Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant in astonishment. “Double-Zulu, Mma? What language is that?”

Mma Makutsi waved a hand in the direction of the border. “Something they speak somewhere over there. It is more difficult than Zulu. Twice as difficult. You cannot understand it. Nobody can.”

“Is there something worrying you, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “You can speak to me about it—you know that.”

Mma Makutsi looked up now, her large glasses catching the sunlight slanting in through the small window behind Mma Ramotswe's desk; the lenses flashed like the eyes of an animal caught at night in the beam of a torch. “Why do you think I am worried?” she snapped. “I am sitting here working and you are talking about football, Mma. Forgive me, Mma, but it is not easy to work if somebody is talking about football all the time.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I'm sorry, Mma. I will try not to disturb you, but if you are unhappy, then please talk to me. It is not easy to be unhappy all by yourself, you know. It is easier if …”

She did not finish. Mma Makutsi had taken off her glasses and sunk her head in her hands. “Oh, I am very unhappy, Mma,” she sobbed. “And I am sorry that I have been accusing you of talking about football. You were not talking about football—it's just that I am a very unhappy lady, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe quickly rose to her feet and crossed the room to Mma Makutsi's side. Bending down, she put her arms around her, feeling the heaving of her shoulders as the sobbing grew deeper.

“I could tell, Mma,” she said. “I could tell that you were unhappy. What is it, Mma? Is it Phuti?”

The mention of Phuti Radiphuti's name brought forth a wail. “It is, Mma. Oh, it is, Mma Ramotswe. I saw him. I saw him yesterday evening in his car.” She looked up at her employer. Tears ran down her cheeks, eroding the oily white cream that she rubbed each morning into her difficult complexion. Mma Makutsi wept cloudy tears as a result, like milk.

Mma Ramotswe took her handkerchief and wiped at the tears. “There, Mma. You've been wanting to cry. You saw Phuti in his car. Why be upset about that?”

“In his car with Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Makutsi. “That no-good woman. Temptress. She was smiling with that big, wicked smile of hers. She was like a leopard that has been hunting and is dragging her prey to her cave. That is what she looked like.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But you do not know why she was in the car?”

“She has gone to work for him,” said Mma Makutsi. “Phuti has given her a job. She started yesterday and already she has her claws into him.”

Mma Ramotswe dragged a chair over to Mma Makutsi's side and sat down. “Now listen, Mma. You must not jump to conclusions. Remember what Mr. Andersen says? Remember that bit— I read it out to you once. He said Do not decide that something is the case until you know it is the case. Those were his exact words, were they not, Mma? They were. And if you apply them to this, all that you know is that for some reason—and you do not know what reason that is—Phuti had Violet Sephotho in his car yesterday evening. What time was it?”