Mma Ramotswe opened her eyes and started to make her way back into the office. She was intercepted in the doorway, though, by Mma Makutsi, who looked anxious.

“There is something wrong,” Mma Makutsi whispered to her. “There is something wrong with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Back there.” She gestured towards the garage. “There is something wrong with him.”

“Has he hurt himself?” Mma Ramotswe always dreaded the possibility of an accident, particularly with those careless apprentices being allowed to raise cars on ramps and do other dangerous things. Mechanics hurt themselves, it was well-known, just as butchers often had parts of fingers missing, a sight which always made Mma Ramotswe’s blood run cold, although the enthusiasm of the butchers for their great chopping knives-the guilty blades, no doubt-seemed undiminished.

Mma Makutsi set her mind at rest. “No, there has not been an accident. But I saw him sitting in the garage with his head in his hands. He looked very miserable, and he hardly greeted me when I walked past him. I think something has happened.”

This was not good news. Even if there had been no accident, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s recovery from his depressive illness was recent enough to make any apparent drop in mood a cause for concern. Dr Moffat, who had treated Mr J.L.B. Matekoni during his illness-with the assistance of Mma Potokwane, it must be recalled, who had taken Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in hand and made him take his pills-had warned that these illnesses could recur. Mma Ramotswe remembered his very words: “You must be watchful, Mma Ramotswe,” the doctor had said, in that kind voice he used when he spoke to everybody, even to his rather ill-tempered brown spaniel. “You must be watchful because this illness is like a dark cloud in the sky. It is often there, just over the horizon, but it can blow up very quickly. Watch, and tell me if anything happens.”

So far, the recovery had seemed complete, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had been as equable and as constant as he always had been. There had been no sign of the lassitude that had come with the illness; no sign of the dark, introspective brooding which had so reduced him. But perhaps this was it coming back. Perhaps the cloud had blown over and had covered his sky.

Mma Ramotswe thanked Mma Makutsi and made her way into the garage. The two apprentices were bent over the engine of a car, spanners in hand, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was sitting on his old canvas chair near the compressor, his head sunk in his hands, just as Mma Makutsi had seen him.

“Now then, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni,” said Mma Ramotswe breezily. “You seem to be thinking very hard about something. Can I make you a cup of tea to help you think?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up, and as he did so Mma Ramotswe realised, with relief, that the illness had not returned. He looked worried, certainly, but it was a very different look from the haunted look he had developed during the illness. This was a real worry, she thought; not a worry about shadows and imaginary wrongs and dying; all those things which had so tormented him when he was ill.

“Yes, I am thinking,” he said. “I am thinking that I have dug myself into a mess. I am like a potato in…” He stopped, unable to complete the metaphor.

“Like a potato?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Like a potato in a…” He stopped again. “I don’t know. But I have done a very foolish thing in involving myself in this business.”

Mma Ramotswe was perplexed, and asked him what business he meant.

“This whole business with that butcher’s car,” he said. “I went round to First Class Motors yesterday afternoon.”

“Ah!” said Mma Ramotswe, and thought: this is my fault. I urged him to go and now this has happened. So, rather than say Ah! again, she said, “Oh!”

“Yes,” went on Mr J.L.B. Matekoni miserably. “I went up there yesterday afternoon. The man who runs the place was at a funeral in Molepolole, and so I spoke to one of his assistants. And this man said that he had seen the butcher’s car round at my garage and he had mentioned it to his boss, who was very cross. He said that I was taking his clients, and that he was going to come round and see me about it this morning, when he arrived back from Molepolole. He said that his boss was going to ‘sort me out.’ That’s what he said, Mma Ramotswe. Those were his words. I didn’t even have the chance to complain, as I had intended to. I didn’t even have the chance.”

Mma Ramotswe folded her arms. “Who is this man?” she snapped angrily. “What is his name, and who does he think he is? Where is he from?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “He is called Molefi. He is a horrible man from Tlokweng. People are scared of him. He gives mechanics a bad name.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment. She felt sorry for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who was a very peaceful man and who did not like conflict. He was not one to start an argument, and yet she rather wished that he would stand up to this Molefi man a bit more. Such people were bullies and the only thing to do was to stand up to them. If only Mr J.L.B. Matekoni were a bit braver… Did she really want him to fight, though? It was quite out of character, and that was just as well. She could not abide men who threw their weight around, and that was one of the reasons why she so admired Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Although he was physically strong from all that lifting of engines, he was gentle. And she loved him for that, as did so many others.

She unfolded her arms and walked over to stand beside Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “When is this man coming?” she asked.

“Any time now. They said this morning. That is all they said.”

“I see.” She turned away, intending to go over to the apprentices and have a word with them. They would have to rally round to deal with this Molefi person. They were young men… She stopped. Tlokweng. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had said that Molefi was from Tlokweng, and Tlokweng was where the orphan farm was, and the orphan farm made her think of Mma Potokwane.

She turned back again, ignoring the apprentices, and walked briskly back into her office. Mma Makutsi looked up at her expectantly as she came in.

“Is he all right? I was worried.”

“He is fine,” she said. “He is worried about something. That man at First Class Motors has been threatening him. That’s what’s going on.”

Mma Makutsi whistled softly, as she sometimes did in moments of crisis. “That is very bad, Mma. That is very bad.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I am going out to Tlokweng right now. This very minute. Please telephone Mma Potokwane and tell her that I am coming to fetch her in my van and that we need her help. Please do that right now. I am going.”

WHEN MMA RAMOTSWE arrived at the orphan farm, Mma Potokwane was not in her office. The door was open, but the large, rather shabby chair in which Mma Potokwane was often to be found-when she was not bustling round the kitchens or the houses-was empty. Mma Ramotswe rushed outside again and looked about anxiously. It had not occurred to her that Mma Potokwane might not be found; she was always on duty, it seemed. And yet she could be in town, doing some shopping, or she could even be far away, down in Lobatse, perhaps, picking up some new orphan.

“Mma Ramotswe?”

She gave a start, looking about her. It was Mma Potokwane’s voice, but where was she?

“Here!” came the voice. “Under this tree! Here I am, Mma Ramotswe.”

The matron of the orphan farm was in the shade of a large mango tree, merging with the shadows. Mma Ramotswe had looked right past her, but now Mma Potokwane stepped out from under the drooping branches of the tree.

“I have been watching a special mango,” she said. “It is almost ready and I have told the children that they are not to pick it. I am keeping it for my husband, who likes to eat a good mango.” She dusted her hands on her skirts as she walked towards Mma Ramotswe. “Would you like to see this mango, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked. “It is very fine. Very yellow now.”