“Did you by any chance rent a car to a Mr. Lacey?” she asked.

“Yes, I did,” said the man behind the desk. He stood up and shook hands with her. “It’s Mrs. Raisin, isn’t it? I’m Mehmet Chavush. In fact, Mr. Lacey renewed his rental this morning.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“Do you know…did he say where he was going today?”

“Mr. Lacey said something abut going to Gazimağusa.”

Agatha looked blank.

“You probably know it as Famagusta,” he said helpfully.

“How do I get there?”

“Drive up past the post office.” He led her to a map on the wall. “Here. And then take this road up over the mountains. It will lead you down onto the dual carriageway on the Famagusta Road. You might have come that way from the airport.”

“Yes, I think I did.”

Agatha set off. Round the roundabout, past the post office, very much an architectural reminder of British colonial days, and so out towards the mountains. The heat was tremendous, but for once she barely noticed it. The air-conditioning in the car was working-just.

The mountains were bare and stark, scorched from the forest fires of the year before. She recognized the army chicanes as she came down from the mountains. A soldier on guard duty beside the road waved to her and gave her the thumbs-up sign and Agatha’s heart began to lift with hope. Ahead lay Famagusta and James. And then she thought, I should have asked for the registration number of his car. All the rented cars looked much the same, with red license plates to denote they were rented. And Mehmet probably had a record of James’s address.

She carefully observed the speed limit through two villages and then the Famagusta Road, which follows the line where the old railway used to run, stretched straight out in front of her across the Mesaoria Plain, straight as an arrow, and no speed limit.

Agatha put her foot down hard and flew like a bird towards the far horizon.