James said they should leave. By the time Agatha had put her beachdress on, she could feel her shoulders beginning to burn painfully. She told James about her idea of checking at The Grapevine to see if a skewer was missing.

“I don’t think that’s much use,” said James. “They sell them all over town. And any restaurant here is bound to have bundles of them in the kitchen. But we could go there for dinner tonight if you like.”

“I’ve got a date.”

They had reached the car. James turned and looked down at her.

“A date? Who with?”

“Some fellow I met at the pool.”

He got into the car and slammed the door shut. Agatha went round to the passenger side and got in. They drove back to the villa in silence.

Agatha went straight to her room when they arrived. She lay down on the bed, suddenly tired and, lulled by the roar of the Mediterranean, fell fast asleep.

When she awoke, it was dark. She screwed her head around and looked at the luminous dial of her travelling alarm clock. Seven-thirty! She would need to rush.

There was no water in the bathroom and she felt sticky and grubby. She found a box of something called Fastwipes in her luggage for cleaning off make-up and used the whole box to wipe herself down. Her shoulders burnt like fire, but her face was getting a nice tan.

She eased a short silk dress over her shoulders. Her legs were red, not brown, and almost as sore as her shoulders, but the thought of putting on tights made her shudder.

She finally went down, calling to James. There was no reply and when she went outside, his car was gone.

She drove along the now familiar road through Karaoğlanoğlu, noticing the police were out looking for anyone speeding. Two cars had been stopped. Agatha cruised past them virtuously at a low speed. Down past the army barracks, then the Jasmine Court Hotel and on into Kyrenia and round the new one-way system and down to The Dome. Following the example of the locals, she parked on the pavement in a side street and walked to the hotel.

James was there, sitting with what she thought of coldly as “the murder suspects.” She nodded to them curtly and sailed past them to a table overlooking the sea, where Bert was rising to greet her.

“I think I’ll sit here,” said Agatha brightly. “I like to watch the sea.” She turned her chair around so that her face was to the sea and her back was to James.

“Have you been a widow long?” asked Bert after he had ordered wine.

“Not very long,” said Agatha.

“And do you miss him?”

“No, it was a strange business. I had left him years ago and I thought he would have died of drink, but he only died a few months ago.” Agatha did not want to say her husband had been murdered in case this new beau thought she might be responsible for the murder of Rose.

“What about you?” she asked.

“My wife died two years ago. I’ve been pretty lonely since then.” He laughed. “And frustrated. I’m not one for casual affairs.”

“Nor me,” said Agatha, eyeing him speculatively and wondering what life would be like in Israel.

“When I saw you in the pool, do you know, I had this funny feeling I had known you a long time,” said Bert. “Have some more wine.”

Behind Agatha, Olivia brayed with laughter and said, “Oh, James, you are wicked.”

Agatha held out her glass and smiled into Bert’s eyes. “This is a very romantic setting,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

The sea was calmer that evening and heaved itself up against the rocks below the hotel with rhythmic little splashes. Agatha had a heady feeling of elation. She was embarking on a new chapter of her life. She could forget all about Carsely, about James, about murder. Nothing really mattered except this handsome man whose eyes were glowing at her across the table.

There was a sudden rustling in the restaurant, then a silence. Agatha turned round. A beautiful young woman had entered the restaurant. She looked like a foreign film star. She had long black, glossy hair, which she wore down on her tanned shoulders. She was wearing a short white lace dress. Her long, long tanned legs ended in high-heeled strapped sandals. Her large brown eyes were rimmed with thick black lashes. The silence ended and there was a murmur of appreciation.

Bert looked as if he had been shot through the heart. “She is very beautiful, isn’t she,” asked Agatha uneasily.

He made a funny croaking sound. The vision was approaching their table.

“Surprise!” she cried.

Bert rose to his feet. “Barbara!” he said. “You’re the last person I expected to see.”

“I thought I’d join you earlier than I’d planned.” She looked down at Agatha inquiringly.

“Oh, this is a tourist who’s staying at the hotel-Mrs. Raisin.”

Agatha looked up at the beauty, bewildered. “Your daughter, Bert?”

“I’m his wife,” she said with a laugh. “Aren’t you pleased to see me, Bert?” She turned to Agatha. “He wasn’t expecting me until next week, but I thought I would surprise him.”

Agatha stood up. “Please have my chair,” she said stiffly.

“But you haven’t finished your meal, Mrs. Raisin!”

“I see my friends over there. I’ve got something I want to talk to them about.”

Agatha walked over, pulled out a chair and sat down between James and Olivia. A waiter brought over her half-eaten plate of kebab and rice and placed it in front of her.

“Who is that glorious creature?” asked Olivia.

“She’s his daughter,” lied Agatha, aware of James’s cynical eyes on his face.

“Then it’s a very incestuous relationship,” cackled Olivia. “She’s just leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth!”

“Yes, and now they’re holding hands,” said James.

“I don’t really know him,” mumbled Agatha. “Maybe I was mistaken…because of the age difference, you know.” Desperate to turn the conversation away from Bert, and feeling old and plain and unwanted, Agatha asked, “Any more news about the murder?”

George shook his head. “They’ll probably tell us something tomorrow.”

Agatha looked curiously at Trevor. He was drinking steadily. Beside him, Angus was sunk in gloom. In fact, thought Agatha, Angus looked more like the bereaved husband than Trevor.

Olivia turned to Agatha. “You told us on that yacht trip that you had investigated murders, Agatha. Are you going to investigate this one?”

“I might see what I can find out.”

“Oh, mind your own business,” said Trevor suddenly and truculently.

“But, why?” asked Olivia. “Don’t you want to know who killed poor Rose?”

“Of course I want to know and I’ll kill the bastard the minute I find out who he is. But I don’t want some woman poking her nose in because she thinks it’s some sort of game.”

“Steady on, old boy,” said George, putting a hand on Trevor’s arm. Trevor shook him off. He got to his feet. “I’m sick of the lot of you,” he said. He marched out of the restaurant, colliding drunkenly with a table as he went.

“Och, now,” said Angus placatingly. “You’ve not to be minding him, Agatha. We’re all in a state of shock. I’d better go and see if he’s all right.”

Angus left as well.

There was an uneasy silence.

Olivia looked suddenly subdued. “I think I’ll make an early night of it.” She got to her feet and her husband and friend rose as well. “See you at the cop shop tomorrow,” said Olivia.

That left James and Agatha alone.

“I wonder,” said Agatha, “if I wrote to Bill Wong whether he could send me back some background on all of them.”

“Your letter would arrive in Mircester in about five days’ time,” said James. “But his reply might never reach you, or if it did, it would take about four weeks. The post from abroad goes through Mersin in southern Turkey, and I just don’t know why it should take so long to get here but it does.”

“Fax. I could fax him.”

“You could, I suppose. Do you really think one of them is the murderer?”