Mma Ramotswe said nothing. By one interpretation, this was a dig at her; she had never been to a college of any sort, even the Botswana Secretarial College, which was not all that academically distinguished, she thought; not that she would ever say so.

“Let’s continue,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have carried out exhaustive … no, say, extensive enquiries throughout Gaborone. We have interviewed relevant persons in the list of locations set out below—”

She was interrupted again, this time not by Mma Makutsi with some suggested improvement to the text of the report, but by Charlie’s appearance at the door.

“It is not tea time,” said Mma Makutsi.

Charlie smiled unconcernedly. “I am not looking for tea. I have come to tell you that there is a man sitting in a car outside. He’s staring at this building.”

Mma Makutsi put down her dictation pad and crossed the room to look out of the window, standing to one side so as not to be seen from outside. “You’re right,” she said. “How long has he been there, Charlie?”

Charlie joined her in staring out of the window. “Maybe about half an hour,” he said. “I wasn’t really paying attention until Fanwell said something about it. Then I looked and I thought, That man is staring. That’s when I came in to tell you.”

Mma Makutsi screwed up her eyes. “I cannot see him very well,” she said. “He is wearing a hat.”

“He is a white man,” said Charlie. “I’ve noticed that they like to wear hats.”

“The sun can be unkind to them,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“He’s getting out,” said Mma Makutsi. “I think he’s coming in.”

“He will be a client then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Thank you, Charlie. You go back to work, and we will get ready to welcome our visitor.”

Mma Makutsi knew what this meant. Mma Ramotswe had never liked it when clients arrived to find them unoccupied, staring out of the window, perhaps, or drinking tea. It was far better, she said, if the client came upon a scene of reassuring activity.

“I am ready,” said Mma Makutsi, regaining her seat. “ ‘… in the list of locations set out below’ …”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Location number one, the office of the said husband …”

The knock, which came at the half-open door, was timid—barely audible. Mma Makutsi flipped her dictation pad shut and rose to her feet. “I shall deal with this, Mma,” she said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the visitor. “The important report can wait.”

She pushed the door fully open. Standing outside was a tall, solidly built man in middle age, rather square-faced, his blond hair in a crew cut. He was dressed entirely in khaki and wore sand-coloured desert boots—the standard outfit of the safari visitor. In his hands was a freshly purchased bush hat with wide brim.