Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

his feet and slid back the window.
    ‘Good evening, Agatha,’ he said. ‘Come in.’
    No exclamations of surprise or delight. No welcome.
    Agatha looked around. It was a large living-room with an uncarpeted floor. Apart from the table and chair, there were a battered sofa and two armchairs, heavy with tarnished gilt on the woodwork, the kind of furniture called ‘Loo Kanz’ in the Middle East.
    ‘Drink?’ he asked. ‘I don’t have any ice. The fridge isn’t working.’
    She followed him into a narrow kitchen. She saw why the fridge wasn’t working. There was no plug on it. She opened the fridge door. It was filthy, encrusted with old food.
    ‘Hardly luxury quarters,’ said Agatha. ‘Looks like a rip-off.’
    ‘It is,’ said James, pouring two glasses of wine. ‘My old fixer, Mustafa, used to be on top form. Fix anything for me in the old days – accommodation, furniture, air flights – anything. I paid a month in advance for this place, too. I keep trying to get him on the phone but he’s always busy.’
    ‘Where is he?’
    ‘He owns some hotel called the Great Eastern in Nicosia. I’m going there tomorrow to ask him what he thinks he’s playing at. There aren’t even any sheets on the bed, just old curtains.’
    ‘How long have you been here?’
    ‘Two weeks.’
    ‘I’m surprised you put up with it this long! Not like you.’
    ‘I just wanted peace and quiet. Where are you staying?’
    ‘The Dome.’
    ‘Nice. I haven’t even got a phone. I have to use the phone up at the Onar Village Hotel. I asked the phone company to fix it up but they said they couldn’t do that until Mustafa paid the previous bill, and so far he hasn’t done that. Perhaps he’s ill. He was a great fellow in the old days. Bit of a rogue, but do anything for anyone.’
    ‘He’s done you, that’s for sure,’ said Agatha sourly. She wanted to talk to him about why he had left without seeing her but she realized he was putting up that old force field of his which repelled any intimate discussions.
    ‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Agatha, almost hating him. She took a gulp of her wine.
    ‘Well, if you’re doing nothing tomorrow, you may as well come to Nicosia with me and meet Mustafa. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure he’s ill.’
    Agatha’s heart rose. At least he wanted to see her again.
    ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘I’ll stand you dinner.’
    ‘All right. Where?’
    ‘I don’t know the restaurants. I’d like somewhere with authentic Turkish cooking.’
    ‘I know a place at Zeytinlik. Called the Ottoman House.’
    ‘Where’s that?’
    ‘Just outside Kyrenia. You turn off before you get to the Jasmine Court Hotel.’
    ‘I’ll drive, if you like,’ said Agatha.
    ‘No, we’ll take both cars because you’ll be going back to the hotel afterwards.’
    So much for all my dreams of a hot night of passion, thought Agatha, but still, it’s a start.
    The Ottoman House Restaurant was in a garden, quiet and serene, candlelight, tinkling fountain. The proprietors, Emine and Altay, gave James a warm welcome. The food was excellent and Agatha amused James with her stories of the terrible tourists on the yacht.
    ‘The thing I can’t understand,’ said Agatha as they worked their way through an enormous meze of little dishes of crushed walnuts, hummus, village bread, pita bread, local sausages, olives and what seemed like a hundred other delicacies, ‘is why that unlikely sixsome got together. Olivia obviously thinks Rose is beneath her.’
    He laughed. ‘I know what you’re doing. You’re seeing murder already.’
    ‘Well, it’s odd.’
    ‘So how’s Carsely anyway?’
    ‘The same as ever. Sleepy and quiet. I’ve left my cats with Doris Simpson.’ Doris was Agatha’s cleaner. ‘How’s the book going?’
    James, Agatha knew, was working on a military history. ‘Not very well,’ said James. ‘I try to start early in the mornings and do some more in the evenings, but it’s so hot. It’s the humidity, too. Cyprus never used to be so hot. I used to think all those scare stories about global warming were simply . . . well . . . scare stories, but now I’m not so sure. And there’s a chronic shortage of water on the island.’
    He began to talk about Cyprus in his cool, measured voice, and Agatha hungrily studied his face, looking in vain for some sign of affection. Why on earth hadn’t she the courage to say