Then there was the question of Mma Makutsi. It was clear to her that her assistant had been under considerable stress, which was, of course, entirely understandable; she could imagine how she would feel if it had been Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni who had been injured and who had lost part of a leg. And if she were in that position, then a trip to Maun would be exactly the sort of thing to lift her spirits. Yes, that was exactly what they both needed. She herself needed a short break-Mma Ramotswe never took a holiday-and Mma Makutsi needed something to take her mind off what had happened. Maun it would be.

By the time she had parked her van in the car park behind the President Hotel, and agreed with the young man who appeared at her window that he could look after it, she was already planning the trip in her mind. She would have to look at her wardrobe to decide what to wear-visitors who went up there all wore khaki, with many of the women, even those of traditional build, wearing khaki trousers equipped with multiple pockets. That was a mistake, thought Mma Ramotswe; women of traditional build were fortunate in having comfortable built-in seating arrangements, but that did not mean to say that they should draw attention to this fact by wearing trousers. The appropriate garment for the traditionally built woman was a long skirt, or a large dress, which could flow around her in a way that enhanced her traditional figure.

And Mma Ramotswe did not see herself in khaki, either. Not only was that not a colour for ladies, but it did not achieve the objective of disguising the wearer from wild animals. Lions and the like, she thought, were not so stupid as to think that people wearing khaki were not there; such creatures knew full well that people in khaki were just people dressed in brown, and therefore every bit as dangerous to the wild animals as people in blue or red or some other bright colour. And if one wanted to be camouflaged, then the best garb, surely, would be something in green, which might make one look like a tree, if one was a tall person, or a shrub if one was not so tall.

There were other things, apart from the issue of dress, that would have to be thought about before they left for Maun. There was the issue of where to stay: the camps themselves were for visitors, with prices that only visitors could afford; but this did not present a problem for local people, who would have recourse to the hospitality of relatives or at least friends, or possibly relatives of friends, or friends of relatives’ friends. In Mma Ramotswe’s case there was Mr. H.B.C. Matekoni, a cousin of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who had stayed with them on his last visit to Gaborone -an eight-day stay, while he was attending a training programme for aircraft mechanics, which was what he was. Mma Ramotswe was not one to keep a tally when it came to favours, but his eight-day stay would surely entitle her and Mma Makutsi to beds for the two or three days that their mission would need. She had not met Mr. H.B.C. Matekoni’s wife, who was a primary-school teacher in Maun, but she had heard good reports of her, and the cementing of family relationships was another good reason for making the trip.

She found Hansi in his travel and safari office, sitting at his desk, engaged in a telephone conversation that entailed frequent and expressive hand gestures. He cast his eyes upwards when she came in, implying to her that it was a difficult client on the line, and then he signalled for her to sit down.

“Yes, yes,” he said into the phone. “Yes, I am not saying that you are not entitled to a refund. What I am saying is that the refund must come from the tour operator and not from this office. That is what I am saying.”

There was an angry crackle from the other side, and the conversation came to an end. Hansi laid the receiver back in its cradle and looked apologetically at Mma Ramotswe. “Not my fault, Mma. I cannot guarantee that everybody sees a leopard. You know how secretive those creatures are, looking out at us from their hiding places and laughing…”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “It is the same with me, Hansi. I have clients sometimes who think that I have guaranteed a miracle. They can be very difficult.”

“Perhaps we should be in simpler jobs, Mma Ramotswe. Ones where we are the clients and can make complaining telephone calls to other people.” He paused. “Not that I can ever see you complaining, Mma. You are too kind. Nobody would take your complaints seriously. They would say, Oh, very funny, Mma Ramotswe! So you are very happy then. Thank you.”

“I am not always kind,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I can get cross, the same as everybody else.”

Hansi looked doubtful. “I do not think so,” he said. “But let us not talk about people like that person on the phone to me just then. It is very good to see you, Mma-is there any reason for this visit, or is it just time for tea?”

“I want to go to Maun,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Hansi raised an eyebrow. “You, Mma? You want to go on a safari?”

“Of course not. But I need some information for a case I’m working on. I need to find out about somebody who works up there. A person whose name I do not know who works in a camp that also has a name I do not know.”

Hansi listened. “If you do not know either of those things, I do not know how I can help.”

She explained that there was a clue. “The name of the camp is something to do with a bird, or possibly an animal.”

Hansi thought for a moment. “If it’s a bird,” he said, “then it must be Eagle Island. It’s also called Xaba-Xaba, but people find difficulty saying x, and so they decided to call it Eagle Island. That must be the camp.”

“That is all I need to know. That, and their telephone number.”

“There isn’t an ordinary telephone at the camp,” said Hansi. “They have a satellite phone, I think, but they usually use the radio. But you can speak to their office in Maun. They can get in touch with them.”

She asked about the camp, and he gave her further details. He had been there once himself, on a trip that the owners of the camp had organised for tour agents. “I have never been so comfortable in my life,” he said. “Never. And they were very good to us.”

“I have heard as much,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There was a certain Mrs. Grant who also thought that.”

“I met the manager,” Hansi went on. “I am sure that he will help you in your inquiry, whatever it is. And I also know one of the guides there. He is a very good man. He is called Mighty, and he can look at the ground and tell you about all the animals that have passed that way since, oh, five days ago. He reads the ground like a book. If he saw your footprints he would say, Lady of…”

“Of traditional build,” supplied Mma Ramotswe.

“Exactly. Lady of traditional build. She went by here five hours ago. Heading north.”

“They are very clever, those people, Hansi.”

Hansi nodded. “Sometimes I worry, though. I worry about who will be learning those skills in the next generation. Are there apprentices? Are there people learning how to track?”

Mma Ramotswe frowned as she thought of the apprentices at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. She could not imagine Charlie and Fanwell tracking animals through the bush, although she could just see them tracking cars. Four-door saloon, heading south, third gear. Or, more likely, Car full of girls, going that way, two hours ago.

Hansi made tea, and they continued to chat for half an hour or so. They enjoyed each other’s company, although their circumstances were very different. He came from the opposite end of the country, from Ghanzi, in the far west, on the other side of the Kalahari, a dry place that had just enough vegetation to make it good land for cattle, as long as they were grazed thinly enough on the brittle veld. It was a landscape of browns and ochres, of dust and copper-red sunsets, of rickety windmills turning above marginal boreholes, sucking the land for water somewhere deep down.