“I do not like doing this, Rra,” she said. “But this is my job. Sometimes I have to be tough and do things that I do not like doing. But what I am doing now has to be done because there is a very sad American woman who only wants to say goodbye to her son. I know you don’t care about her, but I do, and I think that her feelings are more important than yours. So I am going to offer you a bargain. You tell me what happened and I shall promise you—and my word means what it says, Rra—I shall promise you that we hear nothing more about Angel and her friend.”

His breathing was irregular; short gasps, like that of a person with obstructive airways disease—a struggling for breath.

“I did not kill him,” he said. “I did not kill him.”

“Now you are telling the truth,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I can tell that. But you must tell me what happened and where his body is. That is what I want to know.”

“Are you going to go to the police and tell them that I withheld information? If you will, then I will just face whatever happens about that girl.”

“No, I am not going to go to the police. This story is just for his mother. That is all.”

He closed his eyes. “I cannot talk here. You can come to my house.”

“I will come this evening.”

“No,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

“I shall come this evening,” she said. “That woman has waited ten years. She must not wait any longer.”

“All right. I shall write down the address. You can come tonight at nine o’clock.”

“I shall come at eight,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Not every woman will do what you tell her to do, you know.”

She left him, and as she made her way back to the tiny white van she listened to her own breathing and felt her own heart thumping wildly. She had no idea where she had found the courage, but it had been there, like the water at the bottom of a disused quarry—unfathomably deep.

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AT TLOKWENG ROAD SPEEDY MOTORS