Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist (9 page)

"Everyone who was in that disco on the night of the murder is a suspect. You may go, but do not leave Cyprus yet. Send Mr. Lacey in."

Agatha would have given anything to hear what went on between Pamir and James. Was he asking them about their relationship? And what would James say?

Then she decided gloomily that James would probably just say, again, they were only friends and that for some reason Agatha had followed him to Cyprus, and she would appear a pathetic middle-aged woman chasing lost love.

When James finally emerged, Agatha suggested that they should have lunch in Nicosia alone, but James said they should all have lunch together.

"Why?" demanded Agatha.

"Don't you want to find out who did this?"

"Ye-es," said Agatha reluctantly, not being able to say that she only wanted to be alone with him.

At last they had all been interviewed and silently they walked across to the Saray Hotel and took the lift up to the restaurant at the top. The call to prayer sounded out over the red roofs of Nicosia as they sat down at one of the tables next to the window.

"Damned caterwauling," said Olivia crossly.

"It's a Muslim country," said Angus. "Well, ma friends, do ye think that's it?"

"If you mean, will they question us again," said James, "then I think they are bound to. They are sure one of us did it."

He glanced at Trevor, but Trevor was staring stonily out of the window at the minarets of the mosque.

"I'm beginning to think it's up to me to find out who did it," said Agatha, and then immediately regretted her words, because she immediately knew she sounded like an insensitive brag.

"Oh, all your stories about solving murders," said Olivia with a brittle laugh. "Are you sure you weren't fantasizing, dear?"

"No, I was not!" said Agatha hotly. "I have helped the police in Mircester in several cases."

"If you say so," said Harry Tembleton with a slight sneer.

"Tell them, James," urged Agatha.

"It is true that Agatha, by blundering around in murder investigations, managed to prompt the murderer to show his, or her, hand," said James flatly.

Agatha looked at him in amazement. "If you were a woman, James, you would be called a bitch."

There was an awkward silence and then Trevor found his voice. "I wish the lot of you would realize I have lost my wife," he said flatly. "I think it was some local crazed on drugs. All I want to do is get the hell out of this buggering island and never see it again."

The waiter came up and they ordered food. Agatha studied Angus. Trevor had shown all the signs of being a very jealous husband and yet he had allowed this doting friend to join them on holiday. Why? Did he think Angus too old and too pompous to be any competition at all? Or had Angus paid for it?

She suddenly thought that she really ought to fax Bill Wong at Mircester Police Headquarters and ask him for the background on all of them.

Olivia decided her social skills were needed to guide them all through this awkward lunch. She encouraged James to talk about his book, and Angus to talk about what he did in his retirement and Harry to talk about farming. Trevor kept to a morose silence and somehow Olivia kept steering the conversation so that Agatha was excluded.

When they finally left the restaurant and were grouped on the pavement outside the Saray Hotel, Agatha linked her arm in James's and said firmly, "Well, goodbye. I would like to take a look at the covered market again."

She led James off. When they were clear of the others, Agatha said, "That was a nasty crack of yours about the way I solved those murders."

"I thought you were being insensitive with Trevor sitting there. Besides, if we're going to investigate this and you think one of them is a murderer, it's a good idea not to advertise what you're doing."

"Oh, Mr. Know-All!" Agatha stopped short in front of a jeweller's window. "Those Rolex watches look remarkably cheap."

"Pirated," said James curtly. "Probably only run for about a week. Do you really want to see the covered market again?"

"Not really. I wanted to talk to you without the others listening. Somewhere in their backgrounds must be some sort of clue to Rose's death. What if we fax Bill Wong from the Onar Village Hotel on the way back and ask him to dig something up?"

"Let's leave it for another day," said James cautiously. "They may find out something here and then we do not need to bother Mircester police. In fact, why don't we do some sightseeing and pack up a picnic tomorrow and go and have a look at some of the sights. We'll start with Saint Hilarion."

Agatha was still staring into the jeweller's window as he talked. She suddenly pressed his arm warningly. For behind them, and in the window, she saw the reflections of Olivia and party.

How long had they been standing there?

They swung round. "We thought we'd take a look at the covered market as well," said Olivia.

"We've changed our minds," said Agatha before James could speak. The weather was still very warm and Olivia was wearing a brief sun-dress which showed her excellent breasts. I wish it would start to freeze, thought Agatha.

"What about dinner tonight?" asked Olivia.

"There's a very good restaurant at Zeytinlik, just outside Kyrenia," said James to Agatha's dismay. "The Ottoman House. Eight o'clock?"

"Great. We'll see you there."

"Aye, we've got to stick together," said Angus.

"Why on earth did you say that?" demanded Agatha angrily as they walked away. "Surely we've seen enough of them for one day."

"You want to investigate, don't you?" demanded James, steering her round a cartful of watermelons. "What do we really know about Harry and Angus, apart from the fact that Harry is a farmer and Angus a retired shopkeeper?"

"If we faxed Bill Wong, we'd find out all we have to know," said Agatha sulkily.

"Bill Wong may be too busy to bother about a murder case in Cyprus. It's only a dinner, Agatha, and we have the rest of the day to ourselves."

But when they got back to the villa, it was three-thirty in the afternoon and James said he was going to write.

Agatha retired to her room and began to search through her clothes for something to outshine Olivia. There was a phone extension in her room. On impulse she threw a pile of brightly coloured clothes on the bed and dialled the number of the vicar's wife, Mrs. Bloxby.

"Agatha," said Mrs. Bloxby. "How are you getting on? We read about the murder in the newspapers."

Agatha told her all about it, looking out of the window at the blue Mediterranean and thinking how very far away the village of Carsely seemed.

"And has this murder brought you and James closer together?" asked the vicar's wife when Agatha had finished.

"Not really," said Agatha on a sigh. "You know James."

"Oh, Agatha, I wish you could meet a really warmhearted man!"

"James
is
a warmhearted man. He just doesn't know how to show his feelings!"

"He may not have any to show."

"That's not true!" said Agatha furiously.

The vicar's wife was contrite. "I didn't really mean to say that, Agatha. I mean, I should not have said that. I don't know what came over me. We miss you here. Do you know when you are coming back?"

Agatha glared furiously through the open window at the sea and took a deep breath of sweet-scented air. She hated Carsely and never wanted to go back there again. Why couldn't everyone mind their own business? "I don't know," she snapped.

"If only I had kept my big mouth shut," said Mrs. Bloxby to her husband later. "Poor Agatha."

The vicar peered at his wife over the tops of his spectacles. "I would not feel sorry for Agatha Raisin. In my opinion she and James Lacey thoroughly deserve each other."

THE evening was warm and sticky, and dark clouds obscured the moon. Agatha had put on full make-up, but as they arrived at the restaurant in Zeytinlik, she could feel foundation and mascara beginning to melt. She was wearing a black evening dress with a short skirt and high collar. As she turned her head in the car to speak to James, she felt her damp cheek brushing against her collar and knew immediately it was probably smeared with Vichy Camel foundation cream. She was wearing tights. Her legs had still not recovered from their burning by the pool and the humidity was making the hairs on her legs sprout dreadfully. She passed a tentative hand across her upper lip but she had waxed it before leaving and it still felt smooth. Oh, all the things that careless youth takes for granted, like a slim figure, smooth skin and a hair-free face! In that moment, she desperately wished to be back in her late thirties--that was not asking too much--when one could indulge in, say, a large piece of cheesecake without feeling two minutes after it had been consumed that one's knicker elastic was cutting off one's circulation.

The proprietors, Emine and Altay, gave them a welcome and ushered them to a table next to a fountain in the centre of the garden restaurant, where Olivia and party were already seated. Between sunburn and booze, Trevor's face looked as if it had been boiled. The food as usual was delicious, but Trevor complained loudly and drunkenly that he was tired of "this foreign muck" and would give anything for a good steak and kidney pie.

"This place used to be called Templos," said Olivia loudly to break the awkward silence which followed Trevor's outburst. "The Knights Templars were stationed here and it was a sort of market garden for Saint Hilarion Castle. Some even say there is a tunnel here somewhere that leads right up to the castle."

"I think that's an engineering feat that would surely be beyond the Crusaders," said Agatha.

"They built the castle up on top of the mountain," said Olivia, "so a tunnel wouldn't have been beyond them."

Agatha decided to change the subject. She did not like being contradicted. "I cannot understand why north Cyprus is not a recognized country," she said.

"It's all quite simple," said James. "They let the world forget about the massacres they endured, about the women and children in one village buried alive with their hands tied behind their backs. The Greek Cypriots have a very powerful propaganda machine and this side has little or nothing. If I were an emerging country, I would not waste money on guns or bullets, but I would hire a Madison Avenue public-relations company. I've talked to some members of the government here. 'Why don't you keep reminding the world of what you have suffered?' I asked. They say they only counter-attack."

"They have the UN here," said Angus.

"And what
is
the UN?" demanded James. "I'll tell you what their function is. To cost various countries a great deal of money so that their soldiers can stand around surveying ethnic cleansing. And what the hell am I talking about ethnic cleansing for? Genocide is the word. Hasn't the suffering of the Jews taught this damn world anything? Look at Bosnia!"

"What delicious lamb on the bone," said Olivia brightly. "Do try some, Trevor. Just like Mother used to make."

"My mother only made with the can opener," said Trevor.

What an ill-assorted lot we are, thought Agatha. Even me and James. He talks with such passion about politics but I can't get him to say one word about us. Passion, thought Agatha. Was that what was behind this murder? But George Debenham, thin and sallow like his wife, seemed always cool and detached. Then there was friend Harry Tembleton, whose expression was usually hidden behind a pair of thick spectacles, and yet, in his way, Harry was almost a reflection of Angus, both being old and sagging and with white thinning hair. Perhaps there was a breed of elderly men who attached themselves to married couples.

"Were you ever married, Harry?" asked Agatha.

He blinked at her through his glasses and said, "Yes, but she died twenty years ago."

"And you, Angus?"

"Never found anyone to suit me," said Angus sadly. His Scottish accent was only slight when he forgot to thicken it. "If I could have met someone like Rose, it might have been a different matter." Agatha glanced quickly at Trevor to see how he had taken this declaration, but Trevor appeared to be once more sunk in gloom.

"And what about you, Agatha?" asked Olivia. "Rose told us she remembered reading about you. Your husband was murdered just as you were about to marry James here. It's a wonder he's forgiven you."

"He hasn't and won't, ever," said Agatha, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. "Excuse me." She rose to her feet and went to the toilet and leaned against the wash-hand basin. What is up with me? she thought. Is this the menopause? Should I go on hormone-replacement therapy? Or maybe I need a good psychiatrist to tell me that my infatuation for James is because I'm sick in the head.

She walked wearily out of the toilet and back towards the table in the garden. Then she stopped stock-still and gazed in amazement at the entrance to the restaurant.

A small man with fine hair and a thin, sensitive face was standing there, looking vaguely about him.

Agatha walked towards him. "Charles."

Sir Charles Fraith, Baronet, focused on her. "Funny thing," he said, "I was just thinking about you, Agatha. Folks at the hotel were talking about some Englishwoman being murdered and you crossed my mind."