Mma Makutsi made the tea in two pots. One was her own pot, rescued from disaster some time ago when one of the apprentices had used it as a receptacle for drained diesel oil; astonishingly, it was none the worse for that experience. That had been one of the more serious points of conflict between her and the two young men, and had resulted in an exchange of insults and a storming-out by Charlie. Now, as she poured the hot water into the tea-pots, she remembered that difficult occasion and wondered how Charlie was faring with his new business. It was undoubtedly quieter without him; there were none of the sudden shouts that used to emanate from the garage when something was dropped or when an engine proved recalcitrant. He had a tendency to shout at engines, using colourful insults, and although Mma Ramotswe had instructed him never to do this when she had a client in the office, the exclamations still came. And now all was silence; the young apprentice, whom Mma Makutsi had seen when she came into work, had a hang-dog expression on his face and seemed to be listless and unhappy. It would be no fun for him, she thought, now that Charlie had gone, and she wondered whether he too might hand in his notice to go off and do something else. That would inevitably provoke a crisis for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who would never be able to cope with just himself and Mr. Polopetsi to do all the work.

Mma Makutsi filled her own tea-pot and then reached for the small tin caddy in which Mma Ramotswe kept her supplies of red bush tea. She opened it, looked in, and then shut it again.

“Mma Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up from her papers. She had received a letter from somebody who wanted her to look for a missing person, but the writer of the letter had signed it indecipherably, neglected to give a proper address, and had not mentioned the name of the missing person. She held the letter up to the light in the vain hope of some clue, and sighed. This was not going to be an easy case.

“Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, Mma? Is the tea ready?”

Mma Makutsi held up the empty caddy and shook it demonstratively. “We have run out of bush tea,” she announced. “Empty.”

Mma Ramotswe put down the letter and glanced at her watch. It was shortly after ten o’clock. “But this is ten o’clock tea,” she said. “When we had tea earlier this morning, there was bush tea.”

“Yes, there was,” said Mma Makutsi. “But that was the last bag. Now there is nothing left. The tin is quite empty. Look.”

She opened the caddy and tipped it up. Only a few flecks of tea, the detritus of long-vanished bags, floated down towards the ground.