“I would like to know if you remember Mr. Tsolamosese,” she said. “He worked in the prison some years ago. Perhaps he is no longer working.”

“Ah,” said the voice. “I was here when he was working here. He was a very quiet man. He did not say very much, but he did well in the service and was very senior.”

“He is no longer working, then?” Mma Ramotswe pressed.

“No, he is not working. In fact, I am sorry to tell you he is late.”

Mma Ramotswe’s heart sank. But perhaps Mma Tsolamosese was still alive, and Mr. Molefelo would be able to make it up to her.

“He had a heart attack, I think,” said the voice. “About eight years ago. He was still here then, but he was very ill and he became late.”

“And the widow?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“She went away. I don’t think anybody here knows anything about her. She must have gone back to her village. You could ask the pensions people, of course. She will be getting her widow’s pension if she is still alive. That will mean that they will have her address somewhere. You could try them.”

“You have been very kind, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have something to give that lady, and you have helped me to find her. You are very kind.”

“It is my job to help,” said the voice.

“That is very good.”

“Yes,” said the voice.

“I hope that you are very happy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have been very helpful.”

“I am very happy,” said the voice. “I shall be retiring next year and I shall be growing sorghum.”

“I hope it grows well,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“You are very kind, Mma. Thank you.”

They said farewell, and Mma Ramotswe put down the telephone with a smile. In spite of everything, in spite of all the change, with all the confusion and uncertainty which it brought; in spite of the casual disregard with which people were increasingly treating one another these days, there were still people who spoke to others with the proper courtesy, who treated others, whom they did not know, in the way which was proper according to the standards of the old Botswana morality. And whenever that happened, whenever one encountered such behaviour, one was reminded that all was by no means lost.

Her next task was not a telephone call but a visit. She knew the office which dealt with pensions, and she would call there to find out whether Mma Tsolamosese was still receiving her pension. If she was, then she would have to try to get the address from them. That might be difficult, but not impossible. There was a tendency in government offices to treat everything as confidential, even if it clearly was not, but Mma Ramotswe had found that there were usually ways round this.

The government pensions office, when she arrived there shortly after lunchtime, was still shut, but Mma Ramotswe was happy to wait under the shade of a nearby tree until a tired-looking clerk opened the door and peered outside.

The public office to which she was admitted had that typical look and smell of government offices. The furniture, such as it was, was completely functional-straight-backed chairs and simple two-drawer desks. On the wall at the back there was a picture of His Excellency, the president of the Republic of Botswana, and on the other walls there was a map of Botswana, broken down into administrative districts, a calendar supplied by the Botswana Gazette, and a fly-spotted framed picture of cattle gathered round a borehole-fed watering tank.

The clerk behind the desk looked at Mma Ramotswe in a sleepy way.

“I am looking for the widow of a government pensioner,” she said, noting the spoiled collar of the clerk’s shirt. He would not go far in the civil service, she thought; civil servants were usually proud of their appearance, and this man was not.

“Name?” he said.

“Mine?”

“Pensioner.”

Mma Ramotswe had written the name on a piece of paper, and she passed it to the clerk. Underneath the name she had written: Prisons Department, and after that the date of Mr. Tsolamosese’s death.

The clerk looked at the piece of paper and made his way out of the room into a corridor which Mma Ramotswe could see was lined with lever-arch files. She watched him walk down the shelves until he stopped, extracted a file, and ruffled through some papers. Then he returned to the desk.

“Yes,” he said. “There is a widow of that name. She receives a pension from the Prisons Department.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Thank you, Rra. Could you give me her address? I have something to deliver to her.”

The clerk shook his head. “No, I cannot do that. The details of the pensioners are confidential. We could not have the whole world coming in here and finding out where these people live. That is not possible.”

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. This was precisely what she had feared would happen, and she knew that she would have to be extremely careful. This clerk was not bright, and people like that could show a remarkable tenacity when it came to rules. Because they could not distinguish between meritorious and unmeritorious requests, they could refuse to budge from the letter of the regulations. And there would be no point in trying to reason with them. The best tactic was to undermine their certainty as to the rule. If they could be persuaded that the rule was otherwise, then it might be possible to get somewhere. But it would be a delicate task.

“But that is not the rule,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I would never tell you your job-a clever man like you does not need to be told by a woman how to do his job-but I think that you have got the rule wrong. The rule says that you must not give the name of a pensioner. It says nothing about the address. That you can tell.”

The clerk shook his head. “I do not think you can be right, Mma. I am the one who knows the rules. You are the public.”

“Yes, Rra. I am sure that you are very good when it comes to rules. I am sure that this is the case. But sometimes, when one has to know so many rules, one can get them mixed up. You are thinking of rule 25. This rule is really rule 24(b), subsection (i). That is the rule that you are thinking of. That is the rule which says that no names of pensioners must be revealed, but which does not say anything about addresses. The rule which deals with addresses is rule 18, which has now been cancelled.”

The clerk shifted on his feet. He felt uneasy now and was not sure what to make of this assertive woman with her rule numbers. Did rules have numbers? Nobody had told him about them, but it was quite possible, he supposed.

“How do you know about these rules?” he asked. “Who told you?”

“Have you not read the Government Gazette?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “The rules are usually printed out in the Gazette, for everybody to see. Everybody is allowed to see the rules, as they are there for the protection of the public, Rra. That is important.”

The clerk said nothing. He was biting his lip now, and Mma Ramotswe saw him throw a quick glance over his shoulder.

“Of course,” she pressed on, “if you are too junior to deal with these matters, then I would be very happy to deal with a more senior person. Perhaps there is somebody in the back office who is senior enough to understand these rules.”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed, and Mma Ramotswe knew at that moment that her judgement had been correct: if he called somebody else, he would lose face.

“I am quite senior enough,” he said haughtily. “And what you say about the rules is quite correct. I was just waiting to see if you knew. It is very good that you did. If only more members of the public knew about these rules, then our job would be easier.”

“You are doing your job very well, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am glad that I found you and not some junior person who would know nothing about the rules.”

The clerk nodded sagely. “Yes,” he said. “Anyway, this is the address of the woman you mention. Here, I’ll write it down for you. It is a small village on the way to Lobatse. Maybe you know it. She is living there.”