The receptionist smiled. “Then I am not alone, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi tried another tack. “Is your daughter happy here?” she asked.

The woman’s answer came quickly. “Very happy. She is very happy, Mma. She is always telling other people what a good boss she has. Not everybody can say that.”

Mma Makutsi was about to say that she could, but stopped herself in time. She could not tell this woman about Mma Ramotswe because that would give away what she did and she was meant to be a prospective client, not a private detective. So she said nothing, and they drifted back into silence.

A few minutes later, Teenie appeared through a door behind the receptionist’s desk. She was more plainly dressed than she had been when she had come to Mma Makutsi’s office, and for a moment Mma Makutsi did not recognise her.

“Yes,” said Teenie. “I am not looking smart now. These are my working clothes. And look, see what my hands look like. Ink!”

Mma Makutsi rose to her feet and examined Teenie’s outstretched hands. “If I were a detective,” she said as she saw the large ink stains, like continents, on Teenie’s upturned palms, “I would say that you are a printer.” Then she added hurriedly, glancing down at the receptionist as she spoke, “But I am not a detective, of course!”

“No, of course not,” said Teenie. “You are not a detective, Mma.”

The receptionist, who had been following the conversation between the two of them, looked up sharply. “You are a policewoman, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi noticed the concern in the woman’s voice. “I am nothing to do with the police,” she said. “Nothing at all. I am a businesswoman.”

The receptionist relaxed visibly. Her sharp reaction, thought Mma Makutsi, was unusual. She clearly had something to hide, but it was probably nothing to do with her daughter or the job at the printing works. Unless, of course, she knew that her daughter had been stealing from the works. Mothers and daughters can be close; they tell each other things, and the knowledge that one’s daughter was a thief would obviously make one dread the arrival of the police. But then she reminded herself that there were plenty of people who were afraid of the police, even if they had clear consciences. These were people who had been the victims of bullying when young—bullying by severe teachers, by stronger children; there were so many ways in which people could be crushed. Such people might fear the police in the same way in which they feared all authority.