Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Small ones too, Mma Sometimes big problems are really tiny ones when you look at them in the right way.” She glanced again at Mr. Polopetsi. They would have to get back to the subject or she sensed that this woman would talk for rather a long time.

Mr. Polopetsi came to the rescue. “We are looking for somebody to tell us about a lady who lived in this village,” he said. “She is late now, and her husband is late too. She was called Mma Sebina.”

The woman, who had been frowning in concentration as he spoke, now smiled broadly. She ignored Mr. Polopetsi, though, addressing her reply to Mma Ramotswe. It was an odd habit, thought Mma Ramotswe, who had noticed. It was the same thing that the younger apprentice did; when answering a question from Mma Makutsi he would look at Mma Ramotswe or Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. It was a way of saying, You don’t really exist for me; not entirely. “But I knew her, Mma,” said the woman. “I knew that lady well. I was her best friend for a long time. A long time.” Her gaze moved from Mma Ramotswe out to the bush beyond, so dry now at this time of the year; no grazing at all for the cattle and slim pickings even for the goats.

“Your best friend?”

“She was. I was very sad when she became late, Mma. When your friends die…you know how your heart feels. Like this.” She clenched her right fist tight: the human heart made small.

Mma Ramotswe was silent for a moment. She had not thought much about Mma Sebina’s mother and what she was like; she had been interested only in finding out about how she had acquired the child all those years ago. But, of course, there would be a person at the end of that inquiry, a person who left others bereft on her passing. That was the trouble with any inquiry; one unravelled one piece of the skein and it revealed so many little strands, each of which was a story in itself.

She spoke gently. “You must miss her, Mma,” she said. “I know how it is to lose a close friend.”

The woman inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“And her daughter, Mma?” Mma Ramotswe continued. “Tell me about her daughter.”

It took the woman some time to reply, and when she did her tone had changed from regret to something close to anger. “That girl is no good. She was always complaining, complaining, complaining. Like one of those birds that goes on and on all day, telling us that some other bird has stolen its nest or the snake has eaten its eggs. That is what that girl is like.”