“That is not wise,” said Mma Makutsi. “Do the little things when you are young and then work up to doing the big things later.”

“Mmm,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “These Mercedes-Benz cars have not been a good thing for Africa. They are very fine cars, I believe, but all the ambitious people in Africa want one before they have earned it. That has made for big problems.”

“The more Mercedes-Benzes there are in a country,” offered Mma Makutsi, “the worse that country is. If there is a country without any Mercedes-Benzes, then that will be a good place. You can count on that.”

Mma Ramotswe stared at her assistant. It was an interesting theory, which could be discussed at greater length later on. For the meantime, there were one or two matters which still needed to be resolved.

“You will still make the tea,” she said firmly. “You have always done that very well.”

“I am very happy to do that,” said Mma Makutsi, smiling. “There is no reason why an assistant private detective cannot make tea when there is nobody more junior to do it.”

IT HAD been an awkward discussion and Mma Ramotswe was pleased that it was over. She thought that it would be best if she gave her new assistant a case as soon as possible, to avoid the buildup of tension, and when, later that morning, Mr Letsenyane Badule arrived she decided that this would be a case for Mma Makutsi.

He drove up in a Mercedes-Benz, but it was an old one, and therefore morally insignificant, with signs of rust around the rear sills and with a deep dent on the driver’s door.

“I am not one who usually comes to private detectives,” he said, sitting nervously on the edge of the comfortable chair reserved for clients. Opposite him, the two women smiled reassuringly. The fat woman—she was the boss, he knew, as he had seen her photograph in the newspaper—and that other one with the odd hair and the fancy dress, her assistant perhaps.

“You need not feel embarrassed,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have all sorts of people coming through this door. There is no shame in asking for help.”

“In fact,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “It is the strong ones who ask for help. It is the weak ones who are too ashamed to come.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. The client seemed to be reassured by what Mma Makutsi had said. This was a good sign. Not everyone knows how to set a client at ease, and it boded well that Mma Makutsi had shown herself able to choose her words well.

The tightness of Mr Badule’s grip on the brim of his hat loosened, and he sat back in his chair.

“I have been very worried,” he said. “Every night I have been waking up in the quiet hours and have been unable to get back to sleep. I lie in my bed and I turn this way and that and cannot get this one thought out of my head. All the time it is there, going round and round. Just one question, which I ask myself time after time after time.”