Violet looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, Bomma, that I cannot give you tea or anything. But I am going out tonight. There is a big dance at the Grand Palm. I am going there. By invitation.” She paused. “And maybe you will tell me why you have come to see me?”

There was something in her tone that suggested she was on edge. She knows there is something wrong, thought Mma Ramotswe. And for a minute she felt sympathy for this ruthless, ambitious woman. She knew.

“I am a messenger today,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I sometimes do that sort of thing.”

“Not enough detective work?” asked Violet, her confidence momentarily returning.

“I do things for friends,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am a friend of a certain lawyer. He is called Joe Bosilong.”

Violet was quite still. One of her heavily purpled eyelids moved slightly; the smallest tic. “I know him,” she said. “He is my lawyer.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He has sent me with an amendment to the deed he drew up for you recently. There is a mistake in it. It will have to be signed again by that kind man who is giving you this house, Mr. Kereleng.”

Violet said nothing.

Then Mma Makutsi spoke. “Unless he won’t sign, of course.”

Violet spun round to face her. “You said something, Mma?” she said, her voice rising to a high pitch.

“I said that maybe Mr. Kereleng won’t sign. And if that happens, then I’m afraid that he will be taking this house back.”

“Mma Makutsi-,” Mma Ramotswe began. But she could not continue. Violet Sephotho, screaming, had launched herself into an attack on Mma Makutsi. It happened so quickly that Mma Ramotswe had little time to think about her reaction. Moving forward, she caught hold of Violet’s flailing arms and brought them to her sides. It was the first time in her entire career as a detective that she had used force. It shocked her.

“Get out of my house, Grace Makutsi!” screamed the now physically restrained Violet. “You get out! You, voetsek, voetsek!”

Mma Makutsi was calm. “You have too much purple on your eyelids,” she said. “Purple Sephotho!” And then, as she and Mma Ramotswe retreated from the room, Mma Makutsi threw her parting shot over her shoulder, “Fifty per cent!”

Outside, Mma Ramotswe found her breath coming in short bursts. “Are you all right, Mma?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“I am very upset,” said Mma Ramotswe, stopping to get her breath back. “That was a very nasty scene.”

“She is a nasty woman,” said Mma Makutsi. “That purple eyeliner, I…”

“Do not talk about that, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“She is a horrible…”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe simply. She felt herself shaking. “She is unhappy, and she brings unhappiness to others. That is very sad. I am sorry for her.”

Mma Makutsi looked up at the sky. How could Mma Ramotswe even begin to have sympathy for that terrible woman? How could she? And then, suddenly, she remembered how. It was because this woman, this traditionally built woman, this understanding, tolerant employer, this detective, was composed of kindness, just of kindness.

“I’m sorry,” said Mma Makutsi. “I did not behave very well in there.”

Mma Ramotswe took her hand. “You were a bit excited, maybe. But you didn’t do too badly. When she attacked you, you did nothing, which was the right thing to do.” Suddenly she laughed. “That eyeliner!” she said. “What a colour!”

“I can’t wait to tell Phuti about this,” said Mma Makutsi.

There was a silence, which Mma Ramotswe tried to fill. “I’m sure that you will see him soon,” she said. “Then you can tell him.”

She was not sure, though. She had a bad feeling about that aunt of Phuti’s. That was the problem, she thought. You deal with one difficult person in this life-Violet Sephotho, for instance-and another one pops up.

But for a short while she could put such difficulties aside. Now she had the pleasant duty of going to tell Mr. Kereleng that he had his house back; it had never really been Violet’s anyway, thanks to the faulty deed, but now he could go and claim it back, and then sell it to raise the money for his laboratory. There were so many things in this world that did not turn out well; she was glad that here, at least, was one that had turned out very well indeed.

She went to his office. He was embarrassed at first, and explained to her in a lowered voice that they were not meant to receive personal callers at work. But when she told him what had happened, his demeanour changed. He let out a whoop of delight, and then began to cry. His colleagues watched in amazement, and then one came over to Mma Ramotswe and asked her if Mr. Kereleng had received bad news. “No,” she said. “It is very good news. Sometimes people cry if they are very happy, or very relieved.”

“That is very odd,” said the colleague.

“No, it is not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We should all cry a bit more, Rra. We really should.”

THE DRIVE NORTH took longer than they had expected. In spite of their early start, the road was busy for the first part of the journey, with large stock carriers occupying both lanes and inconsiderately making it difficult to pass. In the days of the tiny white van that would have been neither here nor there-that van had been unable to pass anything much, although it usually managed to get past bicycles, and pedestrians, if conditions were right. The new blue van, of course, experienced no such difficulties, having reserves of power deep in its engine that Mma Ramotswe could release with a simple movement of her right foot. That ability, though, was such a novelty that she hardly dared use it. What would happen, she wondered, if she put her foot down hard to the floor and left it there? She had done that frequently enough in the old van, and there was rarely any reaction. It was as if that engine did not receive its instructions, or, if it did, it merely shrugged them off, as an aged beast of burden, a donkey or an ox, may ignore its owner’s exhortations, saying, effectively, I am just too old to be doing this any more. Leave me alone please.

Mma Makutsi proved to be a helpful companion and co-driver. She did not possess a driving licence-not yet-but she took the view that the obtaining of ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College, if not amounting to an actual driving qualification, entitled her to hold views and to advise. So she kept a lookout when Mma Ramotswe wanted to pass something. Now, Mma, right now. Just go a bit faster. There is nothing coming. Go now. She also navigated-which was not an exacting task given that the road to Francistown, which marked the end of the first leg of the journey, ran straight and true from Gaborone northwards and neither meandered nor diverted. “You go straight here, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “That sign over there says Francistown. That is the route to take.” Mma Ramotswe nodded. “Yes,” she said. “These are good signs, don’t you think, Mma? They make it quite clear which way you should go.”

Mma Makutsi, interpreting this as veiled criticism of her navigating, searched for an objection to this remark. “But what if there is a blind person?” she challenged. “What use would they be then?”

“But a blind person shouldn’t be driving,” said Mma Ramotswe. And added, as if the matter required further resolution, “That is well known, Mma.”

There could be no answer to that, and the subject of signs was pursued no further. There were other things to talk about, though, and as their conversation wandered this way and that the long miles clocked up. Towns passed, some well known-Mahalapye and Palapye-some small and unimportant to all except those who lived in them, for whom they were everything. Each had associations or memories for Mma Ramotswe, and, to a lesser extent, for Mma Makutsi. One of them would know somebody who came from there, or had relatives there; one of them would know a story that came from that place-a story of envy or overreaching ambition or simple human need.