Mr. Polopetsi scratched his head. “Well, maybe. Maybe.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“I said maybe, Mma. I didn't say no. I said maybe.”

Mma Ramotswe pointed to the list. “You see, what we have done is to get Mr. Molofololo to mark who has a Mercedes-Benz. We can start with those ones.”

For a few moments Mr. Polopetsi looked at Mma Ramotswe doubtfully. Then he shook his head. “Because those people will be the ones who have money they're not entitled to? Bribes? Is that what you're saying, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. “More or less, Rra.”

Mma Makutsi passed him his mug of tea and he nursed it carefully before raising it to his lips. “Thank you, Mma. This is very good tea.” He took a sip and then lowered the mug. “Absolutely not, Mma Ramotswe,” he said firmly. “You can forget about those ones.”

“Why?”

“Because football players are no fools,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “They know that they are in the public eye. They are watched all the time. People write about them in the papers. People talk. If you had money you were not entitled to, then a Mercedes-Benz is the last thing you would buy.”

Mma Makutsi leaned forward over her desk. “He may be right, Mma Ramotswe. I can see what he means. Don't buy a Mercedes-Benz if you don't want people to start asking questions.”

Mma Ramotswe had not expected such a firm rejection of her theory, which, after all, had the stamp of Clovis Andersen's authority to it. But now that she thought of what Mr. Polopetsi had said, she realised that he was probably right. It was a pity, as she thought that the Mercedes-Benz theory had its strong points, not the least of which was that it gave them a convenient starting point. But on mature reflection she decided that Mr. Polopetsi was right. It would be a foolish man who invited attention where none was wanted.

And then Mr. Polopetsi had an idea. It was a qualification, really, to the proposition that he had advanced earlier. “Of course,” he said, “their mothers are a different matter. If the mother of a football player has a Mercedes-Benz, then there is every reason to be suspicious.”

CHAPTER TEN

A BIT OF BOTSWANA'S HISTORY

THROUGHOUT THE REST of that morning, Mma Ramotswe could settle to nothing. She had some letters to write, and these she dictated to Mma Makutsi, whose pencil hovered over the pad while Mma Ramotswe struggled to keep her thoughts from wandering. It was the tiny white van, of course, that was preying on her mind. She felt as a relative might feel in a hospital waiting room, anticipating the results of an operation, ready to judge the outcome by the expression on the surgeon's face. In this case her vigil was made all the more trying by the fact that she could hear noises coming from the garage, a clanking sound at one point, a thudding of metal on metal at another; at least relatives of those in hospital were not treated to quite such vivid and immediate sound effects.