‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘You must be the mother of James. He is the person we would like to speak to.’

The woman nodded. ‘This is his house,’ she said, ‘and I am his mother.’ She paused, as if wondering whether she should let two strangers in to see her son. ‘He is resting now. Is it important?’

Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. ‘It is very important,’ she said.

The woman nodded. ‘You should come in, please,’ she said, gesturing for them to follow her. ‘You can sit here, and I shall call him.’

They sat in the small parlour, which also served as a dining room and kitchen. Mma Ramotswe looked about her, as she always did when entering an unfamiliar room. She noticed the calendar stuck on the wall, advertising football boots; she noticed the rickety display cabinet with the school sporting trophies neatly arranged along the shelves; she noticed the old photograph of a boy in scout uniform having a badge pinned on his chest. She saw some other things, and everything she saw told her: this is not the house of a man who would take a bribe.

After a few minutes, James Pikani appeared. He looked as if he had been asleep, as his eyes were puffy and the T-shirt he was wearing was crumpled. Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and greeted him. Then she introduced him to Mma Makutsi who, struck by the presence of a famous person, couldn’t help doing a little curtsey.

‘What can I do for you, ladies?’ asked James Pikani.

Mma Ramotswe looked embarrassed. ‘Just your autograph, Rra,’ she said. ‘That would be enough.’

James Pikani laughed. ‘Oh, is that all? Well, of course, we need to keep the fans happy!’

‘That is very kind of you, Rra,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I’ve brought a little book for you to sign in, and a pencil, too.’

She held out a small black book, which he took from her. Then she fished into the bag she had with her and took out a pencil.

‘Here, Rra,’ she said. ‘Catch.’

With that, she threw the pencil towards James Pikani. The footballer reached out, but his hand was nowhere near the pencil and it dropped to the floor.

‘I’m sorry, Rra,’ said Mma Ramotswe, as she stooped to retrieve the pencil. ‘Here it is.’

3

She telephoned Mr Gefeli later that day and invited him to come to the office. She had important news for him, she said.

‘You have solved the case?’ he asked. ‘You have solved it so quickly?’

‘Yes,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Come in to the office and I will tell you all about it.’

Mr Gefeli arrived quickly. As he sat with a cup of red-bush tea in front of him, Mma Ramotswe gave him the good news.

‘Your goalkeeper,’ she announced, ‘is not corrupt.’

Mr Gefeli looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure about that, Mma?’

Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘I am very sure,’ she said. ‘He is not corrupt – just short-sighted.’