Now, sitting at her desk and facing Mma Makutsi on the other side of the room, she imagined that she was the one behind that other desk, behind those outsized spectacles with their round lenses, with that whole hinterland of Bobonong and the Botswana Secretarial College behind her, not to mention the ninety-seven per cent. What would you see from such a position, and with what eyes would you see it? You would see a desk with Mma Precious Ramotswe behind it, looking back at you; Mma Ramotswe, who started the business and still owned it, who was widely known as the private detective, when nobody, or virtually nobody, knew that there was a Mma Makutsi in the business too, who had dealt with many delicate cases rather successfully, but who never really got the credit; who had to contend with Charlie and his young man’s impetuousness; who had to answer the telephone and then pass on the caller to Mma Ramotswe because nobody seemed to call and ask for Mma Makutsi in the first instance. That is what you would see.

The insight was instructive.

“Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I can understand why you are suspicious of that woman.”

“Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “Because she is suspicious—it’s not a case of my making things up.”

There was quick reassurance. “You would never do that, Mma. You are very careful with your facts.”

“Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “Because I am. I’m very careful with the facts.”

“But,” began Mma Ramotswe. “But how…”

Mma Makutsi was staring at her. The spectacles flashed a warning—a shard of light from the window flashed across the room like a signal from a mirror held to the sun.

The issue could not simply be ignored, and Mma Ramotswe persisted. “But how could she have identified the right house if she was an impostor?”

The question hung in the air between them, almost tangible in its awkwardness.

Mma Makutsi sucked in her cheeks, and for a moment, and without thinking about it, Mma Ramotswe did the same. It was a consequence of the exercise in empathy; having imagined herself to be Mma Makutsi, the sucking in of cheeks when faced with a difficult question seemed entirely natural.

“She might have known the real Rosie,” said Mma Makutsi. “She might have been a friend of that woman—a sister, even. If that were so, then she would have known quite a bit about the family. She would have known where they lived because the real Rosie would have told her.”