“They seek him here, they seek him there,” said the woman. “He is here one moment, the next moment, he is nowhere. That’s Dr Ranta.”

“But will he be here at this moment?” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am not worried about the next moment.”

The woman arched an eyebrow. “You could try his office. He has an office here. But most of the time he spends in his bedroom.”

“Oh,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is a ladies’ man, this Dr Ranta?”

“You could say that,” said the woman. “And one of these days the University Council will catch him and tie him up with rope. But in the meantime, nobody dares touch him.”

Mma Ramotswe was intrigued. So often, people did one’s work for one, as this woman was now doing.

“Why can people not touch him?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“The girls themselves are too frightened to speak,” said the woman. “And his colleagues all have something to hide themselves. You know what these places are like.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I am not a BA,” she said. “I do not know.”

“Well,” said the woman, “I can tell you. They have a lot of people like Dr Ranta in them. You’ll find out. I can speak to you about this because I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m going to a better job.”

Mma Ramotswe was given instructions as to how to find Dr Ranta’s office and she took her leave of the helpful receptionist. It was not a good idea on the university’s part, she thought, to put that woman in the enquiry office. If she greeted any enquiry as to a member of staff with the gossip on that person, a visitor might get quite the wrong impression. Yet perhaps it was just because she was leaving the next day that she was talking like this; in which case, thought Mma Ramotswe, there was an opportunity.

“One thing, Mma,” she said, as she reached the door. “It may be hard for anybody to deal with Dr Ranta because he hasn’t done anything wrong. It may not be a good thing to interfere with students, but that may not be grounds for sacking him, at least it may not be these days. So maybe there’s nothing that can be done.”

She saw immediately that it was going to work, and that her surmise, that the receptionist had suffered at the hands of Dr Ranta, was correct.

“Oh yes, he has,” she retorted, becoming suddenly animated. “He showed an examination paper to a student if she would oblige him. Yes! I’m the only one who knows it. The student was my cousin’s daughter. She spoke to her mother, but she would not report it. But the mother told me.”

“But you have no proof?” said Mma Ramotswe, gently. “Is that the problem?”

“Yes,” said the receptionist. “There is no proof. He would lie his way out of it.”