Mma Ramotswe read the letter aloud to Mma Makutsi, who laid aside the spare-parts bill she was dealing with and listened attentively.

“Well, Mma?” said Mma Ramotswe after she had finished. “What do we do about that?”

“Which village is this?” asked Mma Makutsi. “We could pass it on to somebody. Maybe the district police superintendent, or somebody like that.”

Mma Ramotswe studied the letter again, and sighed. “There is no address,” she said. “This girl has not told us where she is writing from.”

“And the postmark?” Mma Makutsi enquired.

“I cannot make it out,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is very indistinct. It could be anywhere. It could be out near Ghanzi for all we know. It could be somewhere very far away. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.”

They both stared at the simple, ruled letter which Mma Ramotswe was holding. It was a piece of paper in which a great deal of anxiety had been invested.

“I am sure that this is true,” said Mma Ramotswe, as she reluctantly let the letter fall into the wastepaper bin. “I am sure that this thing is really happening. I have heard about the bad behaviour of some teachers these days. They have forgotten what it is to be a teacher. They have forgotten that they should be worthy of respect.”

Mma Makutsi agreed with this, but that, she thought, was not the whole story. Teachers may have started behaving badly, like everybody else, but this was not altogether their fault. They now had to put up with children who had not been taught the basics of good behaviour, and it was difficult in such circumstances for the teachers to maintain discipline.

“It is not always the teachers’ fault, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “The children are very bad too these days.”

They sat in silence for a moment. There had been no alternative but to dispose of the letter, but that did not make it any easier to do. That girl, wherever and whoever she was, would be looking for justice, for the restoration of the balance between right and wrong, and her pleas would continue to go unheard.

Mma Ramotswe looked at the next letter on her desk and picked up her letter knife. “This is sometimes not a very easy job, is it?” she said.

Mma Makutsi spread her hands in a gesture of resignation. “No, it is not easy, Mma.”

“But we get by, don’t we?” Mma Ramotswe went on, more cheerfully. “Sometimes we are able to do something that helps somebody else. That’s the important thing. That makes our job a good one.”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is it. And you have helped me, Mma. I shall always remember that.”

Mma Ramotswe looked surprised. “I don’t think I have, Mma. You have helped yourself.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, you are the one who has helped me. You gave me this job and you kept me on even when we were not making any money. Remember that time? Remember how we had very few cases and you said that it didn’t matter and I could stay on? I thought that I was going to be out of a job then, but you were kind to me and promoted me. That’s what you did.”