When Concluded Affairs stubbornly refused to open, it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that the filing cabinet was locked. This conclusion brought mixed emotions. On the one hand, it said a great deal for Mma Makutsi’s attentiveness and sense of responsibility that she should lock a filing cabinet which contained a great deal of highly personal information. There were letters from clients in those drawers, letters in which they revealed some of their most intimate concerns—suspicions of adultery, thoughts about the character of others, stories of intrigue and bad behaviour. All of that would have been a godsend to a blackmailer, or even a gossip. So it was a wise precaution to lock it all away.

But then she thought: it would have been helpful if Mma Makutsi had told her that the filing cabinet was locked and, moreover, where the key was kept. What if Mma Makutsi were out of the office—as she was now—and Mma Ramotswe needed to make a sudden reference to a current investigation or even a concluded affair? What then?

She turned round and looked down at Mma Makutsi’s desk. There were two drawers in this desk. Mma Ramotswe knew that one of these was used for the storage of such things as rubber bands and paper clips. The other was, she thought, a more personal drawer, into which Mma Makutsi tucked things such as those lace handkerchiefs for which she had a particular fondness. If the key was stored anywhere in the office, then that, she thought, would be where it was.

Feeling slightly furtive, Mma Ramotswe moved to the other side of the desk and gingerly opened the top drawer. It, at least, was unlocked, and slid open easily. She looked down. There was a bottle of aspirin—Mma Makutsi had a tendency to headaches at the height of the hot season—a folded handkerchief, a metal bottle opener with a picture of Table Mountain etched on the shaft, and a photograph. She reached down and picked up the photograph. It was Phuti Radiphuti, standing in front of a door, his arms folded, self-consciously posed. He looked so serious, so self-important, that Mma Ramotswe could not help but smile. And then she laughed; not in an unkindly way, because she liked Phuti, and she was not a person to laugh at another. It was just so odd, that position of his: What on earth could have possessed Phuti Radiphuti to strike such a ridiculous pose?

Then Mma Makutsi came into the room. She was carrying a brown paper bag in her hands: doughnuts. The fat from the doughnuts had seeped through the paper; round tracings of grease. When she saw Mma Ramotswe with the photograph of Phuti Radiphuti, she stood quite still, her eyes moving from the photograph to Mma Ramotswe’s face, caught in its smile, and then back down to the photograph.