Mma Ramotswe uttered a tiny sound, a clicking of the tongue that almost became the drawn-out ee that signified yes in Setswana; almost.

“But I think,” went on Mma Sebina, “that the more likely reason is that she wanted me to know so that she could help me to find my real family. And then she became late before she could talk to me about it.”

Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe. That is probably it. We keep secrets until we no longer have the breath to utter them, and then they go to the grave with us. And what, she wondered, would her secrets be; the very question, as it happened, that was going through Mma Makutsi’s mind at the same time: What would Mma Ramotswe’s secrets be? they both thought.

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI IS GIVEN A CAKE

NOTHING MORE WAS SAID about the anonymous letter that day, and by the time Mma Ramotswe left the office that evening she had almost forgotten it. It crossed her mind briefly, though, as she turned her car into Zebra Drive. Mma Sebina’s earlier remark about her visit to the fabric shop—one of her favourite places, one of her few self-indulgences—had made her wonder how many other people knew details of her private life. Mma Sebina herself was not in the least bit threatening, and it did not matter what she knew, but what if the writer of that letter, that clearly unpleasant person, was aware of where she lived? She felt a sudden discomfort. What if that person, whoever he was, was watching her right now? She glanced into the mirror as she turned the corner. There was a car not far behind her, a nondescript white car of the sort that streamed out of office car parks in their hundreds come five o’clock in the afternoon; just as she started to turn, it signalled its intention of doing the same thing, and made to enter Zebra Drive.

Mma Ramotswe put her foot down on the accelerator. The tiny white van was not powerful; in fact, its engine, valiant though it might once have been, found great difficulty in coping even with normal demands. Now, with the encouragement of its driver, the van struggled to put on a bit of speed, and succeeded—to an extent. Mma Ramotswe again looked in her rear-view mirror and saw that the car behind her had also speeded up. That, she felt, settled the matter: she was being followed.