Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. “If it's a game, Rra, then surely anything can happen. Maybe things will improve.”

Mr. Molofololo shook his head disconsolately. “I would like to think that,” he said. “But I'm afraid that we're doomed. I do not think that things will get any better until…”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him expectantly. “Until what, Rra?”

“Until we find out who the traitor is.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for him to expand on this, but he simply looked at her angrily, as if blaming her in some way for his team's misfortunes. Was he one of those people, she wondered, who see enemies at every turn? She had known somebody like that once; he had suspected everybody of plotting against him. Perhaps Mr. Molofololo saw traitors everywhere, all of them intent on letting him down.

“Perhaps you should tell me about this traitor,” she said gently. “Is it a business rival of yours, maybe?”

This suggestion seemed to make Mr. Molofololo even crosser. “I don't know, Mma,” he said, somewhat peevishly. “It may be somebody like that behind the traitor. Who knows? The real problem is that there is a traitor in the team.”

“Somebody who wants you to lose?” Mma Ramotswe had heard of people who fixed games-there had been some row about this happening in cricket in South Africa and it had got into the local papers. But would the same thing happen in football in Gaborone? She wondered whether the stakes would be high enough; perhaps they were. Perhaps it was a matter of Mercedes-Benzes; they seemed to come into these things a great deal.

Mr. Molofololo folded his hands in his lap. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe, I'm afraid that may be true. In fact, I'm sure that it's true. There is somebody in the team who wants us to lose and is making very sure that we do.”

Mr. Molofololo stopped speaking, and there was silence. Outside, in the acacia tree behind the office, a dove cooed-the small Cape dove that had taken up residence in the tree and cooed for a mate who never came.

Mma Ramotswe spread her hands. “I don't know, Rra, if I am the best person to find out what is going on here,” she said.

“But you're a detective,” protested Mr. Molofololo. “And I have asked around, Mma. Everybody has said to me: you go to that Mma Ramotswe-she is the one who can find things out. That is what they said.”

It was flattering to Mma Ramotswe to hear that her reputation had spread, but she knew nothing at all about football, and it seemed to her that it would be impossible to detect something as subtle and devious as match-fixing. It would be difficult enough for her to work out which direction the team was playing in, let alone to discover who was deliberately not doing his best.

“I may be a detective, Rra,” she explained, “but this is a very special thing you are asking me to do. How can I find out who this… this traitor is if I know nothing about football? I cannot sit there and say, See that? See what is going on over there-that is very suspicious. I cannot do that.”

“And I cannot either,” said Mma Makutsi. “I know nothing about football either.”

Mr. Molofololo sighed. “I'm not asking you to do that, Mma,” he said. “I'm asking you to look into the private lives of the players. Find out who is being paid money to do this-because money will be changing hands, I'm sure of it.”

This changed everything. “I can certainly do that, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Indeed, that is what we do rather well, isn't it, Mma Makutsi?”

Mma Makutsi nodded emphatically. “We often find out where men are hiding their money when it comes to divorce,” she said. “Men are very cunning, Rra. But we find out where the money is.”

Mr. Molofololo raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure you do,” he said.

“So we shall be happy to act for you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We will need details of all the players. We shall need to know exactly where they live, and I need to be able to have some contact with the team. Can you think of any suitable cover for me?”

Mr. Molofololo thought for a moment. “We have a lady who gives massages to the players,” he said. “She helps them if they pull a muscle or something like that. But she also helps to keep their limbs in good working order. You could be her assistant, perhaps. She has worked for me for many years and is very discreet.”

“That is important,” said Mma Makutsi from behind her desk. “One does not want a lady who talks too much.”

AT THE END OF THAT DAY, at five o'clock, when the whole of Gaborone streamed out of its shops and offices and other places of work, when the sun began to sink low over the Kalahari to the west, Mma Ramotswe locked the office behind her and walked, with Mma Makutsi, on to the Tlokweng Road. Mma Makutsi would catch a minibus there, one of those swaying, overloaded vehicles that plied their trade along the roads that led into the city, and she said to Mma Ramotswe, “Why walk all the way, Mma? Come with me on the minibus and then you can get off when we get to the crossroads and walk from there.”

She was tempted. It had been a busy day, what with Mr. Molofololo and several other clients who had slipped in without an appointment, and all she wanted now was to get home. But she had said that she would walk, and walk she would.

“No thank you, Mma. It is good exercise, you see. It's important that people in Botswana should get exercise. We talked about that already.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “But it's also important,” she said, “that people in Botswana get back home in good time. It's important that they have time to cook themselves a good dinner. It's important that they do not get covered in dust from too much walking. All of these things are important.”

Mma Ramotswe just smiled. “I hope that you sleep well tonight, Mma. I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

And with that they bade their farewells, and Mma Makutsi watched Mma Ramotswe begin to walk along the road back towards town. She admired her employer, who was far stronger, she thought, than she was herself. I would never walk if I had the chance of getting into a car or a minibus. No, I would not, and that is because Mma Ramotswe is a strong and determined lady and I am just one of these ladies who blow with the wind. She paused; she was not sure that this was the right metaphor. For a moment she imagined Mma Ramotswe being buffeted by a strong wind, one of the hot, dry winds that come from far off in the bush, far over on the other side of the border, from hills that she could not name and had never seen. She saw the wind ruffle Mma Ramotswe's skirt and blouse, inflating them briefly; but Mma Ramotswe stood firm, while all about her acacia trees were bending and leaves whirling in mad vortices. Mma Ramotswe stood firm, even when lesser people, thin, insubstantial people, were being toppled and bowled over by the wind. That was Mma Ramotswe, her rock.

Unaware of Mma Makutsi's fantasy, Mma Ramotswe made her way slowly along the edge of the road. The traffic was light in that direction, as most of the cars were coming out of town, heading back to the sprawling village of Tlokweng. She was now passing the eucalyptus trees that stretched out towards the dam to the south; she drove past these trees every day, and she thought that she knew them well. But now, on foot, it was as if she saw them for the first time. She loved their scent, that slightly prickly scent that reminded her of the handkerchiefs that her father's cousin used. She would put a few drops of eucalyptus oil onto the cloth and let the young Precious smell them. “That keeps away colds,” the cousin said. “If you put eucalyptus oil on your handkerchief, your nose is safe. Always.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at the memory. She did not think that eucalyptus oil made a difference; she had read somewhere that nothing made a difference to colds other than washing your hands after you had touched a person suffering from one. People believed all manner of things, in the face of all the evidence, but if they did not, well, what then? What if we stopped believing in things that we could not prove? We had to believe in something, she thought. We had to believe in kindness and courtesy and telling the truth; we had to believe in the old Botswana values- all of these things could not be proved in the way in which one could prove that nothing made a difference to colds, and yet we had to believe them.