Agatha pleaded with her eyes at James, but he made no move to protest. She opened her mouth to say she was tired, she wanted to go to bed. But Olivia smiled at James and said, “Good idea. First dance with me, James.”

Agatha tightened her lips. Olivia was wearing a jade-green silk shift and a jade necklace. She kept bending forward every time she spoke to James, letting the cleavage of her dress droop. He must be able to see her navel, thought Agatha.

Worse happened outside the hotel. James went off with Olivia, George and Harry in one car, leaving Agatha to follow with Rose, Trevor and Angus.

They stopped at a disco attached to a hotel outside Kazraoğlanoğlu, a place which looked like a frontier town, just along the coast from Kyrenia. More noise, more thudding music. Agatha’s head ached.

James took the floor with Olivia and started throwing himself energetically about in movements which seemed to have nothing to do with the beat of the music.

Angus asked Agatha for a dance, put a beefy hand at her waist and tried to propel her in a foxtrot to the disco beat. “I think we should sit down,” shouted Agatha in his ear after he had trodden on her feet, painfully, for about the third time.

“Aye, I’m no’ verra good at this,” said Angus. “You should see me do an eightsome reel.”

“Really?” said Agatha politely.

They sat down at a table at the edge of the floor. Gradually the others joined them. Rose sat down, gave a hiccup and a giggle and slipped slowly under the table, a suddenly puzzled look on her face.

Laughing, the men all reached for her. “She’s had too much,” said Trevor. “I’d better take her back.”

“Which hotel are you in?” asked James.

“The Celebrity, along at Lapta.”

Above their heads, a spinning ball of light put their table alternatively in pitch-black darkness and then glaring light. Trevor got hold of Rose and slung her over his shoulder. “Better take baby home,” he said with a grin.

He turned to go, one large pink hand firmly on Rose’s narrow bony back.

And then he stopped.

He slowly took his hand away and looked at it.

Darkness. Then the ball swung again and they all saw it in the glaring light-the red stain of blood on his hand and the red stain of blood on Rose’s back.

THE police did not allow anyone to leave the disco until the following morning. The duty officer from the British High Commission was there to look after his compatriots. They were questioned over and over again. Agatha could only shake her head each time and say she did not know what could have possibly happened. Rose, she said, appeared to have become the worse for drink and had sunk under the table. The men had crowded around, laughing, to reach down to get her, but there were a lot of men other than those in their own party there when Rose was pulled out from under the table.

The police force in north Cyprus is still run on British lines. They keep a considerably lower profile than the army, who have their own police force, the ASIZ. The civil police work is in close conjunction with the tourist department, and visitors are usually treated with a special tolerance and helpfulness. The crime rate is exceptionally low, and the civil police are used to dealing mostly with traffic accidents.

But here was the murder of a British tourist. And the authorities were determined to solve it. Detective Inspector Nyall Pamir, who spoke good English, during one of his many interrogations of Agatha seemed to think it was a crime of passion. Agatha asked why. Pamir said that Rose was knickerless and that seemed to him to be as good a clue as any. He was a short, tubby man with skin as dark as an Indian’s and small black eyes which gave nothing away. Agatha had an odd feeling he was trying to be funny but then decided she must be wrong.

Rose had been stabbed with a thin, sharp instrument, probably some sort of knife, was the preliminary finding.

They were all told not to leave the island, and to hold themselves ready for further questioning. Then they all shuffled out into the blazing sunlight of early morning.

Angus stood there, old and trembling, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Rose, gone,” he kept saying. “I cannae believe it.” Trevor was grim and silent.

To Agatha’s relief, because she wanted time to rest and think, James had ordered a taxi for both of them. He dropped her at her hotel, saying, “I’ll see you at the villa in an hour. We’ll talk then.”

Agatha packed slowly and carefully. She found she was reluctant to check out. There was something safe about The Dome with its balconied rooms and large ornate lounges. And she hadn’t even had a swim yet at that pool. She was too tired to think much about who had murdered Rose or why.

She was finally finished. She took a last look round and then went down to the reception and paid her bill. This time there was a Turkish Cypriot girl on duty at the desk. News travels fast in north Cyprus, and so it transpired that the girl had not only heard of the murder but that Agatha had been present at the disco.

“How bad for you,” she said sympathetically as Agatha paid her bill. “It was probably one of those mainland Turks. They’re not like us. Always getting drunk and stabbing people.”

This was a wild exaggeration and Agatha did not yet know that the Turkish Cypriots regard themselves as being superior to the mainland Turks, and she found it comforting. At first the thought had crossed her mind that if she and James entered into another murder hunt, it might be the very thing to draw them back together again, but now she had a weary distaste for the whole business and a longing for home. She searched around her mind for that old obsession for James, but it seemed to have died.

Soon she set out in her rented car along the road out of Kyrenia, past the disco where police cars were still lined up, carefully observing the thirty-miles-an-hour speed limit, out past the monument to the Turkish landings, and then turned right by a sign to Sunset Beach and parked beside the hedge of cactus and mimosa behind James’s car.

The front door was standing open. She lugged her cases inside. She called, “James!” but there was no sound but the wind and the sea. She walked through the kitchen out into the garden. James was sitting in a garden chair under an orange tree, intently listening to the news on the BBC World Service.

“Anything?” asked Agatha.

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t think it was the British Broadcasting Service,” he complained. “I can tell you everything that’s going on in Africa and Russia, but not a word about anyone or anything British.”

Agatha pulled up a little white wrought-iron garden chair and sat down opposite him. Behind the orange tree was a vine, its leaves rustling in the breeze. The air was heavy with the scent of vanilla from a large plant to Agatha’s left. Her eyes felt gritty with fatigue.

“I hope you had a shower before you left the hotel,” said James.

“I haven’t even changed my clothes,” said Agatha, indicating her party dress. “Why?”

“This isn’t a day for water. There might be some later. I think we both need sleep.”

“Which bedroom is mine?”

“The one you chose. I’ll take your luggage up.”

They went inside. He carried up her cases to her new room. With a curt little nod, he left her. Agatha stripped off her clothes and fell naked on top of the bed. The windows were open and a light breeze was blowing in, bringing with it snatches of voices from the beach. She plunged down immediately into a heavy sleep and awoke three hours later, sweating from every pore. The breeze had died and the stifling humidity had returned.

Still naked, she trekked up the shallow wooden steps and through to the bathroom. The bathroom had a door at either end. The one opposite to the one she had entered suddenly opened and James came in.