Charlie made a face. “You and that Phuti man—have you got one bed or two?”

Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened in anger. “That is none of your business!”

“Just asking,” said Charlie.

“You should not ask these personal questions,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “It is not polite, Charlie.”

Charlie shrugged. “Modern people talk about these things quite freely,” he said. “You ladies must be more up to date.”

Mma Ramotswe shook a finger at him, but playfully. “You are a naughty boy, Charlie.”

“He is a stupid boy,” muttered Mma Makutsi.

“I am a man,” said Charlie. “I am not a boy. And anyway, Mma, talking of beds, I saw a bed just like yours the other day. You know, the one that got ruined in the rain. The one with the heart. I saw one on sale. Cheap, cheap. Shop-soiled, I think, but very cheap.”

Mma Makutsi, who had turned to look pointedly away during this exchange, now spun round. Where was this bed? she demanded. And the price? Charlie told her, and she looked thoughtful.

Mma Ramotswe, grasping the situation, shook her head. “It is better to tell the truth,” she said. “It is always better, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi pursed her lips. “Except sometimes,” she muttered.

She spoke so softly that Mma Ramotswe did not hear what she said. And she had things to do before she left to speak to the woman who lived near the Grand Palm Hotel.

THERE ARE NOT enough trees in this part of town, thought Mma Ramotswe, as she searched for somewhere to park her tiny white van. That was the trouble with those new developments: the first thing that builders did when they arrived to start their work was to cut down all the trees. Then, even if they planted new trees, it would take years before there was enough shade to cover a person, let alone a vehicle. Some people resorted to shade netting, which provided shelter from the sun, but ultimately there was nothing to beat the shade provided by a tree; leafy, natural shade that made patterns on the ground.

She settled for the grossly inadequate cover provided by a small thorn tree that had somehow escaped the builders’ notice. Then, checking the plot number on the fence against the number on her piece of paper, she pushed open the gate and called out Ko, Ko, as was polite, before entering. Of course, these days one might have to walk up the path uninvited and call out again at the door, but Mma Ramotswe preferred to do things in the proper way. And this morning her call resulted in the appearance of a woman at the side door of the house. She was drying her hands on a small towel; caught in the midst of housework. She was much older than Mma Ramotswe—by thirty years or so—and there was a stiffness to her movements as she beckoned her visitor to come up the path.