In the course of their conversation earlier that day, Mr Gefeli had made it clear that there had been several occasions on which James appeared to let goals through, and, in each case, the Comets had been playing against a different team. Why would one person want the Comets to lose a series of games, rather than just the one game in which they were playing against the briber’s team? Or would it be in somebody’s interest that the Comets should be less successful all round?

The more Mma Ramotswe thought about it, the more complicated it became. And the more complicated it became, the less likely it seemed to her that she would come up with a simple answer. This might take weeks, even months of investigation, and even then she might not come up with a solution.

She felt more confident the next day when she sat on her veranda shortly after sunrise, drinking her early morning cup of red-bush tea. It was her favourite time of day, a time when the world was new, when the air was sharp and fresh, with just a hint of woodsmoke from somebody’s fire. She had decided that the best way to tackle this case was the way in which she tackled every case: head on.

It would be far too difficult, she felt, to find out who might be bribing the goalkeeper. So instead she would get to know James Pikani himself; that was what she would do today. She would go and see the man. She would think of a reason for visiting him, and once she found him she would rely on her greatest weapon – intuition – to work out what to do next. She would have to tread carefully, of course; one could hardly ask him outright whether he was being bribed. But there were ways of finding these things out. You could find out whether somebody was honest or not by watching his or her eyes. It was not difficult.

In the office that morning, as she and Mma Makutsi were dealing with the day’s post, Mma Ramotswe asked her assistant what she knew about James. ‘You’re the one who seems to know everything about football,’ she began. ‘At least, you knew all about this James Pikani. Or so you said.’

‘I did not say that I knew everything,’ corrected Mma Makutsi. ‘I just said that I knew that he was the goalkeeper. I know a girl who was his girlfriend once. That is how I knew.’

Mma Ramotswe leaned forward. This remark of Mma Makutsi’s, this casual reference to a girlfriend, was a possible way in to the meeting that she needed with the footballer.

‘This girlfriend, Mma,’ she said. ‘Who is she?’

Mma Makutsi adjusted her spectacles – the large, round spectacles that she wore. She enjoyed imparting knowledge, and she did so with the air of a schoolteacher spelling out the obvious to a class of none-too-bright pupils. ‘She is called Alice,’ she replied. ‘She works in a shoe shop in town. It is a very good shop, and they brought in these new shoes the other day. You should have seen them, Mma Ramotswe, they were—’