She thought of the day’s events, and of the awkward journey with the woman whom Mma Makutsi had begun to refer to as Mma Not Rosie. It was a handy description, and she understood why Mma Makutsi might reach such a conclusion, but there was something about it that made her feel uncomfortable. Even if there were doubtful aspects to the woman’s story, inconsistencies could occur in even the truest of tales: people told the truth not as it necessarily was, but as they saw it. And of course that could lead to things not sounding quite right. It was the watertight story that often needed closest examination, thought Mma Ramotswe; stories that looked unassailable could be the result of careful planning—and careful invention.

And there was something rather sad about Mma Not Rosie. Her little outburst in the car had a tragic feel to it. It sounded contrived—and she could see why Mma Makutsi had rolled her eyes—but pain, when exposed to others, could sometimes sound false. Mma Makutsi could be a bit brisk; she had a good instinct for people, but it was not infallible, and there had been occasions in the past when her instinct had misled her. Trust your nose, but make sure it’s pointing in the right direction. Who had said that? Mma Ramotswe realised that it was she herself. And I am right, she thought, modestly at first, but then with a tinge of self-satisfaction. Trust your nose, but make sure it’s pointing in the right direction. She would try that out on Mma Makutsi the following day and see how she reacted. It could give her something to think about—but on the other hand, it might not; you never knew with Mma Makutsi.