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 1970.”

“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.

“A goon looks like 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.