Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

rather, the hotel was of modern architecture, but it already seemed to be falling into decay. The front doors were firmly locked.
    ‘I must find out what’s happened to Mustafa,’ said James. ‘Let’s try round the back. Maybe there’s some life in the kitchens.’
    They picked their way up a cracked path at the side of the hotel and suddenly were confronted with a large, heavy-set man with beetling brows and flat, dead eyes.
    He asked them something in Turkish.
    James shook his head and said, ‘We’re English. Where’s Mustafa?’
    He jerked his head to indicate they should follow him into a side door of the hotel.
    ‘There’s no mistaking a goon, no matter what nationality,’ muttered James. ‘I don’t like the look of this.’
    The man led them along a dark passage. Water dripped down through the ceilings and made puddles on the uncarpeted passageway. Must be an extension, thought Agatha. The rain can’t possibly have dripped its way down through all the hotel floors.
    They suddenly found themselves in a dark bar. There were a few Turkish soldiers sitting around and plenty of James’s goons, and girls, girls, girls. Their guide pointed to two chairs. They sat down.
    ‘Is this a brothel?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Yes,’ said James curtly.
    ‘Are those Turkish girls?’
    ‘No, they call them Natashas. They come from the old Soviet Bloc countries – Hungary, Romania, places like that.’
    A slim man with a triangular face approached them and said in perfect English, ‘Can I help you?’
    He was wearing a well-tailored suit and his eyes were bright and merry. He looked like a picture of Harlequin without the white paint and he was somehow more frightening than the goons. Agatha decided in that moment that intelligent evil was more frightening than anything else and she was sure this Harlequin was evil.
    ‘I am James Lacey. I rented a house from Mustafa and it is in a disgraceful condition. Where is he?’
    ‘Mustafa is in London.’
    ‘And when will he return?’
    The man spread his hands and shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. Then he said, ‘If you leave your phone number, I will get him to call you when he comes back.’
    ‘I don’t have a phone,’ said James crossly. ‘In fact, that is one of my many complaints. Does Mustafa own this place?’
    ‘Yes.’
    James’s lip curled with distaste. ‘Then he is no longer the Mustafa I knew.’
    ‘If I may show you out . . .’ said the man politely. His eyes looked amused, amused at their outrage.
    ‘Probably drugs as well as being a Natasha pasha,’ said James as they got back into his rented car.
    ‘What’s a Natasha pasha?’
    ‘Brothel-keeper.’
    ‘I don’t know what took you so long to complain,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s find the tourist office and put in a complaint.’
    ‘It wouldn’t do us any good. I think I should cut my losses and find somewhere else. The manager at the Onar Village Hotel, Stefan, has been letting me use the telephone and fax. I’ll call there and see if he knows of any place I can move to.’
    At James’s suggestion, before they went back, they went into the old part of Nicosia, wandered around the covered market, Agatha being restrained by James from haggling for a brass pepper mill. Unlike mainland Turkey, you were expected to pay the marked price. Then they went to the Saray Hotel for lunch. The centre of Nicosia was a pleasant, friendly place with a lot of interesting old buildings and shops. Agatha would have been happy to spend the day there, exploring, but James was determined to set out back to the Onar Village Hotel and see if he could find somewhere else to live.
    ‘Why not just return with me to Carsely?’ asked Agatha as he drove out of Nicosia.
    ‘I’m not yet ready for that,’ he said and then drove on in silence.
    At the Onar Village Hotel, the manager, Stefan, told them that the hotel housekeeper was leaving for Australia and would perhaps rent them her home. It was out at Alsancak, next to the Altinkaya fish restaurant.
    They drove there to meet the housekeeper and her friendly family. It was a large villa near the beach and seemed to have every home comfort. To Agatha’s dismay, she heard James say he would take it for three months, perhaps longer.
    The door opened and Bilal of the laundry came in with his English wife. ‘These are my friends,’ said the housekeeper. ‘They will look after you.’
    Bilal smiled. ‘So you found Mr Lacey,’ he said to Agatha.
    James looked