MMA RAMOTSWE HAD KNOWN Superintendent Mphapi Bogosi since childhood. He had been a keen tennis player as a boy although there had only been one racquet in the village at that time and he had been obliged to play against a wall. Later on, when he had graduated to a proper tennis court with a real opponent, his talent had come into its own. By the age of eighteen he was in the national team, and had remained there until a knee injury had obliged him to retire from competitions. By that time, he had joined the police on their rapid promotion scheme, and was now the head of the section devoted to drugs and vice. “I am not in charge of rock and roll yet,” he was quoted as saying. “But no doubt that will come.”

Their lives had touched at numerous points, although never professionally. He had been amused by her decision all those years ago to found the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and had expressed his doubts—not in a condescending way, but out of the belief that there would be nothing for her to do.

“People won’t pay good money to have their problems solved,” he warned. “They will take them to their friends and ask them to do it for nothing.”

He had been prepared to acknowledge his mistake, and often complimented her on the success of the agency.

“If you ever retire, Mma Ramotswe,” he said, “come to us. We will make a new post for you: ‘Head of Difficult Cases,’ or something like that.”

“I could not bring myself to arrest people,” she said. “I would feel too sorry for them. I would let them off with a warning.”

He laughed. “Even the really bad ones?”

She hesitated. “Maybe. I don’t know. But of course the really bad ones are often just the unhappiest ones. People are bad for a reason, Rra.”

His answer came quickly. “Because they are made that way. They have a bad nature. That is their design, so to speak.”

She shook her head. “Were they bad babies?” she asked. “Are there any really bad babies?”

This required further thought, but he answered eventually. “Yes,” he said. “There must be bad babies. You see the way they look when they cry. They’re angry. They can’t do anything bad yet, but when they get round to doing things, then they are bad.” He paused, smiling. “Or perhaps not, Mma Ramotswe. Perhaps you have a point. Perhaps the badness comes a bit later.”

“Because bad things have been done to them. Bad upbringing. Parents drinking. Parents fighting. The baby watches all this and—”

“And thinks that’s the way to behave? Yes, you’re right, Mma Ramotswe.”