They turned a corner. A small boy, three or four years old, wearing only a vest, his tiny stomach protruding in a small mound, his eyes wide, stood in their way. The hospital was full of such children, the offspring of patients or patients themselves, and Tati Monyena barely saw him. But the child looked at Mma Ramotswe and came up to her and reached for her hand, as children will, especially in Africa, where they will still come to you. She bent down and lifted him up. He looked at her and snuggled his head against her chest.

“The mother of that one is late,” said Tati Monyena in a matter-of-fact voice. “Our people are deciding what to do. The nurses are looking after him.”

The child looked up at Mma Ramotswe. She saw that his eyes were shallow; there was no light in them. His skin, she felt, was dry.

Tati Monyena waited for her to put the child down. Then he indicated towards a further corridor to the right. “It is this way,” he said.

The ward doors were open. It was a long room, with six beds on either side. At the far end of the room, at a desk with several cabinets about it, a nurse was sitting, looking at a piece of paper with another nurse who was leaning over her shoulder. Halfway down the ward, another couple of nurses were adjusting the sheets on one of the beds, propping up the patient against a high bank of pillows. A drugs trolley stood unattended at the foot of another bed, an array of small containers on its top shelf.

When she saw them at the door, the nurse at the desk rose to her feet and walked down the ward to meet them. She nodded to Mma Ramotswe and Mr. Polopetsi and then looked enquiringly at Tati Monyena.

“This lady is dealing with that…that matter,” said Tati Monyena, nodding at the bed on his left. “I spoke to you about her.” He turned to Mma Ramotswe. “This is Sister Batshegi.”

Mma Ramotswe was watching the nurse’s expression. She knew that the first moments were the significant ones, and that people gave away so much before they had time to think and to compose themselves. Sister Batshegi had looked down, not meeting Mma Ramotswe’s gaze, and then had looked up again. Did that mean anything? Mma Ramotswe thought that it meant that she was not particularly pleased to see her. But that in itself did not tell her very much. People who are busy with some task—as Sister Batshegi clearly had been—were not always pleased to be disturbed.

“I am happy to see you, Mma,” said Sister Batshegi.

Mma Ramotswe replied to the greeting and then turned to Tati Monyena. “That is the bed, Rra?”

“It is.” He looked at Sister Batshegi. “Have you had anybody in it over the last few days?”