To return to Mr. Molefelo and Mma Tsolamosese once again. Mma Ramotswe hoped that Mma Tsolamosese would not be inclined to go to the police, to rake over these very old coals; in which case she would inform her that Mr. Molefelo wished to make an apology and buy her a new radio. She had not discussed with him the precise terms of his amends, but he had said to her that money would be no object. “I shall pay whatever it takes,” he had said. “My conscience is more important to me than money. You can get lots of money out of the bank. You cannot get peace of mind out of the bank.”

Well, she would have to see what happened and handle matters accordingly. It would not be long now, with the turning to the village coming up, badly signposted, and a bumpy track to be negotiated up the hillside to Mma Tsolamosese’s house, which, if her directions were correct, she could just make out at the edge of the village.

An elderly woman was sitting on a stool outside the house, pounding corn in a traditional wooden mortar. She stopped as the tiny white van drew up, and rose to her feet to greet Mma Ramotswe.

They exchanged greetings in the traditional way.

“Dumela, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe said. “Have you slept well?”

“Yes, Mma. I have slept well.”

Mma Ramotswe introduced herself and asked whether the woman was Mma Tsolamosese.

The woman smiled. She had a pleasant, open expression, and Mma Ramotswe warmed to her immediately. “I am Mma Tsolamosese. This is my place.”

Mma Ramotswe accepted the invitation to sit down on a wooden chair, strung with strips of leather. It was not strong-looking, but she knew that these traditional chairs were well made and could bear her weight. The woman then went inside and fetched a mug of water for her visitor, which Mma Ramotswe accepted gratefully.

The house was of average size for such a village. It was square, neatly thatched, and had mud-daub walls of a warm ochre colour. The front door was painted white but had been scratched at the base by a dog. From inside the house, which was dark, as the curtains were drawn, there came the sound of two childish voices.

“There are two children who live here,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “There is the daughter of one of my sons, whose wife has gone to look after her mother in Shashe. Then there is the daughter of my daughter, who is late. I am looking after both of these children.”

“That is the work of so many women,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Children and more children, all the time until we die. That seems to be what women have to do.”

Mma Tsolamosese nodded her agreement. She was looking very carefully at Mma Ramotswe, her intelligent gaze moving over her visitor’s face and clothes, going off to the tiny white van and then back.

“I have looked after children all my life,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “It started when I was fourteen and had to look after my older sister’s child. Then it carried on when I had my own children, and now I am a grandmother and the task is not finished.” She paused for a moment and then continued: “Why have you come to see me, Mma? I am very happy to see you, but I wonder why you have come.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I have not come all this way to discuss children with you,” she said. “I have come to talk to you about something which happened a long time ago.”

Mma Tsolamosese opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. She was puzzled, and eager to find out, but she would wait for her visitor to explain herself.

“I believe your late husband worked for the Prison Department,” Mma Ramotswe said.

“He did,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “He was a good man. He worked for the department for many years and was quite senior. Thanks to that, I get a pension today.”

“And you lived near the old airfield in Gaborone?” went on Mma Ramotswe. “And you let students live in your spare room?”

“We always did that,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “It helped with housekeeping money. Not that they could pay much rent.”

“There was a student called Molefelo,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He was studying at the Botswana Technical College. Do you remember him?”

Mma Tsolamosese smiled. “I remember that boy well. He was a very nice boy. He was always clean.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. It was not going to be easy to tell her; even now, at this distance in time, it would be news of a gross betrayal. But she had to do it; it was part of her job to be the bearer of bad news, and she would have to steel herself.

“When he was staying with you,” she said, watching Mma Tsolamosese’s face closely, “you had a burglary. A man forced a window and stole a radio. Did that happen?”

Mma Tsolamosese frowned. “Yes, it did happen. I would not forget a thing like that. It was a very fine radio.”

Mma Ramotswe drew a deep breath. She would have to do it. “Molefelo took it,” she said. “He stole the radio.”

At first, Mma Tsolamosese looked confused. Then she reached down and dipped her fingers into the maize flour in the mortar.

“No,” she said. “He did not do it. He was living with us when it happened. You have got it wrong. Somebody else stole it. One of the prisoners, I think. That is always a danger when you live near a prison.”

“No, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, her voice gentle. “It was not a prisoner. It was Molefelo. He needed money urgently for some… something he had to do. So he stole your radio and made it look like a burglary. He sold it for one hundred pula to a man near the railway station. That is what happened.”

Mma Tsolamosese looked up sharply. “How do you know this, Mma? How can you talk about this thing if you weren’t even there?”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “He told me himself. Molefelo. He is feeling very bad-he has felt bad about it for years-and now he wants to come and apologise. He wants to buy you a new radio. He wants to make it up.”

“I do not want a radio,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “I do not like the music they play all the time now. Clank, clank. They do not play good music anymore.”

“It is important to him,” said Mma Ramotswe. She paused. “Have you ever done anything bad yourself, Mma?”

Mma Tsolamosese stared at her. “Everybody has,” she said.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Everybody has. But do you ever remember wanting to set right some bad thing you have done? Do you remember that at all?”

There was a silence between them. Mma Tsolamosese looked away, out across the hillside. Seated on her stool, she was now hugging her knees. When she spoke, her voice was quiet.

“Yes, I do. I remember that.”

Mma Ramotswe lost no time. “Well, that is how Molefelo feels. And should you not give him the chance to say sorry?”

The reply was not immediate, but it did come. “Yes,” she said. “It was a long time ago. It is good that he is thinking this now. I would not want him to suffer in his heart.”

“You are right, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What you are doing is the right thing.”

They sat together in the sunlight. There were beans to be shelled, and Mma Ramotswe did this while Mma Tsolamosese continued to crush maize, a gnarled hand on the pestle, the other on the rim of the wooden mortar. They had drunk a mug of heavily sweetened tea and felt relaxed and comfortable in one another’s company. Mma Tsolamosese was now quite happy about the apology, and had agreed that Mma Ramotswe should bring Molefelo out so that they could meet.

“He was just a young boy then,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “What he did then is nothing to do with the man he has become.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is a different person.”

A young teenage girl, barefoot and wearing a shabby green dress, appeared at the door and bobbed politely to Mma Ramotswe.

“This is the daughter of my son,” said Mma Tsolamosese. “She is very helpful with the little one. Bring her out to see, Koketso. Bring her out to see Mma.”

The girl went back into the house and came out carrying a toddler of two. She placed the child on its legs and held its hand while it took a few tentative steps.