The garage business was owned by Mma Ramotswe’s husband, Mr J. L. B. Matekoni, who everyone agreed was the finest mechanic in Botswana. She had been engaged to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni for rather a long time, and eventually he had married her. But some say this was only as a result of clever plotting by the cunning matron of the Tlokweng Orphan Farm, Mma Potokwani.

Yet such a view was uncharitable. Mr J. L. B. Matekoni was sometimes a bit indecisive, and marriage proved to be only one of the things that he was indecisive about. The important thing was that he did marry Mma Ramotswe eventually, and he had now moved into her house on Zebra Drive, a fine house with a shady veranda and a good vegetable garden to the rear.

They were very fortunate, and not a day went by without Mma Ramotswe reminding herself of this good fortune. When things were slack in the office, as they now were, she reminded herself of her good fortune rather more frequently. It was a very good way of preventing feelings of frustration, especially when there was nothing to do but look at the small white gecko which ran up the office wall and then, defying gravity, across the ceiling boards. But the trouble with thinking about one’s good fortune was that, after a while, one began to wish to do something else, and that, of course, depended on the arrival of a client.

‘Mma Ramotswe?’ The voice which interrupted her was that of her assistant, Mma Makutsi. She had been busying herself filing papers, and was now looking intently at her employer. ‘You look as if you’re daydreaming.’

Mma Ramotswe nodded. ‘I was, I suppose.’

‘There is nothing wrong with that,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘When you have nothing better to do.’

‘Well,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I don’t.’

‘Except now you do,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘There is somebody coming, Mma. I can see him out there. He is coming to the door.’

Mma Ramotswe picked up a piece of paper and began to look at it closely. It did no harm for clients to think that one was busy, even when one was not. If the client thought that one had nothing to do, his confidence in the agency might be dented and that, in the long run, would not help. In the giving of advice to other people – which was what being a private detective was usually all about – it was important that the client believe in the detective. So there was nothing wrong, she felt, in picking up a piece of paper and pretending to be very busy reading it. Even if the paper was no more than a letter from one of Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s suppliers, saying that a set of spark plugs which he had ordered for the garage had now been received and was awaiting collection.

Mma Makutsi ushered in the client and pointed to the visitors’ chair. ‘That is where you must sit, Rra,’ she said to the smartly dressed, middle-aged man. He had given her his name, but she had not caught it and did not wish to ask him again. There was something about this man which suggested authority. When he had introduced himself, he had had a look about him which implied that she should know exactly who he was in any case. There was something familiar about him, Mma Makutsi thought. Was he a politician? They often had that air of assurance that comes with the exercise of power, and they usually expected people to know who they were.