He went into the office, where he found Mma Ramotswe dictating a letter to Mma Makutsi, who was writing it down in shorthand. He stood in the doorway for a moment, until Mma Ramotswe signalled that he should come in.

“It’s nothing private,” she said. “Just a letter to somebody who has not paid his bills.”

“Oh?” he said. “And what do you say?”

“If you do not pay the outstanding bill by the end of next month, we shall be obliged…” She paused. “That is as far as we got.”

“We shall be obliged to…,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Take action,” offered Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is what we shall do.” She laughed. “Not that we ever take action. But there we are. As long as people think that you’re going to do something, that’s enough.”

“Bad debts are a very big problem,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He was about to add “just like bad apprentices,” but he did not. Instead, with the air of one conveying very mundane news, he said, “Charlie’s back. Car crashed. Written off. He’s coming back.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was watching Mma Makutsi as he gave this news, and when he looked over in the direction of Mma Ramotswe, he saw that she too was looking at her assistant. He knew of Mma Makutsi’s difficulties with the apprentices, and particularly with Charlie, and he imagined the impending return would not be well received. But Mma Makutsi, aware of their scrutiny, did not react sharply. There was a moment, perhaps, when the lenses of her large round glasses seemed to flash, but this was only because a movement of her head caused them to catch the light; not a sign. And when she did speak, it was quietly.

“That is a great pity for him,” she said. Then she added, “So that is the end of the No. 1 Ladies’ Taxi Service.” It was a simple epitaph, pronounced without any sense of triumph, without any suggestion of I told you so. As Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni remarked to Mma Ramotswe over dinner that night, it was a kind thing for Mma Makutsi to have said, worthy, he suggested, of top marks.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Ninety-seven per cent. At least.”

They were seated alone at the table, Motholeli and Puso having eaten earlier and gone to their rooms to complete their homework.

“Poor boy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was so looking forward to it all. But I’m afraid that I always thought it would end this way. Charlie is Charlie. He is the way he is, like the rest of us.”