Now, standing before a door marked Superintendent P. Bogosi, she thought of the boy she had known in Mochudi and of what had become of him. Could she ever have imagined that the child knocking a tennis ball against that wall would one day have a door like this, with his name on, with uniformed officers at his beck and call and a secretary to say: “The superintendent will see you now, Mma”?

She led Mr. Polopetsi into the office with her. The superintendent stood up and smiled at her, extending his hand to shake hers, before he turned and did the same to Mr. Polopetsi. From within the crumpled jacket a hand came out, half hidden by a sleeve that caused the policeman to fumble as he searched for it.

“This is Mr. Polopetsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is the man I spoke to you about. He is the one with the information.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked about him nervously. The room was sparsely furnished, but there was a small bookshelf on which there was stacked a pile of copies of The Botswana Penal Code, a book entitled The Reality of Addiction, and a lever-arch box file labelled Zambia/Angola.

The superintendent invited them to sit down on the metal chairs in front of his desk. These were not chairs designed for comfort; these chairs were for those facing even harder and more uncomfortable furniture in the future.

“I would like to have more comfortable chairs in this place,” said the superintendent. “Maybe one day they’ll get round to improving things here.”

“I am quite comfortable,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Traditionally built people, you see…”

She did not finish, as the superintendent burst out laughing. Mr. Polopetsi, still looking frightened, merely glanced at Mma Ramotswe.

“How’s the tennis?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“I’m still coaching,” he replied. “We have some very good younger players coming up. There’s a young man from up north with a really powerful backhand. You remember that Swedish man who lived here? Mr. Ogren? He’s set up a tennis camp in Maun and he’s getting some strong players through.”

“That’s good work,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Tennis is…” She searched for what she wanted to say about tennis. What was tennis? What could one say about it?

“Good for you,” prompted the superintendent. “If everybody played tennis, I’d be out of a job. No crime. No drugs. No nothing. Tennis players don’t go in for things like that.”

There was a brief silence. Then the superintendent cleared his throat.

“Now then,” he said, turning to Mr. Polopetsi, “I understand from Mma Ramotswe that you have been approached by a certain gentleman. I understand that he proposed a trip to Zambia.”

Mr. Polopetsi nodded. “That is correct, sir,” he said. “I had no idea—”