was only eight o’clock. She would go and seek out Note, hand him the cheque, and have put the whole matter to rest before she turned in that night. Her conversation with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had filled her with a new resolve. There was no point in waiting. She had a pretty fair idea where Note would be staying—his people lived in a small village about ten miles to the south. It would only take her half an hour at the most to get out there, to pay him off, and to put him out of her life again. Then she could return to Zebra Drive and go to sleep without any dread. He would not be coming there.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE TINY WHITE VAN