Mma Makutsi now remembered where she had seen this man: he had been on television, talking about a plan to raise one million pula for some ambitious project—a flying-doctor plane, or something of that sort. There were so many people with projects, she thought, and most of them sounded very worthy. But how did one decide where one’s charity would go? It was very difficult. And then the further thought came that she did not give very much—in fact, she gave nothing, even though now she could spare one or two pula, her single-girl’s mite, so to speak. She would start giving one day, after she had received a little bit more herself; then she would give.

Herbert Mateleke laughed. It was a short laugh, though—that of one who had been distracted from something grave, and needed to get back to more serious thoughts. “I was not thinking of higher things, Mma. I was trying to make out whether it was you I saw in the shop. With the light like this, you see, the glass reflects and you cannot see exactly who is on the other side. Now I see it is you.”

“And my secretary, Mma Makutsi. We have been …”

“Assistant detective,” interjected Mma Makutsi, giving Mma Ramotswe a disapproving glance. “We have been buying equipment for a case.”

Herbert Mateleke nodded distractedly. “Yes, of course. You must need a lot of equipment.” He paused, gathering his thoughts for an aphorism. “We need a lot of equipment to find out the truth in this world.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. “Do you think so, Rra? I think that all we need in order to know the truth is these.” She pointed to her eyes. And then, pointing to her nose, “And this. This is a very big help in finding out what is true and what is not. Don’t you agree, Rra?”

There was no edge to what she said, but as she spoke to Herbert Mateleke she could not forget the fact that, at least in his wife’s eyes, he stood accused of having an affair. And that shirt—that bright blue shirt—was that the sort of shirt one expected a successful businessman and part-time reverend to wear? Or was it the shirt of a man who was trying to make himself a little bit more colourful, rather more interesting to women? She knew the warning signs with middle-aged men—they were like a set of traffic lights that glowed brightly in the dark. Greater attention to personal grooming? Bad sign. Pulling-in of the stomach to conceal paunch? Bad sign. Purchase of a more powerful car in bright red? Very, very bad sign.