‘This tea is very good,’ said Mr Gefeli. He paused, and dabbed at his mouth with a white handkerchief that he took from the breast pocket of his suit. It was an oddly fussy gesture for a man of his build. Nor was it what one would have expected from the owner of a major football team.

Mma Ramotswe now decided that enough time had been spent on chit-chat. It was not polite, of course, to rush straight into business, but it was equally rude to keep somebody waiting.

‘Is there something you would like to talk to us about, Rra?’ she asked. ‘Is there something that we can do to help?’

Mr Gefeli tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Well, Mma,’ he began, ‘there is something. You see, I have been losing football matches.’

Mma Ramotswe sighed. She was not a sportswoman – her traditional build had always made that somewhat unlikely – but she knew enough about sports to know that somebody won, and somebody lost. There were no sports, as far as she could make out, where everybody won. If this were the case, then why should people complain if they occasionally lost?

‘Somebody has to lose, Rra,’ she said quietly. ‘You can’t have two winners. One side will win and the other will lose.’

Mr Gefeli shook his head impatiently. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘of course I understand that. But whenever one loses, there is a reason for it. You don’t lose for no reason at all. There will be some player who does not perform as well as he normally does. You will see this, and you can speak to the player and tell him where he has been going wrong. If he doesn’t improve, then you can get rid of him. That is the way it’s done.’

Mma Ramotswe thought about this for a moment. ‘So, who is this player?’ she asked. ‘Who is this player who has been making you lose?’

For a moment, Mr Gefeli said nothing. He looked down at his hands, which were folded over his lap. ‘James,’ he muttered. ‘James Pikani, our goalkeeper.’

Mma Ramotswe frowned. ‘Then he isn’t so good after all,’ she said.

Mr Gefeli became animated. ‘But he is,’ he said. ‘It’s just that he …’ He stopped and looked at his hands again.

‘Yes?’ said Mma Ramotswe.

‘He lets goals through,’ said Mr Gefeli. ‘Not all the time. Most of the time he’s a brilliant goalkeeper, but then, in certain matches, he goes to pieces. I’m sure he’s doing it on purpose.’

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath sharply. Even with her scant knowledge of sports, she knew that this was the very worst thing a player could do. It was a sort of treason, she thought; the player was letting down the whole team. Of course, the reason for it was usually money.

‘Somebody must be paying him,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think that is the most likely reason, Rra?’

Mr Gefeli nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I assume that somebody is paying him, Mma. But how can I tell? How can I prove it?’