Doctors, detectives, and common sense.

Mma Ramotswe, only begetter and proprietrix of the No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Botswana’s only private detective agency for the problems of ladies (and others), rarely had cause to consult her general practitioner. This doctor was called Dr Leonard Modisapodi, a man of modest tastes and quiet demeanour, who lived in a small house just off the Gaborone end of the Tlokweng Road. Mma Ramotswe attributed her robust health—and the resultant infrequent contact with Dr Modisapodi—to her good fortune in coming from a line of long lived women. Even though her mother had died at an early age, that tragedy had been the result of an accident involving the Francistown train and was nothing to do with her genes. These genes were good: her aunts, of which she had several, were all in their eighties or, in one or two cases, beyond. Precious Ramotswe realised, of course, that one could count on nothing in this respect, but she had always enjoyed good health and saw no reason to assume that she would not continue to do so. So, the only time that she saw Dr Modisapodi—other than those occasions when she spotted him walking about town on Saturday mornings with his two young sons—was when his receptionist summoned her to his surgery for the annual check-up that he gave all his patients. This examination was the cause of mild stress—or irritation, perhaps—for Mma Ramotswe. Ever since Dr Modisapodi had instituted these appointments, she had been obliged to endure the ordeal of standing on the scales that he produced from under his consulting couch. And every time that she had stepped on to their unforgiving platform, the doctor would draw in his breath sharply, as one might do on opening and reading a large and unexpected bill. This sound annoyed her, and it seemed to Mma Ramotswe that it was distinctly unprofessional to make such a noise. She herself never drew in her breath or shook her head in disapproval when one of her clients revealed something shocking. She just sat there and noted down the details, impassionately, as she had learned to do from her reading of The Principles of Private Detection by Clovis Andersen. Then Dr Modisapodi—and this happened every year—would look at her over the rim of his halfmoon spectacles and intone, “Now then, Mma Ramotswe, we are going to have to lose some weight, aren’t we?” And she would say: “Dr Modisapodi, I am a traditionally shaped lady, that’s what I am. Not everybody needs to be thin.” And he would frown and make a sound that was difficult to interpret, but which sounded like deep disapproval, and the matter would be left until the next year. This year Mma Ramotswe was due to see the doctor at eleven o’clock in the morning on a rather hot day in late November. At ten o’clock she called at an office near the surgery, hoping to see somebody she needed to interview in connection with a matter under investigation. This person was not in when Mma Ramotswe called, so she decided that it would be more comfortable to spend the hour in the waiting room of the surgery nearby, which would be considerably cooler than parking her tiny white van and waiting in the driver’s seat, even if she were to park in the shade of an acacia tree. And there was always the chance that Dr Modisapodi would see her early if there were not many patients waiting to consult him. She entered the surgery and saw at once from the number of people present that there would be little chance of her wait being a short one. There were magazines, however, and Mma Ramotswe liked the idea of paging through these for an hour or so. Picking an empty seat near the receptionist’s desk, she sat herself down with an out of date magazine and cast an eye over her fellow patients. There was nobody she knew, and that, for Mma Ramotswe was something of a challenge. “Always work out who’s who and what’s what,” counselled Clovis Andersen in his book. “You can do that just by looking. And you can find out just about everything you need to know without asking a single question—not one!” Shortly after eleven, when the rest of the patients had been seen and had left, Mma Ramotswe was ushered into the consulting room by the receptionist. Dr Modisapodi was writing something on a piece of card when she entered but he looked up and smiled at her, gesturing to a chair at the side of his desk. “There now,” he said, slipping the card into a brown folder. “So, Mma Ramotswe, here you are. I’m sorry