Mma Makutsi could only guess that these were the ones whom Mr. Molofololo himself suspected. But no, said Mma Ramotswe, that would be too simple. “Remember what Clovis Andersen says, Mma,” she warned. “He said that you should never take account of those who may be suspected by others because that may lead you up the wrong track altogether. That is what he said, Mma. And I think he is right. So these are not Mr. Molofololo's suspects-it is something much simpler. The names ticked are those members of the team who drive a Mercedes-Benz.”

Mma Makutsi looked surprised. “Is there something dishonest about driving a car like that, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “Of course not. They are very fine cars, and some very honest people drive them. No, there is another reason. A Mercedes-Benz is not a cheap car. So if somebody drives one, then there must at least have been some money. So, if you are looking for signs of money, follow the Mercedes-Benz, Mma!”

Their conversation was interrupted at this intriguing point by the entry into the office of Mr. Polopetsi, the half-trained mechanic employed by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni in the garage, who occasionally helped out in the detective agency. Mr. Polopetsi had been taken on as an act of charity but had proved himself to be a valuable member of staff, now quite capable of carrying out a full service on most makes of car and every bit as accomplished as the apprentices in handling a number of other mechanical procedures. He came in now bearing the chipped white mug from which he drank his tea.

“I see that you have had doughnuts,” he said, looking pointedly at the greasy wrapping paper on the side of Mma Makutsi's desk. “I thought doughnuts were for Friday.”

“There has been a change of policy,” said Mma Makutsi. “A forward-looking business must be flexible.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. She was looking at Mr. Polopetsi, and she remembered that he was often rather good at shedding light on a problem. His ideas were frequently unusual but quite astute for all their unexpectedness.

“Tell me, Mr. Polopetsi,” she asked. “How would you deal with this thing, Rra?” She passed him Mr. Molofololo's list of football players. “Do you recognise that?”

Mr. Polopetsi ran an eye down the list of names and then looked up with a grin. “The Kalahari Swoopers, Mma. That's who these people are.” He pointed to one of the names. “Quickie Chitamba. He used to live out at Tlokweng, near my cousin. They saw him sometimes, driving past the house. His wife is a friend of my wife's brother.”

Mma Ramotswe gave a casual wave of the hand. “Yes,” she said. “Quickie Chitamba. I've seen him play.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked at her in astonishment. “I would never have guessed, Mma. You're interested in football, Mma Ramotswe? I didn't know that!”

“There are always new things to find out about a person,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Oh, I know that,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “It's just that I can't see Mma Ramotswe at a football match.” He closed his eyes, the better to envisage the scene. “No, Mma, I can't see you there. I just can't.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “And that is not surprising, Rra. I have only been once. You see, we're working on a football case now. You may smile, Rra, but that is what we're doing. We are football detectives now.”

While Mma Makutsi made Mr. Polopetsi a cup of tea, Mma Ramotswe explained the background to the Molofololo case. Mr. Polopetsi listened intently, raising an eyebrow at the allegation of treachery. When she had finished, he shook his head in wonderment. “I noticed that they were not doing very well. I thought that maybe their coach was trying new tactics, or something like that. I would never have dreamed that there was somebody deliberately losing. That is very serious, Mma. Ow!”

“So, Mr. Polopetsi,” Mma Ramotswe said. “So here are Mma Makutsi and I sitting and wondering where to start. And I said to Mma Makutsi that we should look at anybody in the team who appears to have more money than one might expect. That's always a clue, I think.”

Mr. Polopetsi scratched his head. “Well, maybe. Maybe.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

“I said maybe, Mma. I didn't say no. I said maybe.”

Mma Ramotswe pointed to the list. “You see, what we have done is to get Mr. Molofololo to mark who has a Mercedes-Benz. We can start with those ones.”

For a few moments Mr. Polopetsi looked at Mma Ramotswe doubtfully. Then he shook his head. “Because those people will be the ones who have money they're not entitled to? Bribes? Is that what you're saying, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. “More or less, Rra.”

Mma Makutsi passed him his mug of tea and he nursed it carefully before raising it to his lips. “Thank you, Mma. This is very good tea.” He took a sip and then lowered the mug. “Absolutely not, Mma Ramotswe,” he said firmly. “You can forget about those ones.”

“Why?”

“Because football players are no fools,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “They know that they are in the public eye. They are watched all the time. People write about them in the papers. People talk. If you had money you were not entitled to, then a Mercedes-Benz is the last thing you would buy.”

Mma Makutsi leaned forward over her desk. “He may be right, Mma Ramotswe. I can see what he means. Don't buy a Mercedes-Benz if you don't want people to start asking questions.”

Mma Ramotswe had not expected such a firm rejection of her theory, which, after all, had the stamp of Clovis Andersen's authority to it. But now that she thought of what Mr. Polopetsi had said, she realised that he was probably right. It was a pity, as she thought that the Mercedes-Benz theory had its strong points, not the least of which was that it gave them a convenient starting point. But on mature reflection she decided that Mr. Polopetsi was right. It would be a foolish man who invited attention where none was wanted.

And then Mr. Polopetsi had an idea. It was a qualification, really, to the proposition that he had advanced earlier. “Of course,” he said, “their mothers are a different matter. If the mother of a football player has a Mercedes-Benz, then there is every reason to be suspicious.”

THROUGHOUT THE REST of that morning, Mma Ramotswe could settle to nothing. She had some letters to write, and these she dictated to Mma Makutsi, whose pencil hovered over the pad while Mma Ramotswe struggled to keep her thoughts from wandering. It was the tiny white van, of course, that was preying on her mind. She felt as a relative might feel in a hospital waiting room, anticipating the results of an operation, ready to judge the outcome by the expression on the surgeon's face. In this case her vigil was made all the more trying by the fact that she could hear noises coming from the garage, a clanking sound at one point, a thudding of metal on metal at another; at least relatives of those in hospital were not treated to quite such vivid and immediate sound effects.

“You have already said that, Mma Ramotswe,” Mma Makutsi pointed out politely. “You have already said that you will be available for a meeting on that day. Now I think you need to say…”

“Oh, I cannot concentrate, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I'm sitting here and just through the wall over there my van is being taken to pieces. And it will not be good news, you know, at the end of it all.”

Mma Makutsi thought that this was probably true, but she did her best to comfort her employer. “You never know, Mma. There are miracles from time to time. There could be a miracle for your van.”

Mma Ramotswe appreciated this but knew that there would be no miracle. And when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni came into the office half an hour or so later, wiping his hands on a piece of lint, she knew in an instant what was to come.