Mma Ramotswe was puzzled—not by the question, but by Mma Makutsi’s intense reaction to it. “This is Mma Makutsi,” she offered. “She is my assist—” She stopped herself. Mma Makutsi was no longer her assistant, but her co-director. It could have been worse, of course; she might have referred to her as her secretary, something she had almost done a few days earlier, but had fortunately avoided just in time. “She is the co-director here, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe caught Mma Makutsi’s eye. A signal was being sent in her direction—a signal of great and urgent importance—but she could not work out what it was. Why should Mma Makutsi be so agitated simply because their visitor had asked who she was? She would no doubt find out later, but for the moment she had other questions to ask.

“Now,” Mma Ramotswe began, “you say, Mma, that you are the person who looked after that child all those years ago. May I ask how old you are, Mma?”

The woman nodded, as if she had been expecting the question. “I am fifty-three now, Mma. I was in my early twenties when that child was here.”

Mma Ramotswe jotted 53 on her pad of paper. The woman’s eyes followed the movement of the pencil.

Mma Ramotswe looked up from her note, her pencil poised. “And where were you born, Mma?”

“Mahalapye.”

Mma Ramotswe wrote this down.

Now Mma Makutsi asked a question. “Mahalapye, Mma? I have cousins there.”

The woman said nothing.

“They are called Makutsi, like me.”

The woman shrugged. “I do not know those people, Mma.”

“No,” mused Mma Makutsi. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. You must have left a long time ago.”

The woman looked at her. “I was eighteen, Mma. I came to Gaborone then. That’s over thirty years ago.”

“Of course,” said Mma Makutsi. “Thirty years ago is not yesterday. But…” She hesitated. “These cousins of mine lived fairly close to the railway line—right in the middle of town. What was that place called? The area in the middle? Leretlwa? It was Leretlwa, wasn’t it, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe sensed what was happening, but did not say anything.

“Yes,” said the woman. “That is right. There is Leretlwa. I know it.”

Mma Makutsi sat back in her chair, her expression one of scarcely disguised triumph.

Mma Ramotswe looked away. She was taken aback by Mma Makutsi’s questioning, but did not show it. “Tell me, Mma,” she said evenly. “How many years did you look after that girl? Two, three years?”

The answer came back quickly. “Eight,” she said. “From when she was a little baby—I helped the mummy even then—until the time those people went back to Canada. I was looking after her all that time.”

“Always in Gaborone?”

“No. In Molepolole to begin with. Then in Gaborone.”

Mma Ramotswe scribbled a note on her pad. “You must have been sad when they left.”