Mma Ramotswe stared at her visitor, bemused. “Perhaps you should be a detective yourself, Mma,” she said. As she spoke, she glanced in Mma Makutsi’s direction, wondering what her assistant made of this. Was it nosiness? Or was it something else? There were people who took an excessive interest in the affairs of others, of people whom they did not know—stalkers, they were called. Mma Ramotswe wondered whether she had by unfortunate chance acquired a stalker and whether this woman sitting before her could be the person who had written the anonymous letter…in which case the man who had written the letter was really a woman after all.

Mma Sebina smiled nervously. “No, please do not misunderstand me, Mma. I was not looking out for you specially. It’s just that here in Gaborone we can’t help but notice people who stand out.” She met Mma Ramotswe’s eyes directly, but only for a short time before her gaze fell away. That was the way it was in Botswana—one engaged sideways, one did not stare in a direct and challenging way. Mma Sebina was well brought up, obviously; she knew. “And you see, Mma, you are the only lady detective in this town. That is why everybody knows who you are. They say, ‘She is the detective, that woman. There she is.’”

Mma Ramotswe’s suspicions quickly evaporated. What Mma Sebina said was undoubtedly true. There were many people in Gaborone who had a completely unrealistic idea of what a private detective did, and imagined that she was some sort of secret agent engaged in all sorts of dramatic goings-on. Whereas the reality was that her life was really rather mundane, involving routine inquiries that were often no more demanding or dramatic than looking in the telephone directory or checking up on debt judgements handed down by the Gaborone magistrates’ court. It was understandable, perhaps, that people with an unrealistic view of her job should notice her and pass comment, and it was harmless enough; after all, she noticed people and wondered what they were up to. Only the other day she had seen one of her neighbours coming out of a shop carrying four large red buckets and a coil of plastic hosing. She had wondered what he could possibly want four buckets for, and it had occurred to her that he might be thinking of brewing beer and starting an illegal drinking den, a shebeen. That would be appalling, if it happened, as shebeens attracted rowdy people in large numbers, and it would be the end of all peace in Zebra Drive if a shebeen were to open up there.