Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni took the insult in silence. He looked down at the table, at the photograph, now revealed to be so innocent. A faithful man returns to his wife: that could be the title of that picture. He had made a mistake, yes, but it was a genuine mistake, a mistake of the sort that anybody, including this impossibly arrogant woman, might make. “You’re not to call me stupid,” he said quietly. “I will not have that, Mma.”

She glared at him. “Stupid,” she said. “There. I have called you stupid, Rra.”

But Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was thinking. It now dawned on him that he did have some information that might be of use to these people, even if it was something of a long shot.

“I followed this Baleseng twice, you know,” he said. “And on the first occasion I saw something very interesting.”

“Oh yes,” sneered Mma Botumile. “You saw him go shopping perhaps? You saw him buy a pair of socks? Very interesting information, Rra!”

“You must not make fun of me,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, his voice rising, but still just under control. “You must not talk to me like that, Mma. You are very ill-mannered.” He paused. “I saw him have a meeting with Charlie Gotso. And I overheard what they talked about.”

The effect of this information was dramatic. Mr. Botumile, who had been quietly smirking ever since he had been cleared of suspicion, now became animated. “Gotso?” he said. “He met Gotso?”

“Yes,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“What about?” asked Mma Botumile. “What did they talk about?”

“Mining,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

Mr. Botumile gave his wife a glance. “We must hear about this.”

“Once you have apologised,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni with dignity. “Then I shall tell you about it. But not before.”

Mma Botumile’s eyes widened. She was wrestling with conflicting emotions, it seemed, but eventually she turned to her husband. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We can talk later.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni cleared his throat. He had meant that she should apologise to him, and now she had apologised to him. She would have to apologise again, which would do her good, he thought, as this was a woman who had a lot of apologising to do.

As he waited for the apology, which eventually came, even if grudgingly given, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni thought: I am a mechanic. I am not a detective. That has become well known.

“Now, please tell us exactly what you heard them talk about,” said Mr. Botumile.