“Yes, I had dinner there this evening.”

“You should ask there. All the British end up there sooner or later.”

For some reason, Bilal, although probably somewhere in his mid-forties, reminded her of Bill Wong.

“Thanks,” she said, getting to her feet again.

“Tell me the name of your friend,” said Bilal, “and maybe I can find something out for you.”

“James Lacey, retired colonel, fifties, tall with very blue eyes, and black hair going grey.”

“Are you at The Dome?”

“Yes.”

“Write down your name for me. I’ve a terrible memory.”

Agatha wrote down her name. “A laundry is an odd business for a nurse,” she commented.

“I’m used to it now,” said Bilal. “At first I made some awful mistakes. They would give me those Turkish wedding dresses covered in sequins and I’d put them in the dry-cleaning machine, but the sequins were made of plastic and they all melted. And then they come down from the mountains with the suit they bought about forty years ago covered in olive oil and wine and expect me to give it back to them looking like new.” He gave a comical sigh.

“In any case, can I come back and see you?” asked Agatha.

“Any time. We can have coffee.”

Feeling somewhat cheered, she left. She wandered round more streets. Men sat outside cafés playing backgammon, music blared, half-key Turkish music, sad and haunting.

At last she gave up the search and returned to the hotel. She thought she should have gone back to The Grapevine. Maybe tomorrow.

The next morning she awoke heavy-eyed and sweating profusely. She showered and put on a loose cotton dress and flat sandals. She ate a light breakfast of cheese-filled pastry and then went on impulse into the car-rental office.