Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

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 knew 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. Agatha did not yet know that the Turkish Cypriots regard themselves as being superior to the mainland Turks, and she found the explanation 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