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had told her about that many years ago; about how some men who went off to the mines in South Africa died for no reason at all, or so it seemed. A few weeks after they had arrived in Johannesburg, they simply died, because they were so far from Botswana, and their hearts were broken. She remembered that now.
    â€œA broken heart,” mused Tati Monyena. “But to have a broken heart you have to be awake, Mma, would you not agree?”
    Mma Ramotswe looked puzzled. “Awake?”
    â€œYes. Let me tell you what happened, Mma, and then you will see what I mean. I’m not sure if you know much about hospitals, but you know about a ward they have which is called intensive care. That is for people who are very ill and have to be looked after by nurses all the time, or just about all the time. Sometimes these people are in comas, on ventilators, which help them to breathe. You know about those machines, Mma?”
    Mma Ramotswe did.
    â€œWell,” continued Tati Monyena, “we have a ward like that in the hospital. And of course when people become late in that ward, nobody is too surprised. They are very sick when they go in and not all of them will come out. But…” He raised a finger in the air to emphasise the point. “But, when you have three deaths in six months and each of those takes place in the same bed, then you begin to wonder.”
    â€œCoincidence,” muttered Mma Makutsi. “There are many coincidences.”
    This time, Tati Monyena did not turn to answer her, but addressed his reply to Mma Ramotswe. “Oh, I know about coincidences,” he said. “That could easily be a coincidence. I know that. But what if those three deaths take place at more or less exactly the same time on a Friday? All of them?” He raised three fingers in the air. “Friday.” One finger went down. “Friday.” The second finger. “Friday.” The third.

CHAPTER THREE

    I HAVE FOUND YOU
    M MA MAKUTSI went home that day thinking about what Tati Monyena had said. She preferred not to dwell upon her work once she left the office—something that they had strongly recommended at the Botswana Secretarial College. “Don’t go home and write letters all over again in your head,” said the lecturer. “It is best to leave the problems of the office where they belong—in the office.”
    She had done that, for the most part, but it was not easy when there was something as unusual—as shocking, perhaps—as this. Even though she tried to put out of her mind the account of the three unusual hospital deaths, the image returned of Tati Monyena holding up three fingers and bringing them down one by one. So might the passing of one’s life be marked—by the raising and lowering of a finger. She thought of this again as she unlocked the door of her house and flicked the light switch. On, off; like our lives.
    It had not been a good day for Mma Makutsi. She had not sought out that altercation with Mma Ramotswe—if one could call it that—and it had left her feeling uncomfortable. It was Mma Ramotswe’s fault, she decided; she should not have made those remarks about shopping during working hours. One might reasonably require a junior clerk to keep strict hours, but when it came to those at a higher level, such as herself, then a certain leeway was surely normal. If one went to the shops in the afternoon they were full of people who were senior enough to take the time off to do their shopping. One could not expect such people—and she included herself in that category—to struggle to get everything done on a Saturday morning, when the whole town was trying to do the same thing. If Mma Ramotswe did not appreciate that, she said to herself, then she would have to employ somebody else.
    She stopped. She was standing in the middle of the room when this thought crossed her mind, and she realised that it was the first time she had