THREE

THE police did not allow anyone to leave the disco until the following morning. The duty officer from the British High Commission was there to look after his compatriots. They were questioned over and over again. Agatha could only shake her head each time and say she did not know what could have possibly happened. Rose, she said, appeared to have become the worse for drink and had sunk under the table. The men had crowded around, laughing, to reach down to get her, but there were a lot of men other than those in their own party there when Rose was pulled out from under the table.

The police force in north Cyprus is still run on British lines. They keep a considerably lower profile than the army, who have their own police force, the ASIZ. The civil police work is in close conjunction with the tourist department, and visitors are usually treated with a special tolerance and helpfulness. The crime rate is exceptionally low, and the civil police are used to dealing mostly with traffic accidents.

But here was the murder of a British tourist. And the authorities were determined to solve it. Detective Inspector Nyall Pamir, who spoke good English, during one of his many interrogations of Agatha seemed to think it was a crime of passion. Agatha asked why. Pamir said that Rose was knickerless and that seemed to him to be as good a clue as any. He was a short, tubby man with skin as dark as an Indian’s and small black eyes which gave nothing away. Agatha had an odd feeling he was trying to be funny but then decided she must be wrong.

Rose had been stabbed with a thin, sharp instrument, probably some sort of knife, was the preliminary finding.

They were all told not to leave the island, and to hold themselves ready for further questioning. Then they all shuffled out into the blazing sunlight of early morning.

Angus stood there, old and trembling, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Rose, gone,” he kept saying. “I cannae believe it.” Trevor was grim and silent.

To Agatha’s relief, because she wanted time to rest and think, James had ordered a taxi for both of them. He dropped her at her hotel, saying, “I’ll see you at the villa in an hour. We’ll talk then.”

Agatha packed slowly and carefully. She found she was reluctant to check out. There was something safe about The Dome with its balconied rooms and large ornate lounges. And she hadn’t even had a swim yet at that pool. She was too tired to think much about who had murdered Rose or why.

She was finally finished. She took a last look round and then went down to the reception and paid her bill. This time there was a Turkish Cypriot girl on duty at the desk. News travels fast in north Cyprus, and so it transpired that the girl had not only heard of the murder but that Agatha had been present at the disco.

“How bad for you,” she said sympathetically as Agatha paid her bill. “It was probably one of those mainland Turks. They’re not like us. Always getting drunk and stabbing people.”

This was a wild exaggeration and Agatha did not yet know that the Turkish Cypriots regard themselves as being superior to the mainland Turks, and she found it comforting. At first the thought had crossed her mind that if she and James entered into another murder hunt, it might be the very thing to draw them back together again, but now she had a weary distaste for the whole business and a longing for home. She searched around her mind for that old obsession for James, but it seemed to have died.

Soon she set out in her rented car along the road out of Kyrenia, past the disco where police cars were still lined up, carefully observing the thirty-miles-an-hour speed limit, out past the monument to the Turkish landings, and then turned right by a sign to Sunset Beach and parked beside the hedge of cactus and mimosa behind James’s car.

The front door was standing open. She lugged her cases inside. She called, “James!” but there was no sound but the wind and the sea. She walked through the kitchen out into the garden. James was sitting in a garden chair under an orange tree, intently listening to the news on the BBC World Service.

“Anything?” asked Agatha.

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t think it was the British Broadcasting Service,” he complained. “I can tell you everything that’s going on in Africa and Russia, but not a word about anyone or anything British.”

Agatha pulled up a little white wrought-iron garden chair and sat down opposite him. Behind the orange tree was a vine, its leaves rustling in the breeze. The air was heavy with the scent of vanilla from a large plant to Agatha’s left. Her eyes felt gritty with fatigue.

“I hope you had a shower before you left the hotel,” said James.

“I haven’t even changed my clothes,” said Agatha, indicating her party dress. “Why?”

“This isn’t a day for water. There might be some later. I think we both need sleep.”

“Which bedroom is mine?”

“The one you chose. I’ll take your luggage up.”

They went inside. He carried up her cases to her new room. With a curt little nod, he left her. Agatha stripped off her clothes and fell naked on top of the bed. The windows were open and a light breeze was blowing in, bringing with it snatches of voices from the beach. She plunged down immediately into a heavy sleep and awoke three hours later, sweating from every pore. The breeze had died and the stifling humidity had returned.

Still naked, she trekked up the shallow wooden steps and through to the bathroom. The bathroom had a door at either end. The one opposite to the one she had entered suddenly opened and James came in.

“There’s water now,” he said, looking at her. “You can have a shower and then come downstairs. I’ve got some cold meat and salad.”

When he had shut the door Agatha looked crossly down at her body. Well, although her breasts did not yet sag and she was not cursed with cellulite, she supposed it was not a body to drive a man to passion. Besides, James had seen all of it before.

After she had showered and changed into shorts and a cotton shirt and flat-heeled sandals, she felt better. She went downstairs. James had set out a meal for both of them on the kitchen table. Agatha suddenly realized she was ravenous and had not eaten since the night before.

“What are we going to do about this murder, Agatha?” asked James.

“The receptionist at the hotel said it was probably some mainland Turk.”

“They get blamed for a lot, but believe me, they don’t go around murdering British tourists.”

“The thing that gets me,” said Agatha, “is that if, say, she was murdered on the dance floor, wouldn’t she have screamed or cried out?”

“Not necessarily. It was some sort of very thin blade, remember.”

“Could someone have stabbed her while everyone was trying to drag her out from under the table?”

“She was lying on her back,” said James. “I’m sure she was. Yes, she was on her back when Trevor slid her out from under the table. If that’s the case, there’ll have been smears of blood on the floor.”

“I think the clue to the whole thing,” said Agatha eagerly, “is in the odd friendship between Olivia and her lot and Rose and her lot.”

“Tell me again how you met them.”

So Agatha told him of the sail on the yacht, how Olivia, George and Harry had hogged the small bar and had been contemptuous of the rest. Then how, when she had been swimming, she had seen Rose and George laughing together until Trevor saw them. She moved on to the scene in The Grapevine and how, underneath Rose’s screeching vulgarity, there was a well-read, intelligent, shrewd mind.

When she had finished, they heard a knock at the door. “That’ll be the police,” said James, getting to his feet. “I think we should have a crack at finding out who did this ourselves, Agatha, so keep your speculations to yourself.” He went off before she could reply.

He returned with Detective Inspector Nyall Pamir. He sat down at the table and surveyed Agatha with those little black eyes of his which gave nothing away.

“Aren’t your colleagues going to join you?” asked James.

“They can wait outside,” said Pamir. “This is an informal chat. I would like you both to report to the police headquarters in Lefkoça tomorrow at ten in the morning for an official interrogation.”

He folded his small fat hairy hands on the table in front of him. They looked like two small furry animals.

“Now, Mrs. Raisin,” he began, “who do you think murdered Rose Wilcox?”

Agatha glanced at James, who frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “I had really only just met all of them.”

“Explain.”

“I took a sail on a yacht, the Mary Jane.”

“Tell me all about it.”

So once more Agatha told her story, but a bald account devoid of speculation.

He listened carefully. “What interests me, Mrs. Raisin, although you have not said anything about it, is how this friendship arose.”

“They weren’t friends,” said Agatha impatiently. “Like I told you, they called me over to their table at The Grapevine, and then last night I had arranged to meet Mr. Lacey here for dinner at The Dome. Rose heard James asking for my table-he arrived first-and Rose claimed to be a friend of mine and urged him to join them.”

Those hairy hands of his were removed from the table and clasped over his rotund stomach. Pamir was wearing a double-breasted suit, shirt, collar and tie. The heat did not seem to trouble him.

“Ah, yes, you and Mr. Lacey. You are staying here with him?”

“Yes.”

“You are friends?”

“Yes, we are neighbours in the same village in the Cotswolds. That’s an area in the Midlands -”

“I know,” said Pamir.

“Your English is very good,” said James.

“I was brought up in England and went to the London School of Economics. So, Mr. Lacey, you and Mrs. Raisin are neighbours. You arrived first. Mrs. Raisin joins you. Are you having, how shall I say, a liaison?”

“No,” said James. “We’re friends, that’s all.”

“So, Mr. Lacey, what has been happening to you since you first arrived on the island?”

So James told him of renting the villa from Mustafa.

“Mustafa has gone to the bad,” said Pamir. His black eyes swivelled back to Agatha. “To return to your tourists. We have a lot of British residents here and I am well aware of the famous class differences. Mr. and Mrs. Debenham and their friend, Mr. Tembleton, are not of the class of Mrs. Wilcox and her husband. There is something in your story, Mrs. Raisin, which implies you were surprised by such a friendship.”

“I was,” said Agatha. “Olivia-that’s Mrs. Debenham-is so snobby and she despised Rose. I’ve been wondering about that myself. Why on earth should such an unlikely lot get together, and why were George Debenham and Rose laughing together at Turtle Beach Cove?”

“You did not tell me about that.”

Agatha told him, although she was aware of James glaring at her. “And Rose was actually intelligent,” she said.

“Explain.”

So Agatha expanded happily on how Rose would let slip about books she had read and then seem to remember her act. “If it was an act,” she said finally.

There was another knock at the door. James went to answer it. He returned with a policeman who was carrying a sheaf of fax papers which he handed to Pamir.

Agatha sipped coffee with her eyes lowered, aware of James’s angry eyes on her.

“Ah,” said Pamir finally. “You lead an adventurous life, Mrs. Raisin. You and Mr. Lacey here were to be married, but the wedding was interrupted by the arrival of your husband, who was subsequently murdered. You planned to go to north Cyprus on your honeymoon, but while you were in hospital, Mrs. Raisin, recovering from an assault on you by the murderer, Mr. Lacey here left for Cyprus and then you followed him. If you will both forgive me saying so, in my experience people who lead violent and colourful lives are often violent themselves.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Agatha. “Why don’t you go off and grill that brothel-keeper, Mustafa, or does he bribe the police to stay away?”

“We’ll deal with this murder first,” said Pamir. “What we have here is two ill-assorted couples who mysteriously become friends very quickly. Now let us take the usual two motives-money and passion. Do you think George Debenham fell madly in love with Rose Wilcox?”

Agatha looked at James, who shrugged. She said, “No, there seemed to be no sign of that. Rose liked to flirt.”

“But when Trevor saw Rose with George, he looked jealous?”

“Yes, he looked furious.”

“Odd. Then they dine together, go to Famagusta together, and then dine together again. I must study the background on them all.” He ruffled the sheaf of fax papers.

“James and I have had some experience of helping the police,” said Agatha eagerly. “If I could just-” She reached out towards the fax papers. Pamir stuffed them in his breast pocket and got to his feet.

“I do not want this investigation hampered by amateurs,” he said. “Try to enjoy your holiday and I shall see you both tomorrow.”

James saw him out and then came back and leaned against the kitchen counter. “What a blabby little thing you are, dear. Why didn’t you give him your knicker size when you were at it?”

Agatha cracked. She hurled her coffee-cup across the kitchen, where it smashed against the wall. “You cold, unfeeling bastard,” she howled. She stumbled from the kitchen and ran up the stairs to her room and fell face-down on the bed.

The windows and shutters were open and a mild breeze blew in with a smell of pine, salt and vanilla. The Mediterranean was rough that day, and instead of falling on the beach in measured waves it roared steadily, as if there were a helicopter overhead. And so Agatha did not hear James come in.

He sat on the edge of the bed and lightly touched her hair.

“Come on, now, Agatha. This will not do. We’ll go along to The Celebrity, where Trevor and Angus are staying, and see what we can find out.” Agatha continued to sob. He went up the stairs and into the bathroom and soaked a towel with cold water. He came back and turned Agatha over and sponged her face.

“You’d better wear something cool.” He searched through her clothes and picked out a loose flowered beach dress. He jerked her upright and started to unbutton her blouse. “Let’s get this off for a start.”

But Agatha was wearing a serviceable cotton brassiere and not one of the lacy French ones bought with seduction in mind, so she pushed him away, snarling, “Oh, leave me alone. I’ll dress myself.”

Soon they were driving off into the ferocious heat along to Lapta and so to the Celebrity Hotel. The hotel is rated four-star, but as Agatha walked into the reception and her jaundiced eye took in the amount of plush and gilt furniture, the chandeliers and the hot noisy carpets, she decided it was Middle Eastern four-star. No one at the reception desk had much English and so it took them some time to discover that Trevor and Angus had just checked out.

“Why can’t they get someone who speaks bloody English?” raged Agatha. “They don’t care about tourism in this country.”

“Maybe that’s why they don’t rip them off, insult women and have the place full of lager louts,” said James mildly. “Anyway, we ought to learn Turkish and stop whining about their lack of English.”

“I wasn’t whining. I was putting forward a reasonable criticism. For God’s sake, why do you have to pick on me over every little damn thing?”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere, and no, Agatha, you do not look beautiful when you’re angry. I’ll bet Trevor and Angus have gone to The Dome to join the Debenhams. We’ll try there. We’ll drop off at the villa first and pick up swim-suits and get a swim later.”

But Agatha refused to speak to him. When they got back to their villa, the door was standing open.

“What the hell…?” muttered James. He strode in. The noise of running water was coming from the kitchen.

They went into the kitchen. Jackie was scrubbing down the wall, which had been stained from the coffee-cup Agatha had thrown at it.

“I tried to phone you,” said Jackie. “I hadn’t left you enough clean towels and brought some round. What happened here?”

“The cup slipped out of my hand,” said Agatha defensively.

Jackie’s amused eyes looked at the wall and then back at Agatha. Then she took a dustpan and brush and cleared away the shards of broken china from the floor. “No one can talk of anything else but this murder,” said Jackie. “You must have got an awful shock, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Agatha.”

“Agatha, then. Don’t you think you should be having a quiet he-down?”

“Perhaps you should,” said James. “You’re a bit overwrought.”

“I AM NOT OVERWROUGHT!” shouted Agatha.

Jackie wiped her hands on a towel, smiled at both of them and hurried off.

“You really must pull yourself together,” said James severely. “Or I’ll need to leave you behind.”

But Agatha had no intention of being left behind. Whether she feared to be left out of the murder hunt or whether she feared that Olivia might charm James, she did not stop to think about. She went upstairs and washed her face but did not put on any make-up. There was no point. The heat and humidity would melt any make-up right off her face.

At the Dome Hotel, they learned that Trevor and Angus had checked in and were out at the pool. James bought a couple of tickets for thé pool. “Did you bring any sun-block?” he asked Agatha. “You’ll burn.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll buy you some across the road if you wait a moment.”

“Don’t fuss!” snapped Agatha.

They walked in silence through the lounges and out in the sunlight again towards the pool. Agatha changed in a cubicle. When she emerged, James was waiting for her, hard and lean and fit-looking in a pair of brief trunks. “They’re over at the bar, all of them.”

He pointed. At a table in full sunlight sat Trevor, Angus, Olivia, George and Harry.

They went over to join them.

“We’re all a bit shell-shocked,” said Olivia languidly. She was wearing a brief bikini. “Join me, James.”

James sat down next to her. “How are you bearing up, Trevor?” he asked.

“PU manage,” said Trevor curtly. There were puffy bags under his eyes and he was burnt a dreadful shade of pink. There were already sun blisters on his shoulders but he seemed unaware of the heat.

“Poor, poor Rose,” mourned Angus. “Who waud hae done such a thing to a bonnie lassie like that?”

“We phoned Trevor and Angus and told them to move here,” said Olivia to James.

“Why?” asked Agatha, glaring, for Olivia had put a hand on James’s thigh.

“Because people like us are brought up to help our fellow-man,” said Olivia coldly. “Something that someone like you might not be aware of, Agatha.”

Agatha felt that Olivia had pierced through the layers of Mayfair built up through the years to the Birmingham slum where Agatha had been brought up.

“Oh, piss off,” said Agatha. “I’m going for a swim.”

She was very conscious of her rear as she walked off. She hoped her bottom wasn’t sagging. She really must pull herself together. She took a deep breath and jumped into the pool, expecting the shock of cold water, but the sea-water in the pool was warm. She swam energetically up and down until she felt calmer. She turned on her back to perform the backstroke and hit someone on the face. She rolled back over and found herself looking into a rather battered, but handsome middle-aged face.

“Sorry,” said Agatha.

“It’s all right,” he said with a grin that revealed white teeth. “Couldn’t have been hit by a more attractive lady.”

“You’re American?”

“No, Israeli. Here on holiday. You?”

“British. And on holiday as well.”

“We can’t talk very well paddling round each other like this,” he said. “Let’s sit at the edge of the pool for a bit.”

“I’m Bert Mort,” he said, extending a wet hand when they sat together at the edge, their feet in the water.

“Agatha Raisin,” said Agatha, shaking his hand.

“I was brought up in Brooklyn,” said Bert. “But I moved to Israel ten years ago and I’ve got a clothing business outside Tel Aviv.”

“High-fashion?”

“No, T-shirts, holiday wear, things like that. Did you hear about the murder?”

“I was there.”

“Jeez, that must have been awful. Tell me about it.”

So Agatha did, hoping James was noticing her in the company of this good-looking man. She glanced across at James but his back was to her and he was talking to Olivia.

At last Bert said, “Why not join me for dinner tonight? Or is there a Mr. Raisin with you?”

“No, and I would like dinner. Where?”

“I’ll meet you in the hotel dining-room at eight.”

Agatha got up and said goodbye to her new friend and strolled back to the table. She felt all her old confidence restored.

“Olivia’s given me some sun-block,” said James. “Sit down, Agatha, and I’ll put some on your shoulders. They’re turning bright red.”

As he stroked on the cream with an impersonal hand, Agatha said to Olivia, “I’m sorry I flared up like that. But I’m still tired. We had a grilling from the police this morning.”

“Yes, so did we,” said Olivia. “We’re to go to Nicosia tomorrow for the official grilling.”

“So are we,” said Agatha. “But they must know none of us can have had anything to do with it.”

“It’s those damned foreigners and their knives,” growled Harry Tembleton.

“They don’t think it was a knife,” said Trevor. “They say it was something much thinner, like a kebab skewer.”

Agatha had a sudden memory of Rose salaciously eating kebab off a skewer at The Grapevine. She wondered if a skewer had gone missing from The Grapevine.

James said they should leave. By the time Agatha had put her beachdress on, she could feel her shoulders beginning to burn painfully. She told James about her idea of checking at The Grapevine to see if a skewer was missing.

“I don’t think that’s much use,” said James. “They sell them all over town. And any restaurant here is bound to have bundles of them in the kitchen. But we could go there for dinner tonight if you like.”

“I’ve got a date.”

They had reached the car. James turned and looked down at her.

“A date? Who with?”

“Some fellow I met at the pool.”

He got into the car and slammed the door shut. Agatha went round to the passenger side and got in. They drove back to the villa in silence.

Agatha went straight to her room when they arrived. She lay down on the bed, suddenly tired and, lulled by the roar of the Mediterranean, fell fast asleep.

When she awoke, it was dark. She screwed her head around and looked at the luminous dial of her travelling alarm clock. Seven-thirty! She would need to rush.

There was no water in the bathroom and she felt sticky and grubby. She found a box of something called Fastwipes in her luggage for cleaning off make-up and used the whole box to wipe herself down. Her shoulders burnt like fire, but her face was getting a nice tan.

She eased a short silk dress over her shoulders. Her legs were red, not brown, and almost as sore as her shoulders, but the thought of putting on tights made her shudder.

She finally went down, calling to James. There was no reply and when she went outside, his car was gone.

She drove along the now familiar road through Karaoğlanoğlu, noticing the police were out looking for anyone speeding. Two cars had been stopped. Agatha cruised past them virtuously at a low speed. Down past the army barracks, then the Jasmine Court Hotel and on into Kyrenia and round the new one-way system and down to The Dome. Following the example of the locals, she parked on the pavement in a side street and walked to the hotel.

James was there, sitting with what she thought of coldly as “the murder suspects.” She nodded to them curtly and sailed past them to a table overlooking the sea, where Bert was rising to greet her.

“I think I’ll sit here,” said Agatha brightly. “I like to watch the sea.” She turned her chair around so that her face was to the sea and her back was to James.

“Have you been a widow long?” asked Bert after he had ordered wine.

“Not very long,” said Agatha.

“And do you miss him?”

“No, it was a strange business. I had left him years ago and I thought he would have died of drink, but he only died a few months ago.” Agatha did not want to say her husband had been murdered in case this new beau thought she might be responsible for the murder of Rose.

“What about you?” she asked.

“My wife died two years ago. I’ve been pretty lonely since then.” He laughed. “And frustrated. I’m not one for casual affairs.”

“Nor me,” said Agatha, eyeing him speculatively and wondering what life would be like in Israel.

“When I saw you in the pool, do you know, I had this funny feeling I had known you a long time,” said Bert. “Have some more wine.”

Behind Agatha, Olivia brayed with laughter and said, “Oh, James, you are wicked.”

Agatha held out her glass and smiled into Bert’s eyes. “This is a very romantic setting,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

The sea was calmer that evening and heaved itself up against the rocks below the hotel with rhythmic little splashes. Agatha had a heady feeling of elation. She was embarking on a new chapter of her life. She could forget all about Carsely, about James, about murder. Nothing really mattered except this handsome man whose eyes were glowing at her across the table.

There was a sudden rustling in the restaurant, then a silence. Agatha turned round. A beautiful young woman had entered the restaurant. She looked like a foreign film star. She had long black, glossy hair, which she wore down on her tanned shoulders. She was wearing a short white lace dress. Her long, long tanned legs ended in high-heeled strapped sandals. Her large brown eyes were rimmed with thick black lashes. The silence ended and there was a murmur of appreciation.

Bert looked as if he had been shot through the heart. “She is very beautiful, isn’t she,” asked Agatha uneasily.

He made a funny croaking sound. The vision was approaching their table.

“Surprise!” she cried.

Bert rose to his feet. “Barbara!” he said. “You’re the last person I expected to see.”

“I thought I’d join you earlier than I’d planned.” She looked down at Agatha inquiringly.

“Oh, this is a tourist who’s staying at the hotel-Mrs. Raisin.”

Agatha looked up at the beauty, bewildered. “Your daughter, Bert?”

“I’m his wife,” she said with a laugh. “Aren’t you pleased to see me, Bert?” She turned to Agatha. “He wasn’t expecting me until next week, but I thought I would surprise him.”

Agatha stood up. “Please have my chair,” she said stiffly.

“But you haven’t finished your meal, Mrs. Raisin!”

“I see my friends over there. I’ve got something I want to talk to them about.”

Agatha walked over, pulled out a chair and sat down between James and Olivia. A waiter brought over her half-eaten plate of kebab and rice and placed it in front of her.

“Who is that glorious creature?” asked Olivia.

“She’s his daughter,” lied Agatha, aware of James’s cynical eyes on his face.

“Then it’s a very incestuous relationship,” cackled Olivia. “She’s just leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth!”

“Yes, and now they’re holding hands,” said James.

“I don’t really know him,” mumbled Agatha. “Maybe I was mistaken…because of the age difference, you know.” Desperate to turn the conversation away from Bert, and feeling old and plain and unwanted, Agatha asked, “Any more news about the murder?”

George shook his head. “They’ll probably tell us something tomorrow.”

Agatha looked curiously at Trevor. He was drinking steadily. Beside him, Angus was sunk in gloom. In fact, thought Agatha, Angus looked more like the bereaved husband than Trevor.

Olivia turned to Agatha. “You told us on that yacht trip that you had investigated murders, Agatha. Are you going to investigate this one?”

“I might see what I can find out.”

“Oh, mind your own business,” said Trevor suddenly and truculently.

“But, why?” asked Olivia. “Don’t you want to know who killed poor Rose?”

“Of course I want to know and I’ll kill the bastard the minute I find out who he is. But I don’t want some woman poking her nose in because she thinks it’s some sort of game.”

“Steady on, old boy,” said George, putting a hand on Trevor’s arm. Trevor shook him off. He got to his feet. “I’m sick of the lot of you,” he said. He marched out of the restaurant, colliding drunkenly with a table as he went.

“Och, now,” said Angus placatingly. “You’ve not to be minding him, Agatha. We’re all in a state of shock. I’d better go and see if he’s all right.”

Angus left as well.

There was an uneasy silence.

Olivia looked suddenly subdued. “I think I’ll make an early night of it.” She got to her feet and her husband and friend rose as well. “See you at the cop shop tomorrow,” said Olivia.

That left James and Agatha alone.

“I wonder,” said Agatha, “if I wrote to Bill Wong whether he could send me back some background on all of them.”

“Your letter would arrive in Mircester in about five days’ time,” said James. “But his reply might never reach you, or if it did, it would take about four weeks. The post from abroad goes through Mersin in southern Turkey, and I just don’t know why it should take so long to get here but it does.”

“Fax. I could fax him.”

“You could, I suppose. Do you really think one of them is the murderer?”

“Well, it’s odd,” said Agatha. “Olivia was so snobby on that yacht trip. She despised them. I can understand George making a play for Rose. She was a sexy thing. But Olivia! Did she give you a hint as to why they all got so pally?”

“Nothing more than the sort of one-must-do-one’s-bit-for-one’s-fellow-man type of thing.”

“But they all got friendly before the murder!”

“Fax Bill Wong if you like. But I think some drunk did it. There’s a lot of drugs here and pretty freely available. Could have been done by someone stoned out of his mind who doesn’t even remember now he did it. Let’s go, or” he added maliciously, “do you want another word with your boyfriend?”

Agatha’s eyes filled with angry tears.

“Come now,” he said lightly. “A lot of women would be flattered that a man with a wife as beautiful as that would make a play for them.”

Agatha scrubbed at her eyes. “I knew he was married,” she lied.

“If you say so,” said James. “Come along.”

The next day the humidity had lifted. Clear blue skies, the calmest of seas, and the lightest of breezes.

The mountains towered up to the sky on one side of the road and the blue-green sea stretched all the way to Turkey on the other side. Agatha suddenly wished she were simply on holiday instead of being back in the grip of the James obsession and on the way to police headquarters in Nicosia.

When they drew up outside the police headquarters, Agatha began to have a feeling that the whole business was unreal, that it had never happened, that Rose would stroll round a corner, diamond rings flashing and shout, “Owya, Agatha?”

Olivia, Trevor, Angus, George and Harry were already there. They were to be interviewed separately, and to Agatha’s dismay, James suggested that they meet up at the Saray Hotel afterwards for lunch and compare notes.

Agatha had taken the precaution of bringing along a book to read. Trevor was the first to be called, then Olivia, and then Agatha heard her own name being shouted out.

Pamir was sitting behind a large desk. A large portrait of Atatürk in evening dress stared down from behind the desk.

A policeman drew out a chair for Agatha on the other side of the desk. She sat down, suddenly nervous.

Pamir folded those fat hairy hands of his on the desk in front of him. He was wearing a chocolate-brown double-breasted suit and a wide tie with orange-and-yellow stripes, A large yellow silk handkerchief flowered from his top pocket.

“Now, Mrs. Raisin,” he said, “if I can just take you through the whole thing again. You arrived at the disco.”

“James began to dance with Olivia,” said Agatha, “and I danced with Angus, but he danced on my feet so I suggested we sit down.”

“And Rose Wilcox?”

“She was dancing with George, Mr. Debenham.”

“How were they dancing. Close?”

Agatha frowned in concentration. Her eyes had been mostly on James. “They weren’t dancing close,” she said. “Disco dancing. Rose was shaking it all about and George was doing that sort of high-stepping jerky dance that middle-aged gentlemen do when they think they’re being swingers. The music was very loud and the floor was crowded.”

“Was Mrs. Wilcox making a play for anyone in particular? You have told me about Mr. Debenham. What about Mr. Lacey?”

“What about Mr. Lacey?” demanded Agatha, her eyes narrowing.

“Did Mrs. Wilcox, Rose, seem attracted by Mr. Lacey?”

“Not that I noticed,” said Agatha huffily.

“Now we go to last night. You had dinner at The Dome, but not with Mr. Lacey or any of the others but with a visiting Israeli businessman, a Mr. Mort.”

“What’s that got to do with the murder?”

“I must examine all the relationships and you have a very peculiar relationship with Mr. Lacey. You were engaged to be married, nearly got married, had not your husband appeared on the scene. You follow him here, you both share the same villa, and yet you accept an invitation to dinner from Mr. Mort.”

“It was just a friendly chat,” said Agatha hotly. “He was waiting for his wife.”

“A wife you did not know existed until she arrived.”

“That’s not true! Have you been watching me?”

“Mrs. Raisin, one of my colleagues happened to be in that restaurant last night. I had a little man-of-the-world chat with Mr. Mort this morning. He found you attractive and asked you for dinner under the impression, to quote him, that he was ‘on to a good thing’. So you agreed to join him for dinner, for a date, although you are with Mr. Lacey.”

“Anything that was between me and Mr. Lacey is dead,” said Agatha furiously. “We are friends and neighbours, that’s all.”

He bent his head and made some notes. Then he raised his eyes and looked at her thoughtfully. “As I said, I must examine all the tensions in your relationships, you and the rest. And here we have two threesomes, two devoted husbands and two devoted friends. Jealousy could have been a motive.”

“You’ll need to ask them.”

“Oh, I shall. Now either someone had enough medical experience to know where to stick that thin blade which killed Mrs. Wilcox, or it was a lucky blow. Do you have any medical training, Mrs. Raisin?”

“None.”

“And Mr. Lacey?”

“None either.”

“It looks like a premeditated crime.” He leaned forward. “Someone was prepared. Perhaps someone knew of the lighting in that disco-that at moments when the ball overhead swung round it was quite black. Had any of the others been there before?”

“I just don’t know,” said Agatha wearily. “I barely knew them. But perhaps I could be of help to you. I have helped the police before. The clue to the murder must he in their backgrounds, that is, if one of them did it. If I could just study-”

“No,” said Pamir firmly. “No amateurs. I suggest you manage to have something of a holiday and put this behind you.”

“Meaning I am not a suspect?”

“Everyone who was in that disco on the night of the murder is a suspect. You may go, but do not leave Cyprus yet. Send Mr. Lacey in.”

Agatha would have given anything to hear what went on between Pamir and James. Was he asking them about their relationship? And what would James say?

Then she decided gloomily that James would probably just say, again, they were only friends and that for some reason Agatha had followed him to Cyprus, and she would appear a pathetic middle-aged woman chasing lost love.

When James finally emerged, Agatha suggested that they should have lunch in Nicosia alone, but James said they should all have lunch together.

“Why?” demanded Agatha.

“Don’t you want to find out who did this?”

“Ye-es,” said Agatha reluctantly, not being able to say that she only wanted to be alone with him.

At last they had all been interviewed and silently they walked across to the Saray Hotel and took the lift up to the restaurant at the top. The call to prayer sounded out over the red roofs of Nicosia as they sat down at one of the tables next to the window.

“Damned caterwauling,” said Olivia crossly.

“It’s a Muslim country,” said Angus. “Well, ma friends, do ye think that’s it?”

“If you mean, will they question us again,” said James, “then I think they are bound to. They are sure one of us did it.”

He glanced at Trevor, but Trevor was staring stonily out of the window at the minarets of the mosque.

“I’m beginning to think it’s up to me to find out who did it,” said Agatha, and then immediately regretted her words, because she immediately knew she sounded like an insensitive brag.

“Oh, all your stories about solving murders,” said Olivia with a brittle laugh. “Are you sure you weren’t fantasizing, dear?”

“No, I was not!” said Agatha hotly. “I have helped the police in Mircester in several cases.”

“If you say so,” said Harry Tembleton with a slight sneer.

“Tell them, James,” urged Agatha.

“It is true that Agatha, by blundering around in murder investigations, managed to prompt the murderer to show his, or her, hand,” said James flatly.

Agatha looked at him in amazement. “If you were a woman, James, you would be called a bitch.”

There was an awkward silence and then Trevor found his voice. “I wish the lot of you would realize I have lost my wife,” he said flatly. “I think it was some local crazed on drugs. All I want to do is get the hell out of this buggering island and never see it again.”

The waiter came up and they ordered food. Agatha studied Angus. Trevor had shown all the signs of being a very jealous husband and yet he had allowed this doting friend to join them on holiday. Why? Did he think Angus too old and too pompous to be any competition at all? Or had Angus paid for it?

She suddenly thought that she really ought to fax Bill Wong at Mircester Police Headquarters and ask him for the background on all of them.

Olivia decided her social skills were needed to guide them all through this awkward lunch. She encouraged James to talk about his book, and Angus to talk about what he did in his retirement and Harry to talk about farming. Trevor kept to a morose silence and somehow Olivia kept steering the conversation so that Agatha was excluded.

When they finally left the restaurant and were grouped on the pavement outside the Saray Hotel, Agatha linked her arm in James’s and said firmly, “Well, goodbye. I would like to take a look at the covered market again.”

She led James off. When they were clear of the others, Agatha said, “That was a nasty crack of yours about the way I solved those murders.”

“I thought you were being insensitive with Trevor sitting there. Besides, if we’re going to investigate this and you think one of them is a murderer, it’s a good idea not to advertise what you’re doing.”

“Oh, Mr. Know-All!” Agatha stopped short in front of a jeweller’s window. “Those Rolex watches look remarkably cheap.”

“Pirated,” said James curtly. “Probably only run for about a week. Do you really want to see the covered market again?”

“Not really. I wanted to talk to you without the others listening. Somewhere in their backgrounds must be some sort of clue to Rose’s death. What if we fax Bill Wong from the Onar Village Hotel on the way back and ask him to dig something up?”

“Let’s leave it for another day,” said James cautiously. “They may find out something here and then we do not need to bother Mircester police. In fact, why don’t we do some sightseeing and pack up a picnic tomorrow and go and have a look at some of the sights. We’ll start with Saint Hilarion.”

Agatha was still staring into the jeweller’s window as he talked. She suddenly pressed his arm warningly. For behind them, and in the window, she saw the reflections of Olivia and party.

How long had they been standing there?

They swung round. “We thought we’d take a look at the covered market as well,” said Olivia.

“We’ve changed our minds,” said Agatha before James could speak. The weather was still very warm and Olivia was wearing a brief sun-dress which showed her excellent breasts. I wish it would start to freeze, thought Agatha.

“What about dinner tonight?” asked Olivia.

“There’s a very good restaurant at Zeytinlik, just outside Kyrenia,” said James to Agatha’s dismay. “The Ottoman House. Eight o’clock?”

“Great. We’ll see you there.”

“Aye, we’ve got to stick together,” said Angus.

“Why on earth did you say that?” demanded Agatha angrily as they walked away. “Surely we’ve seen enough of them for one day.”

“You want to investigate, don’t you?” demanded James, steering her round a cartful of watermelons. “What do we really know about Harry and Angus, apart from the fact that Harry is a farmer and Angus a retired shopkeeper?”

“If we faxed Bill Wong, we’d find out all we have to know,” said Agatha sulkily.

“Bill Wong may be too busy to bother about a murder case in Cyprus. It’s only a dinner, Agatha, and we have the rest of the day to ourselves.”

But when they got back to the villa, it was three-thirty in the afternoon and James said he was going to write.

Agatha retired to her room and began to search through her clothes for something to outshine Olivia. There was a phone extension in her room. On impulse she threw a pile of brightly coloured clothes on the bed and dialled the number of the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby.

“Agatha,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “How are you getting on? We read about the murder in the newspapers.”

Agatha told her all about it, looking out of the window at the blue Mediterranean and thinking how very far away the village of Carsely seemed.

“And has this murder brought you and James closer together?” asked the vicar’s wife when Agatha had finished.

“Not really,” said Agatha on a sigh. “You know James.”

“Oh, Agatha, I wish you could meet a really warmhearted man!”

“James is a warm-hearted man. He just doesn’t know how to show his feelings!”

“He may not have any to show.”

“That’s not true!” said Agatha furiously.

The vicar’s wife was contrite. “I didn’t really mean to say that, Agatha. I mean, I should not have said that. I don’t know what came over me. We miss you here. Do you know when you are coming back?”

Agatha glared furiously through the open window at the sea and took a deep breath of sweet-scented air. She hated Carsely and never wanted to go back there again. Why couldn’t everyone mind their own business? “I don’t know,” she snapped.

“If only I had kept my big mouth shut,” said Mrs. Bloxby to her husband later. “Poor Agatha.”

The vicar peered at his wife over the tops of his spectacles. “I would not feel sorry for Agatha Raisin. In my opinion she and James Lacey thoroughly deserve each other.”

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