Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

something . . . anything? Why couldn’t she ask him outright if he would rather she left Cyprus?
    At last the meal was over. James insisted on paying.
    ‘I’ll never get used to these wads and wads of lira,’ said Agatha, watching him count out a pile of notes.
    ‘It’s cheap for us British because of the exchange rate,’ said James, ‘but not much fun for the locals.’
    They walked out to their cars. Agatha put her face up to be kissed and he pecked her on the cheek. Despite the heat of the evening, his lips were cool and passionless. Not even a frisson, thought Agatha miserably.
    ‘What time tomorrow?’ she asked.
    ‘I’ll call for you at ten o’clock.’
    Agatha got into the car and drove back to her hotel. There was a wedding reception taking place in the hotel lounge: music, dancing, bride and groom, mothers, fathers, assorted relatives. The bride was very beautiful and her face shone with happiness. Agatha stood in the doorway, watching. She felt a wave of self-pity engulfing her. There had been no white wedding for Agatha Raisin, just a brief ceremony in a registry office in London when Jimmy Raisin had married her. Now, there never would be. She was too old to go to any altar in white. A plump little Turkish woman saw her standing there and smiled and beckoned her into the room, but Agatha shook her head sadly and walked away.
    There was the outing with James to look forward to, but right at that moment she could not. His coldness, his matter-of-fact coldness, had quenched all her rosy dreams. Her pursuit of him to this island now seemed pushy and vulgar.
    She went into her room and opened up the windows and shutters and stepped on to the balcony. Out over the sea in the direction of Turkey, a long flash of lightning stabbed down over the heaving sea, and thunder rumbled. A damp fresh breeze struck her cheek. She leaned on the railing of the balcony and watched the approach of the storm, standing there until the first large warm raindrops struck her cheek before retreating into her room. All night long the thunder crashed and rolled as she tossed and turned in bed. But at least, she thought, before she finally fell into a last fitful bout of sleep, the morning would probably be clear and fresh and that would raise her spirits.
    But the morning was grey and damp and sticky, with lowering clouds lying over a stormy sea. She ate her breakfast, looking cautiously around from time to time in case Olivia, husband and friend came in, but there was no sign of them.
    James called for her promptly at ten o’clock. He was wearing a short-sleeved blue cotton shirt which matched his eyes, eyes which surveyed Agatha, neat in tailored white blouse and linen skirt, with a guarded look.
    They drove out along the road over the mountains to Nicosia. ‘There is a story that the Saudis paid for this to be a dual carriageway,’ said James, breaking a long silence. ‘When a Saudi official came to open the dual carriageway and he only saw this two-lane highway, he was outraged. “Where’s the other half?” he kept demanding.’
    ‘And what had happened to the other half?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Probably went straight into someone’s pocket and ended up as a high-rise or a hotel.’
    They crested a hill and there, down on the plain, lay Nicosia, Lefkoşa to the Turks, bathed in a yellow gleam of sunlight which pierced the low, threatening clouds.
    ‘It looks like one of the Cities of the Plain,’ said Agatha.
    He turned slightly and looked at her in surprise.
    ‘Oh, yes, I do have an imagination, James,’ said Agatha. ‘It often leads me into making silly mistakes.’
    Like this trip to Cyprus, thought Agatha silently.
    Aloud she asked, ‘Where is the Great Eastern Hotel?’
    ‘Just on the road into Nicosia, on the left. I’m sure I’ll find old Mustafa has been ill.’
    ‘When did you last see him?’
    ‘Oh, about 1980.’
    ‘Didn’t he come around to see you settled in?’
    ‘No,’ said James. ‘I arranged everything by phone. He said he would leave the key with a neighbour. I can’t understand it. I’ve rented places from Mustafa in the old days and they were always all right.’
    ‘People change,’ said Agatha on a sigh. The greyness and heaviness of the day was getting to her. Nor was she impressed with the outskirts of Nicosia, which looked just like any dreary London suburb.
    ‘Here we are,’ said James. ‘I’ll need to circle around.’ He parked outside a large modern hotel, or