“Have you found this man, Mma Ramotswe? You have had quite a few days now. Which one is it?”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow, silently mouthing the liquid syllables of his name to let Mma Makutsi know who was on the other end of the line: Molofololo.

“We have been making good progress, Rra,” she assured him. “My assistant and I are actively interviewing the players on that list you gave us. We are uncovering a considerable amount of information. Many interesting things.”

“Such as?” Mr. Molofololo snapped.

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She could hardly tell him—at this stage at least—that some of the players, possibly most of them, found him an irritation. Nor did she want to tell him that Big Man Tafa was in debt and that he wanted Rops out of the way, or that Oteng Bolelang was arrogant and considered Big Man Tafa to be in need of glasses. So she simply said, “Many interesting things, Rra, that I shall be using to build up a picture of what's going on.”

“But I know what's going on,” said Mr. Molofololo. “What's going on is that one of my players is throwing the matches. We have a traitor, Mma, and that is why I'm paying you good money to find out who it is.”

Mma Ramotswe thought that she might point out that he had paid nothing so far. She had asked for a small sum on account, but her request had been ignored.

“I think we should meet soon, Rra,” she said. “Then we can have a good talk about the case. It's not easy to talk about these things on the telephone.”

Mr. Molofololo was quick to accept the offer. “You could come to the match on Saturday,” he said. “We're playing the Molepolole Squibs. Come to that and we can talk then.”

Mma Ramotswe thought of her weekend. She had already sacrificed one precious Saturday afternoon to sit watching an unintelligible set of events unfolding on the pitch, and she did not see any point in doing that again. Puso, on the other hand, would very much see the point.

“I think that it is best to talk somewhere else,” she said. “There is always too much going on at a football match and … and I must be discreet, you know.”

“Ah yes,” said Mr. Molofololo. This was how he imagined detectives operated—discreetly. “You're right, Mma. Keep a low profile. But what about Puso—that is his name, isn't it? He is a good little boy—would he like to come to the match?”

“He would like that very much, Rra. You are very kind.”

“And then we can talk on Monday?”

“On Monday, Rra. And by then, I hope, I shall have something for you.”

She regretted that remark the moment she had made it. It was a bad mistake to tie yourself down to deadlines—it was a bad mistake to make promises in general—but there was something about Mr. Molofololo's manner—his pushy, rather hectoring style—that led to this. Was this what the players objected to, she wondered, and could it have triggered sufficient resentment in some breast to motivate treachery?