Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

hell . . .?’ muttered James. He strode in. The noise of running water was coming from the kitchen.
    They went into the kitchen. Jackie was scrubbing down the wall, which had been stained from the coffee cup Agatha had thrown at it.
    ‘I tried to phone you,’ said Jackie. ‘I hadn’t left you enough clean towels and brought some round. What happened here?’
    ‘The cup slipped out of my hand,’ said Agatha defensively.
    Jackie’s amused eyes looked at the wall and then back at Agatha. Then she took a dustpan and brush and cleared away the shards of broken china from the floor. ‘No one can talk of anything else but this murder,’ said Jackie. ‘You must have got an awful shock, Mrs Raisin.’
    ‘Agatha.’
    ‘Agatha, then. Don’t you think you should be having a quiet lie-down?’
    ‘Perhaps you should,’ said James. ‘You’re a bit overwrought.’
    ‘I am not overwrought!’ shouted Agatha.
    Jackie wiped her hands on a towel, smiled at both of them and hurried off.
    ‘You really must pull yourself together,’ said James severely. ‘Or I’ll need to leave you behind.’
    But Agatha had no intention of being left behind. Whether she feared to be left out of the murder hunt or whether she feared that Olivia might charm James, she did not stop to think about. She went upstairs and washed her face but did not put on any make-up. There was no point. The heat and humidity would melt any make-up right off again.
    At the Dome Hotel, they learned that Trevor and Angus had checked in and were out at the pool. James bought a couple of tickets for the pool. ‘Did you bring any sun-block?’ he asked Agatha. ‘You’ll burn.’
    ‘I’ll be all right.’
    ‘I’ll buy you some across the road if you wait a moment.’
    ‘Don’t fuss!’ snapped Agatha.
    They walked in silence through the lounges and out in the sunlight again towards the pool. Agatha changed in a cubicle. When she emerged, James was waiting for her, hard and lean and fit-looking in a pair of brief trunks. ‘They’re over at the bar, all of them.’
    He pointed. At a table in full sunlight sat Trevor, Angus, Olivia, George and Harry.
    They went over to join them.
    ‘We’re all a bit shell-shocked,’ said Olivia languidly. She was wearing a brief bikini. ‘Join me, James.’
    James sat down next to her. ‘How are you bearing up, Trevor?’ he asked.
    ‘I’ll manage,’ said Trevor curtly. There were puffy bags under his eyes and he was burnt a dreadful shade of pink. There were already sun blisters on his shoulders but he seemed unaware of the heat.
    ‘Poor, poor Rose,’ mourned Angus. ‘Who waud hae done such a thing to a bonnie lassie like that?’
    ‘We phoned Trevor and Angus and told them to move here,’ said Olivia to James.
    ‘Why?’ asked Agatha, glaring, for Olivia had put a hand on James’s thigh.
    ‘Because people like us are brought up to help our fellow man,’ said Olivia coldly. ‘Something that someone like you might not be aware of, Agatha.’
    Agatha felt that Olivia had pierced through the layers of Mayfair built up over the years to the Birmingham slum where Agatha had been brought up.
    ‘Oh, piss off,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m going for a swim.’
    She was very conscious of her rear as she walked off. She hoped her bottom wasn’t sagging. She really must pull herself together. She took a deep breath and jumped into the pool, expecting the shock of cold water, but the sea-water in the pool was warm. She swam energetically up and down until she felt calmer. She turned on her back to perform the backstroke and hit someone on the face. She rolled back over and found herself looking into a rather battered, but handsome middle-aged face.
    ‘Sorry,’ said Agatha.
    ‘It’s all right,’ he said with a grin that revealed white teeth. ‘Couldn’t have been hit by a more attractive lady.’
    ‘You’re American?’
    ‘No, Israeli. Here on holiday. You?’
    ‘British. And on holiday as well.’
    ‘We can’t talk very well paddling round each other like this,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit at the edge of the pool for a bit.’
    ‘I’m Bert Mort,’ he said, extending a wet hand when they sat together at the edge, their feet in the water.
    ‘Agatha Raisin,’ said Agatha, shaking his hand.
    ‘I was brought up in Brooklyn,’ said Bert. ‘But I moved to Israel ten years ago and I’ve got a clothing business outside Tel Aviv.’
    ‘High-fashion?’
    ‘No, T-shirts, holiday wear, things like that.