“He found nothing?” Mma Ramotswe knew the answer to this, but she wanted to keep the other woman talking. She had so far only heard the story from Mrs Curtin’s viewpoint; it was quite possible that there were things which other people had seen which she did not know about.

“He ran round and round like a dog,” said Mma Potsane, laughing. “He looked under stones and sniffed the air and muttered away in that peculiar language of theirs—you know how it is, all those sounds like trees in the wind and twigs breaking. But he found no sign of any wild animals which may have taken that boy.”

Mma Ramotswe passed her a handkerchief to dab her eyes. “So what do you think happened to him, Mma? How can somebody just vanish like that?”

Mma Potsane sniffed and then blew her nose on Mma Ramotswe’s handkerchief.

“I think that he was sucked up,” she said. “There are sometimes whirlwinds here in the very hot season. They come in from the Kalahari and they suck things up. I think that maybe that boy got sucked up in a whirlwind and put down somewhere far, far away. Maybe over by Ghanzi way or in the middle of the Kalahari or somewhere. No wonder they didn’t find him.”

Mma Tsbago looked sideways at Mma Ramotswe, trying to catch her eye, but Mma Ramotswe looked straight ahead at Mma Potsane.

“That is always possible, Mma,” she said. “That is an interesting idea.” She paused. “Could you take me out there and show me round? I have a van here.”

Mma Potsane thought for a moment. “I do not like to go out there,” she said. “It is a sad place for me.”

“I have twenty pula for your expenses,” said Mma Ramotswe, reaching into her pocket. “I had hoped that you would be able to accept this from me.”

“Of course,” said Mma Potsane hurriedly. “We can go there. I do not like to go there at night, but in the day it is different.”

“Now?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Could you come now?”

“I am not busy,” said Mma Potsane. “There is nothing happening here.”

Mma Ramotswe passed the money over to Mma Potsane, who thanked her, clapping both hands in a sign of gratitude. Then they walked back over her neatly swept yard and, saying goodbye to Mma Tsbago, they climbed into the van and drove off.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FURTHER PROBLEMS WITH THE ORPHAN-FARM PUMP

ON THE day that Mma Ramotswe travelled out to Silokwolela, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni felt vaguely ill at ease. He had become accustomed to meeting Mma Ramotswe on a Saturday morning to help her with her shopping or with some task about the house. Without her, he felt at a loose end: Gaborone seemed strangely empty; the garage was closed, and he had no desire to attend to the paperwork that had been piling up on his desk. He could call on a friend, of course, and perhaps go and watch a football match, but again he was not in the mood for that. Then he thought of Mma Silvia Potokwane, Matron in Charge of the Orphan Farm. There was inevitably something happening out there, and she was always happy to sit down and have a chat over a cup of tea. He would go out there and see how everything was. Then the rest of the day could take care of itself until Mma Ramotswe returned that evening.