M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

“Well, I’m not,” said Agatha. “Why don’t you go off and grill that brothel-keeper, Mustafa, or does he bribe the police to stay away?”

“We’ll deal with this murder first,” said Pamir. “What we have here is two ill-assorted couples who mysteriously become friends very quickly. Now let us take the usual two motives-money and passion. Do you think George Debenham fell madly in love with Rose Wilcox?”

Agatha looked at James, who shrugged. She said, “No, there seemed to be no sign of that. Rose liked to flirt.”

“But when Trevor saw Rose with George, he looked jealous?”

“Yes, he looked furious.”

“Odd. Then they dine together, go to Famagusta together, and then dine together again. I must study the background on them all.” He ruffled the sheaf of fax papers.

“James and I have had some experience of helping the police,” said Agatha eagerly. “If I could just-” She reached out towards the fax papers. Pamir stuffed them in his breast pocket and got to his feet.

“I do not want this investigation hampered by amateurs,” he said. “Try to enjoy your holiday and I shall see you both tomorrow.”

James saw him out and then came back and leaned against the kitchen counter. “What a blabby little thing you are, dear. Why didn’t you give him your knicker size when you were at it?”

Agatha cracked. She hurled her coffee-cup across the kitchen, where it smashed against the wall. “You cold, unfeeling bastard,” she howled. She stumbled from the kitchen and ran up the stairs to her room and fell face-down on the bed.

The windows and shutters were open and a mild breeze blew in with a smell of pine, salt and vanilla. The Mediterranean was rough that day, and instead of falling on the beach in measured waves it roared steadily, as if there were a helicopter overhead. And so Agatha did not hear James come in.

He sat on the edge of the bed and lightly touched her hair.

“Come on, now, Agatha. This will not do. We’ll go along to The Celebrity, where Trevor and Angus are staying, and see what we can find out.” Agatha continued to sob. He went up the stairs and into the bathroom and soaked a towel with cold water. He came back and turned Agatha over and sponged her face.

“You’d better wear something cool.” He searched through her clothes and picked out a loose flowered beach dress. He jerked her upright and started to unbutton her blouse. “Let’s get this off for a start.”

But Agatha was wearing a serviceable cotton brassiere and not one of the lacy French ones bought with seduction in mind, so she pushed him away, snarling, “Oh, leave me alone. I’ll dress myself.”

Soon they were driving off into the ferocious heat along to Lapta and so to the Celebrity Hotel. The hotel is rated four-star, but as Agatha walked into the reception and her jaundiced eye took in the amount of plush and gilt furniture, the chandeliers and the hot noisy carpets, she decided it was Middle Eastern four-star. No one at the reception desk had much English and so it took them some time to discover that Trevor and Angus had just checked out.

“Why can’t they get someone who speaks bloody English?” raged Agatha. “They don’t care about tourism in this country.”

“Maybe that’s why they don’t rip them off, insult women and have the place full of lager louts,” said James mildly. “Anyway, we ought to learn Turkish and stop whining about their lack of English.”

“I wasn’t whining. I was putting forward a reasonable criticism. For God’s sake, why do you have to pick on me over every little damn thing?”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere, and no, Agatha, you do not look beautiful when you’re angry. I’ll bet Trevor and Angus have gone to The Dome to join the Debenhams. We’ll try there. We’ll drop off at the villa first and pick up swim-suits and get a swim later.”

But Agatha refused to speak to him. When they got back to their villa, the door was standing open.

“What the 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 he-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 her face.

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 thé 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.

“PU 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 through 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.