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well—a nothing, useless team—and I got rid of all those lazy players and put in new ones who wanted to score lots of goals. And that's how the Kalahari Swoopers were born. Now you see us right up there, up at the top of the league most of the time, or number two at least. Until recently, that is. I did that. I did all that myself.”
    Mma Makutsi had been silent. But now she asked, “You did that yourself, Rra? You played after all?”
    Mr. Molofololo ignored the question at first, but then gave an answer. “No, not me, Mma. I am the owner. The football is played by the football players. And we have a coach, a very good one. He tells the men what tactics will work best.”
    “You must be very proud of your team, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Even I have heard of it. And I am just a woman.”
    Mr. Molofololo did not notice the irony. “Well, there you are,” he said. “That goes to show, doesn't it?”
    Mma Ramotswe knew that if she did not say something,Mma Makutsi would say, “Goes to show what?” So she asked him how his team was doing. Why were they no longer at the top of the league?
    It was the right question to ask, as it was this, he explained, that had brought him to see her. “Something has gone badly wrong,” he said. “A few months ago we started to lose a lot of games. At first I thought that it was just a little spell of bad luck; one cannot win every time, I suppose. But then it continued, and we are now going further and further down the league table. People are laughing at us. They say,
Look at the Swoopers. They cannot swoop. No more swooping there
. It is very painful, Mma, and I feel very ashamed of my team.”
    “That is very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “To build something up and then see it be destroyed is not a very nice experience, I think.”
    He was grateful for the sympathy. “Thank you, Mma. I'm sure that you can imagine what it would be like to see your own business suddenly go downhill. Imagine it. You solve all those cases and then suddenly there are no more solutions. It would not feel good, would it?”
    Mma Ramotswe was tactful. “There are always reversals in business. It is not the fault of the people running the businesses— or, at least, it's not always their fault.”
    This comment seemed to engage Mr. Molofololo, who suddenly became animated. “It is definitely not their fault, Mma! And in this case it is not the fault of my players—or most of them. I have the same young men playing for me, and they are as good as ever. But whatever they do, something seems to go badly wrong. Penalties are given away unnecessarily or the defence doesn't quite work out. There are many reasons.”
    Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. “If it's a game, Rra, then surely anything can happen. Maybe things will improve.”
    Mr. Molofololo shook his head disconsolately. “I would like to think that,” he said. “But I'm afraid that we're doomed. I do not think that things will get any better until …”
    Mma Ramotswe looked at him expectantly. “Until what, Rra?”
    “Until we find out who the traitor is.”
    Mma Ramotswe waited for him to expand on this, but he simply looked at her angrily, as if blaming her in some way for his team's misfortunes. Was he one of those people, she wondered, who see enemies at every turn? She had known somebody like that once; he had suspected everybody of plotting against him. Perhaps Mr. Molofololo saw traitors everywhere, all of them intent on letting him down.
    “Perhaps you should tell me about this traitor,” she said gently. “Is it a business rival of yours, maybe?”
    This suggestion seemed to make Mr. Molofololo even crosser. “I don't know, Mma,” he said, somewhat peevishly. “It may be somebody like that behind the traitor. Who knows? The real problem is that there is a traitor in the team.”
    “Somebody who wants you to lose?” Mma Ramotswe had heard of people who fixed games—there had been some row about this happening in cricket in