Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

being a cold, rather self-contained man.’
    ‘You don’t know him,’ said Agatha defensively, thinking of nights in bed with James, tumultuous nights, but silent nights during which he had not said one word of love. ‘Anyway, I need a holiday.’
    ‘Don’t be away too long. You’ll miss us all.’
    ‘There’s not much to miss about Carsely. The Ladies’ Society, the church fêtes, yawn.’
    ‘That’s a bit cruel, Agatha. I thought you enjoyed them.’
    But Agatha felt that a Carsely without James had suddenly become a bleak and empty place, filled from end to end with nervous boredom.
    ‘Where are you flying from?’
    ‘Stansted airport in Essex.’
    ‘How will you get there?’
    ‘I’ll drive and leave the car in the long-stay car park.’
    ‘But if you are going to be away for very long, that will cost you a fortune. Let me drive you.’
    But Agatha shook her head. She wanted to leave Carsely, sleepy Carsely with its gentle villagers and thatched-roof cottages, behind – and everything to do with it.
    The doorbell rang. Agatha opened the door and Detective Sergeant Bill Wong walked in and looked around.
    ‘So you’re really going?’ he remarked.
    ‘Yes, and don’t you try to stop me either, Bill.’
    ‘I don’t think Lacey’s worth all this effort, Agatha.’
    ‘It’s my life.’
    Bill smiled. He was half Chinese and half English, in his mid-twenties, and Agatha’s first friend, for before she moved to the Cotswolds she had lived in a hard-bitten and friendless world.
    ‘Go if you must. Can you bring me back a box of Turkish delight for my mother?’
    ‘Sure,’ said Agatha.
    ‘She says you must come over for dinner when you get back.’
    Agatha repressed a shudder. Mrs Wong was a dreadful woman and a lousy cook.
    She went into the kitchen to make coffee and cut cake and soon they were all sitting around and gossiping about local matters. Agatha felt her resolve begin to weaken. She had a sudden clear picture of James Lacey’s face turning hard and cold when he saw her again, but thrust it out of her mind.
    She was going and that was that.
    Stansted airport was a delight to Agatha after her previous experience of the terrible crowds at Heathrow. She found she could smoke not only in the departure lounge but at the gate itself. There were a few British tourists and expatriates. The expatriates were distinguishable from the tourists because they wore those sort of clothes that the breed always wear – the women in print frocks, the men in lightweight suits or blazers, the inevitable cravats – and all had those strangulated sons- and daughters-of-the-Raj voices. Colonial Britain seemed to be alive and well on Cyprus Turkish Airlines.
    As she sat near the gate, she was surrounded mainly by Turkish voices. Her fellow passengers all seemed to have great piles of hand luggage.
    The flight departure was announced. Those in the smoking seats were called first. With a happy sigh Agatha made her way on to the plane. She had burnt her boats behind her. There was no turning back now.
    The plane soared above the grey, rainy skies and flat fields of Essex and all the passengers applauded wildly. Why were they applauding? wondered Agatha. Do they know something I don’t? Is it unusual for one of their planes to take off at all?
    The minute the plane wheels were up, the ‘No Smoking’ sign clicked off and Agatha was soon surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke. She had a window-seat and next to her was a large Turkish Cypriot woman who smiled at her from time to time. Agatha took out a book and began to read.
    Then, just as they were starting to descend to Izmir in western Turkey, where she knew they would have to wait for an hour before taking off again, the plane was hit by the most awful turbulence. The hostesses clung on to the trolleys, which lurched dangerously from side to side. Agatha began to pray under her breath. No one else seemed in the slightest fazed. They fastened their seat-belts and chattered amiably away in Turkish. The expats seemed used to it, and the few tourists like Agatha were frightened to let down the British side by showing fear.
    Just when she thought the plane would shake itself apart, the lights of Izmir appeared below and soon they landed. Again, everyone applauded, this time Agatha joining in.
    ‘That was scary,’ said Agatha to the woman next to her.
    ‘It was a bit o’ fun, love,’ said the Turkish Cypriot woman speaking English in the accents of