The decision was made. Since she was not making much progress on the Molapo case by sitting in the office, she might as well pay a visit to the orphan farm to see how the matron was doing. This could count as work – just – if she viewed the visit as an opportunity to get from Mma Potokwani those little snippets of news – inconsequential in isolation, but when put together providing a useful overall picture of what was happening in the town. Or, perhaps more honestly, it could count as a purely social pleasure, an hour or two of simple friendship and chat of the sort that we all needed from time to time. And being a detective did not mean that you were above all those simple human needs. Indeed, there were occasions when you needed them more than people in jobs did, where things were somehow simpler. Most jobs, thought Mma Ramotswe.

Before she left, she went into the garage to tell Mr J. L. B. Matekoni where she was going and to ask him what he favoured for his dinner that night. The question about dinner seemed to trouble him, and he took some time to answer.

‘I am always happy with whatever you give me, Mma – you know that.’

She smiled at him. ‘That is very kind, Rra, but it is still possible for you to say I like this thing rather than that thing. Or I like potatoes a bit more than I like rice. That sort of comment does not make a cook feel bad. It is not the same as saying “I do not like your rice”. It is simply saying that you like potatoes a bit more.’

He put down the spanner he was holding. ‘Perhaps I should cook for you, Mma. I could cook something like…’

It was not her visible astonishment that made him falter; it was more the realisation that he had no idea at all as to what he could make for a meal. But then, after a pause, he blurted out, ‘Sausages, Mma. I could cook sausages. And make some beans to go with them. Those red beans that grow in tins…’

She laughed. ‘Baked beans? The ones with tomato sauce?’

‘Yes, those beans.’

She did not want to discourage him. ‘The children would like those,’ she said. ‘Especially Puso. He could live on those beans.’

He looked relieved that his suggestion had met with approval. ‘I could cook for all of us,’ he said.

She said that this would be a very good idea; but did he have time?

‘There is no problem with time,’ he said. And then, rather anxiously, asked, ‘How long does a sausage take to cook, Mma? Half an hour?’

‘No, Rra. A sausage cooks in a shorter time than that. Half an hour would burn most sausages.’

‘You boil them for fifteen minutes? Is that it?’