For a moment Mma Sebina looked puzzled, as if wondering why Mma Ramotswe should have missed something obvious. “But I don’t know, Mma. That’s the whole point. I have come to see you because I do not know.”

“You do not know what, Mma?”

It was at this point that Mma Makutsi decided to intervene.

“She does not know the name of the relative. That can happen when a woman marries and changes her name. You may not meet the new husband and you may forget what his name is. It is easy to forget the name of a man.”

A short silence followed this remark. Mma Ramotswe did not object to her assistant’s joining in a conversation with a client, but she rather wished that she would wait until asked for her opinion, as her interjections could sometimes distract the client and lead the conversation off in a strange direction. Mma Makutsi could also be tactless at times; on one occasion she had tut-tutted when a client had been telling Mma Ramotswe about something he had done. That had not helped, as the client had become sullen and taciturn, and Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to reassure him not only that everything he said in the office would remain confidential, but also that neither she nor Mma Makutsi would take it upon themselves to criticise his actions. “It is not for us, Rra,” she had said, all the while looking at Mma Makutsi, “to make you feel guilty. It is not for us.”

Mma Makutsi had nodded. “God will do that,” she interjected. “He is the one who will judge you.”

That had been an awkward consultation, and later Mma Ramotswe had felt obliged to discuss the issue with Mma Makutsi and remind her of the need for professional detachment. “It is fully discussed by Mr. Clovis Andersen in The Principles of Private Detection,” she had said. “You should perhaps read that section, Mma. Mr. Andersen says that you should not pass judgement on your client’s behaviour. If you do that, the client might wonder if you are really on his side.”

Mma Makutsi had defended herself. “But I was not passing judgement on him,” she said. “I said that God would do that. You heard me, Mma. That is what I said.”

At least now there was no such exchange. Mma Makutsi’s suggestion was reasonable enough—women did change their names when they married and that could cause confusion. But Mma Sebina was shaking her head.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think you understand me, Bomma. I have not forgotten the names of these people. I do not know who they are. I do not even know whether they exist, although I hope they do.”