This changed everything. “I can certainly do that, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Indeed, that is what we do rather well, isn't it, Mma Makutsi?”

Mma Makutsi nodded emphatically. “We often find out where men are hiding their money when it comes to divorce,” she said. “Men are very cunning, Rra. But we find out where the money is.”

Mr. Molofololo raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure you do,” he said.

“So we shall be happy to act for you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We will need details of all the players. We shall need to know exactly where they live, and I need to be able to have some contact with the team. Can you think of any suitable cover for me?”

Mr. Molofololo thought for a moment. “We have a lady who gives massages to the players,” he said. “She helps them if they pull a muscle or something like that. But she also helps to keep their limbs in good working order. You could be her assistant, perhaps. She has worked for me for many years and is very discreet.”

“That is important,” said Mma Makutsi from behind her desk. “One does not want a lady who talks too much.”

AT THE END OF THAT DAY, at five o'clock, when the whole of Gaborone streamed out of its shops and offices and other places of work, when the sun began to sink low over the Kalahari to the west, Mma Ramotswe locked the office behind her and walked, with Mma Makutsi, on to the Tlokweng Road. Mma Makutsi would catch a minibus there, one of those swaying, overloaded vehicles that plied their trade along the roads that led into the city, and she said to Mma Ramotswe, “Why walk all the way, Mma? Come with me on the minibus and then you can get off when we get to the crossroads and walk from there.”

She was tempted. It had been a busy day, what with Mr. Molofololo and several other clients who had slipped in without an appointment, and all she wanted now was to get home. But she had said that she would walk, and walk she would.

“No thank you, Mma. It is good exercise, you see. It's important that people in Botswana should get exercise. We talked about that already.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “But it's also important,” she said, “that people in Botswana get back home in good time. It's important that they have time to cook themselves a good dinner. It's important that they do not get covered in dust from too much walking. All of these things are important.”

Mma Ramotswe just smiled. “I hope that you sleep well tonight, Mma. I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

And with that they bade their farewells, and Mma Makutsi watched Mma Ramotswe begin to walk along the road back towards town. She admired her employer, who was far stronger, she thought, than she was herself. I would never walk if I had the chance of getting into a car or a minibus. No, I would not, and that is because Mma Ramotswe is a strong and determined lady and I am just one of these ladies who blow with the wind. She paused; she was not sure that this was the right metaphor. For a moment she imagined Mma Ramotswe being buffeted by a strong wind, one of the hot, dry winds that come from far off in the bush, far over on the other side of the border, from hills that she could not name and had never seen. She saw the wind ruffle Mma Ramotswe's skirt and blouse, inflating them briefly; but Mma Ramotswe stood firm, while all about her acacia trees were bending and leaves whirling in mad vortices. Mma Ramotswe stood firm, even when lesser people, thin, insubstantial people, were being toppled and bowled over by the wind. That was Mma Ramotswe, her rock.