Charlie ignored this. “There is something wrong with your truck, Rra. I can hear it. Even Mma Ramotswe can hear it, and she is just a woman.”

Mma Ramotswe had let that pass; there was no point in engaging with Charlie on these matters, she thought. And Charlie was right about the truck and its engine sound. There was something wrong, even if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni seemed unwilling to face it.

The engine was switched off and the whining stopped. A few moments later Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni put his head round the door. “Wonderful rain, Mma Ramotswe. You should see the storm drains up near Maru-a-Pula—they were like a big river. Like the Limpopo itself. That much water.”

She nodded. “It is very good. Maybe we’ll have a good season this year.”

“We can hope.”

She looked at her husband, noticing that his shirt was wet and was sticking to his skin. There was something strange about his manner; something almost elated. Was he just pleased about the rain, she wondered, or was there something else? “You must dry yourself off, Rra,” she said. “You shouldn’t stand around in wet clothes.”

“Rain harms nobody,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “And I am not that wet. Just a little.”

There was still something about him, something she could not put her finger on. The apprentice had told her that he had rushed off to start an important car and now he was back, looking as if something nice had happened to him.

“Where have you been, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? You are looking very happy, I think.”

He smiled. “I have been to help somebody with his car. It would not start and he had to get somewhere in a hurry. I managed to get it started.”

She waited for further explanation, but none came.

“Whose car?”

He frowned. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni did not like to be quizzed: “I am not one of your suspects,” he had protested once. “You must not talk to me with your detective shoes on.”

“One of my customers,” he said.

“I see.” She fixed him with her gaze, and he shifted on his feet.

“He is a doctor.”

She did not lower her gaze. “Dr. Moffat? You’ve been helping Dr. Moffat?”

“No,” he said. “Not him. Another doctor.” He paused, and then suddenly moved across the room, picked up the client’s chair, moved it to the front of Mma Ramotswe’s desk, and sat down.

“There is something we need to talk about,” he said, leaning forward in the chair. “It is very important.”

Mma Ramotswe felt her heart miss a beat. Something very important. He was ill; that was it. And yet there was this look about him, this look of excitement. If he was ill, then surely he would look despondent.