They negotiated the traffic circle at the end of the central square before parking behind the President Hotel. Clovis Andersen appeared to have enjoyed his ride in the back of the van, and jumped down with a smile. “The best way to see a town,” he said. “With the sun on your face.” He patted down his dishevelled hair. “Now then, Mma Ramotswe, where are you taking us?”

“To a nail parlour,” said Mma Ramotswe, leading them past the entrance to the hotel and into the busy open marketplace beyond.

Clovis Andersen laughed. “I’m not sure whether I need—”

“Not as clients,” Mma Ramotswe interrupted.

“These people are always good sources of information,” said Mma Makutsi. “Hairdressers, barmen, nail ladies—they always know what’s going on. As you say, Rra, in your own book: always ask the people who know.”

Clovis Andersen looked pensive. “I said that, did I? Well, it sounds reasonable enough to me.”

It was a short walk to the Better Nails, Better Life nail parlour. This was a hole-in-the-wall shop advertising its presence with a large picture of a hand sporting long nails painted in various bright colours.

“If you tried to type with a hand like that, you wouldn’t get very far,” said Mma Makutsi dismissively.

“I don’t think it would be much good trying to do anything with a hand like that,” said Clovis Andersen.

“People who have nails like that usually don’t want to do anything,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is not a working hand. That is the hand of an idle, useless person.”

“I don’t think it’s meant to be a real hand,” suggested Mma Ramotswe. “I think it’s intended just to give you an idea of what they can do.”

“A bad idea of what they can do,” snorted Mma Makutsi.

They entered the shop. In front of them was a table with a box covered in some soft material. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was where you rested your hand while your nails were being painted. It looked rather comfortable, she decided. There were several chairs, a stack of well-thumbed magazines, and a shelf along which numerous bottles of nail varnish were lined. As they came in, a curtain at the back of the room was pulled aside and a well-dressed young woman came out to greet them.

“Have you made an appointment?” she asked. Her voice was friendly.

Mma Ramotswe greeted her in the traditional way before asking: “Are you Mma Soleti’s sister, Mma?”

The woman smiled warmly. “Yes, we are sisters, Mma. I am called Soleti too. They call her Mma Soleti (Face) and me Mma Soleti (Nails). You know her?”