That was possible, he said. His own father had drummed into him the lesson that the way you treat your staff is the way they will treat you. “That is something that some employers just do not understand,” Mr. Radiphuti Senior had said. “But in the Double Comfort Furniture Store we will never forget that, will we, Phuti?”

He had not. He had remembered it.

Mma Makutsi was silent for the rest of the brief journey back to the office. Silent; thinking.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HOW MANY CUPS OF TEA …

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Mma Ramotswe received a telephone call from the secretary at the orphan farm. This was a woman she knew only slightly—a woman who had been brought up in Lobatse and whose son was a promising athlete, a barefoot runner, whose prowess on the track was occasionally featured in the Botswana Daily News. They exchanged the customary greetings, and then Mma Ramotswe, vaguely remembering that there had been something in the papers about the son—what was his nickname?—had asked after the young man.

“I’m sorry, Mma,” she said, “I cannot remember your son’s name, but I saw something in the papers and I wondered how he’s doing. You must be very proud of him.”

The woman laughed. “Nobody remembers his real name. That is because they all call him by his nickname. They call him Lightning now, and we even use that at home. Yes, I am proud of him, Mma; I am very proud.”

“Lightning is a good name, Mma. Very good.”

“As long as it doesn’t go to his head,” said the secretary. “I heard him call one of the other runners Tortoise the other day. I told him that was very unkind and that one day his own legs would get slow—like mine.”

Mma Ramotswe made a sympathetic noise. “Everybody’s legs get slow, Mma. That is well known. But it doesn’t matter, as long as one can get about a little bit. That is all that is needed.”

There was a moment of silence; the point of the call had not yet been revealed, but that was not so unusual. People often took some time to say what they needed to say—to rush a conversation could be considered rude, especially among old-fashioned people, and Mma Ramotswe remembered that the secretary was indeed a somewhat old-fashioned person.

Then the silence was broken. “I am phoning about Mma Potokwane,” said the secretary.

Mma Ramotswe felt a momentary stab of alarm. Was Mma Potokwane not well? “Is she ill …?” Mma Ramotswe stuttered.

“I do not know whether or not she is sick,” said the secretary. “She never complains about herself, as you know. But I cannot tell because she is not here. She has gone.”

“Where has she gone?”