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husband and friend came in, but there was no sign of them.
    James called for her promptly at ten o’clock. He was wearing a short-sleeved blue cotton shirt which matched his eyes, eyes which surveyed Agatha, neat in tailored white blouse and linen skirt, with a guarded look.
    They drove out along the road over the mountains to Nicosia. ‘There is a story that the Saudis paid for this to be a dual carriageway,’ said James, breaking a long silence. ‘When a Saudi official came to open the dual carriageway and he only saw this two-lane highway, he was outraged. “Where’s the other half?” he kept demanding.’
    ‘And what had happened to the other half?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Probably went straight into someone’s pocket and ended up as a high-rise or a hotel.’
    They crested a hill and there, down on the plain, lay Nicosia, Lefkoşa to the Turks, bathed in a yellow gleam of sunlight which pierced the low, threatening clouds.
    ‘It looks like one of the Cities of the Plain,’ said Agatha.
    He turned slightly and looked at her in surprise.
    ‘Oh, yes, I do have an imagination, James,’ said Agatha. ‘It often leads me into making silly mistakes.’
    Like this trip to Cyprus, thought Agatha silently.
    Aloud she asked, ‘Where is the Great Eastern Hotel?’
    ‘Just on the road into Nicosia, on the left. I’m sure I’ll find old Mustafa has been ill.’
    ‘When did you last see him?’
    ‘Oh, about 1980.’
    ‘Didn’t he come around to see you settled in?’
    ‘No,’ said James. ‘I arranged everything by phone. He said he would leave the key with a neighbour. I can’t understand it. I’ve rented places from Mustafa in the old days and they were always all right.’
    ‘People change,’ said Agatha on a sigh. The greyness and heaviness of the day was getting to her. Nor was she impressed with the outskirts of Nicosia, which looked just like any dreary London suburb.
    ‘Here we are,’ said James. ‘I’ll need to circle around.’ He parked outside a large modern hotel, or rather, the hotel was of modern architecture, but it already seemed to be falling into decay. The front doors were firmly locked.
    ‘I must find out what’s happened to Mustafa,’ said James. ‘Let’s try round the back. Maybe there’s some life in the kitchens.’
    They picked their way up a cracked path at the side of the hotel and suddenly were confronted with a large, heavy-set man with beetling brows and flat, dead eyes.
    He asked them something in Turkish.
    James shook his head and said, ‘We’re English. Where’s Mustafa?’
    He jerked his head to indicate they should follow him into a side door of the hotel.
    ‘There’s no mistaking a goon, no matter what nationality,’ muttered James. ‘I don’t like the look of this.’
    The man led them along a dark passage. Water dripped down through the ceilings and made puddles on the uncarpeted passageway. Must be an extension, thought Agatha. The rain can’t possibly have dripped its way down through all the hotel floors.
    They suddenly found themselves in a dark bar. There were a few Turkish soldiers sitting around and plenty of James’s goons, and girls, girls, girls. Their guide pointed to two chairs. They sat down.
    ‘Is this a brothel?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Yes,’ said James curtly.
    ‘Are those Turkish girls?’
    ‘No, they call them Natashas. They come from the old Soviet Bloc countries – Hungary, Romania, places like that.’
    A slim man with a triangular face approached them and said in perfect English, ‘Can I help you?’
    He was wearing a well-tailored suit and his eyes were bright and merry. He looked like a picture of Harlequin without the white paint and he was somehow more frightening than the goons. Agatha decided in that moment that intelligent evil was more frightening than anything else and she was sure this Harlequin was evil.
    ‘I am James Lacey. I rented a house from Mustafa and it is in a disgraceful condition. Where is he?’
    ‘Mustafa