She nodded her thanks, and then her thoughts returned to the balloon and its passengers. Of course she would have to throw Violet Sephotho out of the basket in order to save the other two, meritorious lives, but it would not be easy. She did not approve of Violet, but she had never forgotten that she was a person too and had the rights that went with being a person. Mma Ramotswe could never inflict pain on another, and Violet Sephotho would require rough handling to be helped over the edge. Mma Ramotswe would do it—if she did it at all—with real regret, apologising to Violet even as she pushed her over the side. “I’m so sorry, Violet. I wish I had an alternative, but I simply don’t. You’ll have to go. I’m so sorry.” But then she thought: no, I could never push Violet Sephotho over the side, even if the balloon was going down. We would have to take our chances for a bumpy landing; I could not do it, I could not push another person overboard.

The instructions were clear enough, and she drove there by herself, without telling Mma Makutsi. The handling of Mma Rosie was now a matter for her and her alone, and she would have to be very careful not to ruffle feathers.

She parked in the broad sunlight, as every available bit of shade was already taken. Then, leaving the van, she walked over the road to the bakery, from which, in the still air of the afternoon, the delicious smell of baking bread drifted—along with something else, and halfway across the road she realised what that was: fat cakes. She stopped for a moment and sniffed at the air: she was on duty and should put all thought of food out of her mind, but fat cakes…She tried to remember when she had last eaten one. Two weeks ago? That was a long time ago and there would be no guilt now in buying one—possibly two—of the famous confections and eating it, or possibly eating both of them, in the van. Indeed the purchase of fat cakes might even count as a legitimate expense in the case, just as buying a cup of coffee did when one was waiting for somebody whom one was following.

She opened the door of the bakery. Now the delicious odour was all about her, and there, on a tray on the counter, was a freshly baked batch of fat cakes, their pores exuding tiny succulent drops of nectar, the sweet perspiration of the confection itself.

A woman behind the counter greeted her politely, and Mma Ramotswe returned the greeting.

“I would like some fat cakes, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe began.

“Then you have come to the right place,” said the woman, gesturing towards the tray. “These are very fresh, Mma. And they are very delicious—probably the most delicious fat cakes in the country.”