She remembered her policy of asking. Time and time again she had proved the proposition that if one wanted the answer to anything, then one should simply ask. It was simple, and she wondered whether the police were sufficiently aware of the attractions of such an approach. If they were investigating a crime they should simply stop and ask, “Who did this?” and they would surely be given the answer—perhaps even from the criminal himself, who might just stand up and say, “I did it, Rra.” Or perhaps not.

“Did you never want to get married, Rra?” she asked, as she negotiated their way round the traffic circle near the football stadium.

Mr. Sekape looked out of the window. For a few moments she thought that he was not going to answer, but then, transferring his gaze to his hands, folded upon his lap, he said, “No. Never. Not once, Mma. Never.”

It was a clear enough answer, thought Mma Ramotswe. Some answers were evasive and ambiguous; this was not.

Coming out of the traffic circle, she brought the van back onto a straight course. There was that noise again, that knocking; it seemed to get louder when she pressed her foot on the accelerator pedal, and retreated when she took it off.

“Why not, Rra?”

Unlike her earlier question, which had been thought about before being asked, this question slipped out. It was not the sort of question that she would normally ask; she would not have liked anybody to ask her, before she became engaged to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, why she was not married. And after their engagement, she certainly resented being asked—as she sometimes was—why the engagement was lasting so long and no firm date had been set for the wedding.

Mr. Sekape continued to study his hands. “It’s because I do not like women,” he said. “That is why. I do not like them. Sorry, Mma, but you asked me. So now I am telling you. They are always talking, talking, talking. Asking you this thing. Asking you that. That is why I do not like them.”

The tiny white van swerved, very slightly, but still swerved, as Mma Ramotswe tightened her grip on the wheel. She wanted to say, but did not, “I think I should tell you, Rra—this sister I’ve found for you—she’s a woman. You do know that, don’t you?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

AN UNUSUAL CHASE IN AN UNUSUAL PLACE