Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

the corner, he had disappeared. She had once seen the French film, Les Enfants du Paradis, and this felt like the last scene where the hero desperately tries to catch up with his beloved.
    A Turkish soldier blocked her way and asked her anxiously in broken English if he could help her.
    ‘My friend. I saw my friend,’ babbled Agatha, staring up the side street. ‘Is there a hotel along there?’
    ‘No, that is Little Turkey. Ironmongers, cafés, no hotel. Sorry.’
    But Agatha ploughed on, peering at deserted shops, stumbling over potholes. Then she saw a light shining out from a laundry called White Rose, Beyaz Gül in Turkish. A man in shirt-sleeves was working at a dry-cleaning machine. Agatha pushed open the door and went in.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
    He was a small man with a clever, attractive face.
    ‘You speak English?’
    ‘Yes, I worked in England for some time as a nurse. My wife, Jackie, is English.’
    ‘Oh, good. Look, I saw this friend of mine come along here a moment ago, but he’s disappeared.’
    ‘I don’t know where he could have been going. Sit down. I’m called Bilal.’
    ‘I’m Agatha.’
    ‘Would you like a coffee? I’m working late because it’s cooler at night. Trying to get as much done as I can when I can.’
    Agatha felt suddenly tired, weepy and disappointed.
    ‘No, I think I’ll go back to the hotel.’
    ‘North Cyprus is very small,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You’re bound to run into your friend sooner or later. Do you know the Grapevine?’
    ‘Yes, I had dinner there this evening.’
    ‘You should ask there. All the British end up there sooner or later.’
    For some reason, Bilal, although probably somewhere in his mid-forties, reminded her of Bill Wong.
    ‘Thanks,’ she said, getting to her feet again.
    ‘Tell me the name of your friend,’ said Bilal, ‘and maybe I can find something out for you.’
    ‘James Lacey, retired colonel, fifties, tall with very blue eyes, and black hair going grey.’
    ‘Are you at the Dome?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Write down your name for me. I’ve a terrible memory.’
    Agatha wrote down her name. ‘A laundry is an odd business for a nurse,’ she commented.
    ‘I’m used to it now,’ said Bilal. ‘At first I made some awful mistakes. They would give me those Turkish wedding dresses covered in sequins and I’d put them in the dry-cleaning machine, but the sequins were made of plastic and they all melted. And then they come down from the mountains with the suit they bought about forty years ago covered in olive oil and wine and expect me to give it back to them looking like new.’ He gave a comical sigh.
    ‘In any case, can I come back and see you?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Any time. We can have coffee.’
    Feeling somewhat cheered, she left. She wandered round more streets. Men sat outside cafés playing backgammon, music blared, half-key Turkish music, sad and haunting.
    At last she gave up the search and returned to the hotel. She thought she should have gone back to the Grapevine. Maybe tomorrow.
    The next morning she awoke heavy-eyed and sweating profusely. She showered and put on a loose cotton dress and flat sandals. She ate a light breakfast of cheese-filled pastry and then went on impulse into the car-rental office.
    ‘Did you by any chance rent a car to a Mr Lacey?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, I did,’ said the man behind the desk. He stood up and shook hands with her. ‘It’s Mrs Raisin, isn’t it? I’m Mehmet Chavush. In fact, Mr Lacey renewed his rental this morning.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘An hour ago.’
    ‘Do you know . . . did he say where he was going today?’
    ‘Mr Lacey said something abut going to Gazimağusa.’
    Agatha looked blank.
    ‘You probably know it as Famagusta,’ he said helpfully.
    ‘How do I get there?’
    ‘Drive up past the post office.’ He led her to a map on the wall. ‘Here. And then take this road up over the mountains. It will lead you down on to the dual carriageway on the Famagusta road. You might have come that way from the airport.’
    ‘Yes, I think I did.’
    Agatha set off. Round the roundabout, past the post office, very much an architectural reminder of British colonial days, and so out towards the mountains. The heat was tremendous, but for once she barely noticed it. The air-conditioning in the car was working – just.
    The mountains were bare and stark, scorched from the forest fires of the year before. She recognized the army chicanes as she came down