Fanwell shook his head. “No, Mma. There are too many houses over there. He could come from anywhere.”

This was greeted with silence. Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi. Although he was considerably more responsible than Charlie, Fanwell was vulnerable; he tended to get himself into difficult situations, sometimes through kindness, or, more frequently, through naïvety.

“What did you do, Fanwell?” asked Mma Makutsi. “You didn’t…”

Fanwell looked shifty.

“Did you bring him back here?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Fanwell nodded. “I couldn’t leave him, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “No, you’re right, Fanwell. If we run over something we can’t just walk away.” She paused. “Where is this dog now? Is he outside?”

Fanwell pointed towards the door. “He’s out there.”

“Then I suppose we’d better take a look at him,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Fanwell led the dog in. He had improvised a collar for him out of a piece of old bicycle tube, cut and tied round the animal’s neck, and to this he had attached a piece of string folded double upon itself. The dog was medium-sized—of an indeterminate breed, but the characteristic ruffled hair along the backbone showed Ridgeback blood somewhere in his past. He had a rather ungainly snout, with folds of flesh merging into exposed black gums around the jaws. Several teeth protruded from the mouth, imparting a somewhat savage look. But the expression in his eyes was not hostile—nor was the frantic wagging of his tail as he entered the room, looked about, and immediately crossed the floor to nuzzle at Mma Makutsi’s feet.

“He likes you, Mma,” said Fanwell, tugging at the string leash.

In spite of herself, Mma Makutsi smiled. “He is a very odd-looking dog, Fanwell,” she said.

Charlie now appeared in the doorway. Spotting the dog, he clapped his hands enthusiastically. “So, you’ve all met Fanwell’s dog. The latest member of the agency staff.”

“What’s that?” said Mma Makutsi.

“Fanwell says that you’ll give the dog a job,” said Charlie. “If the police use dogs, then why can’t private detectives? Stands to reason, if you ask me.”

Mma Makutsi crossed the room to hand Mma Ramotswe her cup of tea. “Nonsense,” she said. “An office is no place for a dog. And anyway, that dog is not Fanwell’s—it is a dog that was run over, that’s all. It can go back to its owner now.”

Charlie shrugged. “Fanwell doesn’t know who that is, do you, Fanwell?”

Fanwell scowled at Charlie. “I’m not quite sure. That’s why I’m looking after it.”

“At your place?” asked Mma Makutsi. Fanwell lived with an uncle and his family in a small house in Old Naledi—a couple of rooms, Mma Makutsi believed. There would be barely enough room for the people in that house, let alone a dog.

“I’m not sure,” said Fanwell. “I haven’t thought about it.”