The square in front of the President Hotel, a large, well-used pedestrian thoroughfare known as the Mall, was more crowded than usual. The end-of-the-month pay-day had fallen a few days ago, and the effect of the sudden injection of money into pockets was still being felt. All along the square, which ran from the government offices at one end to the bank offices at the other, small traders had set up their stalls. There were sellers of crudely made sandals, the shoes laid out before them in rows; dressmakers, with their racks of voluminous dresses; purveyors of traditional medicines, with their little piles of twisted roots and strips of bark; sellers of carvings and wooden salad bowls; hawkers of cheap sunglasses and perfumes. Business was being done-but not a great deal, as this spot seemed to provide for as many social as commercial opportunities. Questions were being asked about relatives and colleagues; marriages were being discussed and planned; complaints about the doings of officials and officialdom were being shared, and expanded; and, of course, news was being conveyed of distant cattle. There was a lot happening.

Mma Makutsi would have preferred to wander the length of the Mall, stopping to chat to people she recognised, but saw that she was already a few minutes late for her appointment. So, with the sinking heart of one obliged to perform an unwelcome task, she climbed up the open staircase that graced the front of the President Hotel and made her way onto the shaded verandah.

The hotel would become busy at lunch time, but now only a few of the tables were occupied. At one, a smartly dressed woman sat alone, a magazine on the table in front of her. She was on edge, Mma Makutsi noticed, with the nervous look of one who is expecting to meet somebody important-somebody she was keen to impress, perhaps. From time to time she looked at a small mobile phone on the table; looked longingly, thought Mma Makutsi. Oh, my sister, Mma Makutsi said under her breath. Oh, my sister, I am sorry. He is not going to come, is he?

Mma Makutsi's gaze moved on. A middle-aged couple, visitors wearing large floppy hats, sat at a table poring over a tourist guide. Mma Makutsi smiled; so many people read these guides when they might have been looking around them and seeing the place they were reading about. It was the same with cameras: visitors spent so much time peering through the viewfinders of their cameras that they never looked at the country they were photographing. The couple lowered their books, though, and looked at her, smiled; her own smile grew wider. That was better. What does the book say about me? she wondered. Look out for Mma Makutsi. She is the fiancée of Mr. Phuti Radiphuti, and you should look out for him too.

The brief reverie ended. There he was-there was no doubt about it-Mr. Oteng Bolelang, midfield attacker, sitting at a table near the verandah parapet, pointedly looking at his watch.

“I am very sorry to be late, Rra,” she said, as she sat down at the table. “But as Mma Ramotswe says, it is better to be late than to be the late.”

Oteng Bolelang looked at her in puzzlement. “What is this? Who is this Mma Ramotswe?”

He spoke with an unusually high-pitched voice, which caught Mma Makutsi unawares. She had imagined that footballers-and especially midfield attackers-would speak with deep, masculine voices. This man, however, spoke with a rather thin, reed-like voice, the voice of a bird, she thought, or the voice of one of those thin dogs howling at the top of its register.

“Mma Ramotswe is the woman who owns the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency,” she said. “That is who she is.”

Oteng gave a shrug. “I do not know her.” His tone was peevish.

Mma Makutsi smiled pleasantly. “Well, maybe one day you will meet her, Rra. She has asked me, though, to speak to you. You will know that Mr. Molofololo wants you all to speak to us.”

“He told us that,” said the footballer. “He thinks that we have nothing better to do than to talk to wo… talk to people.”

Women, thought Mma Makutsi. That is what you were about to say, but you stopped yourself. You do not like women, I think, Rra. You do not like us.

“I am sure that you are very busy, Rra,” she said. “You told me on the telephone that you are a salesman. What do you sell?”

“Fridges,” said Oteng. “Fridges and freezers.”

“That is very important in a hot country,” observed Mma Makutsi. “Where would we be without fridges?”

“We would still be in Botswana,” said Oteng, looking again at his watch.

You are a very rude man, thought Mma Makutsi.

“Tell me, Rra. What is wrong with the team? Why is it always losing?”

Oteng looked at her as if he had been asked a completely unexpected question. “That is a very strange question,” he said.

“Why is it strange?”

“Because it's so obvious that nobody should have to ask it.”

She waited for him to continue, but he did not, turning instead to catch the attention of the waiter who was hovering near the door. “I need coffee,” he said.

Mma Makutsi was not going to let him derail her, and she repeated her question, adding, “It may be obvious to you, Rra. But it is not obvious to me. The Swoopers used to win-now they lose. How would you explain that?”

“The goalie,” said Oteng. “If the other side scores goals, then it is because the goalie lets them in. It is Big Man's fault.”

Mma Makutsi listened carefully. “He's letting goals in?” she asked. “He does that deliberately?”

Oteng burst out laughing-a superior, contemptuous laugh. “No,” he said. “It's much simpler than that. It's his eyesight.”

The waiter came to the table and Oteng ordered coffee. Almost as an afterthought, he asked Mma Makutsi whether she would like some too. You are very, very rude, she said to herself.

“What is wrong with his eyesight?” she asked.

“He needs glasses,” Oteng said. “You can't have a goalie in glasses. It would look odd.”

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “How do you know that he can't see very well? Has he told you?”

Oteng laughed again. “Big Man Tafa doesn't speak to me much. He's jealous of me, of course. I'm a midfield attacker, you know.”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “I have heard that.”

“I saw him trip over something once,” he said. “He didn't see it. I'm sure of it. And I threw him something once in the dressing room-just to test him. I threw him a pencil. I said, Here, Big Man, catch this. And he couldn't see it.”

“So that's the reason why the team isn't doing well?”

Oteng hesitated for a moment. “Maybe.”

Mma Makutsi raised an eyebrow. “There are other reasons, Rra?”

The high voice increased in volume, becoming shriller as it did so. “Molofololo doesn't help. He keeps changing things. He changes tactics. He changes practice times. He changed all our kit when he got some new sponsor. We wanted to talk to him about that, but he won't listen-the problem is that the sponsor pays for us to wear these things. He changed the club's telephone number and then changed it back again. You change things and everybody gets mixed up.”

The coffee arrived, and Oteng became taciturn. Mma Makutsi tried a few more questions but felt that she was getting nowhere. She too became silent. She did not offer to pour a second cup.

“You have been very helpful, Rra,” she said.

“Pleasure,” he said.

IT WAS UNUSUAL for Mma Ramotswe to play any role in the running of the garage. She saw, though, Mr. Polopetsi and the younger apprentice leaning against the side of a car; she saw that Fanwell was drinking a cold drink out of a can and Mr. Polopetsi was fiddling with what looked like a transistor radio-and she decided that Fanwell could be spared.

“You don't look very busy,” she said as she joined them. “Are you fixing radios now, Rra?”

Mr. Polopetsi laughed. “This radio is almost finished,” he said. “My wife said that we should throw it out, but I am trying to save it.”