Chapter Seven

As a high-flying PR executive in London, Agatha had dined at some of the finest restaurants in the city and had a keen appreciation of the gastronomic delights talented chefs could produce. In the Cotswolds, she had sampled the area’s most prestigious restaurants, in the past most often in the company of Charles who, during his worst periods of financial trauma, had regularly “absent-mindedly” left his wallet on his desk at Barfield House. The Feathers gastropub in Carsely’s neighbouring village, Ancombe, was one of her favourites for excellent, if expensive, food. The Red Lion pub in Carsely itself offered a more affordable, if less sophisticated menu, but she still enjoyed chipping the tasty, crusty bits of lasagne off the dish that the pub’s chef had baked on with a lack of finesse that was still a cut above her own microwaved efforts.

The Cotswolds, therefore, offered a wide range of restaurants Agatha enjoyed and even downtrodden Mircester boasted a handful. Casa Giulia was one of them. The restaurant was in a small side street on the other side of Mircester High Street from the lane where Agatha’s office was. The entrance looked like a small shopfront, its frosted window etched with the restaurant’s name and its woodwork painted a dark, glossy red. Martin Randall was waiting by the window when Agatha arrived, smiling and waving as she walked round the corner from the high street.

“Agatha, how lovely to see you again!” He greeted her with another beaming smile, a warm handshake and then, after a short, almost awkward pause, a polite peck on the cheek. “How are you? No, don’t answer that, let’s just get inside and order a bottle of their delicious sagrantino, then we can talk properly.”

Inside, the restaurant opened out like a secret cavern, softly lit and with enough tables to make it seem popular, but not so many as to make it overcrowded. The walls were decorated with photographs ancient and modern showing the hilltop towns, forests, valleys and lakes of Umbria. Having eaten in Casa Giulia before, Agatha had almost decided what she was going to have before leaving her office and chatted with Randall about their separate travels through Italy while the waiter poured the wine and they perused the menu. She was torn between the two dishes she had tried before—colombaccio, spit-roasted wood pigeon, or pasta alla Norcina, a creamy sauce loaded with Umbrian mushrooms and wild boar sausage meat served with a kind of square spaghetti called strangozzi. She opted for the pasta.

“So how are you doing with that lovely old clock?” Randall asked after they clinked glasses of the dark red wine. “A friend spotted it in Timothy Tinkler’s shop window, but it’s gone now. Got someone working on it for you?”

“To be honest,” Agatha answered, without being entirely honest, “I haven’t had much time to think about that with everything else that’s been happening.”

She explained about the attempted abduction and the car fire.

“But that’s dreadful!” Randall seemed genuinely shocked, leaving Agatha a little surprised that he had heard nothing about the fire either through the grapevine or on local radio news. If she knew Carsely, then everyone would have been talking about the firebombing of her car, and the gossip would certainly have spread to Mircester during the course of the day. Maybe listening to tittle-tattle was beneath Randall, although that hardly seemed likely given the string of questions that followed.

“Who would try to break in and then set your car on fire?” he wondered, looking appalled at the thought. “They should be locked up! I bet you’re already on their trail, aren’t you?”

“We’ll find them sooner or later,” Agatha said. “I won’t give up until we do.”

“But do you have any leads you’re following?” Randall asked. “Have they been careless enough to leave you anything to work with?”

“We heard this afternoon that the police found the van the two men used abandoned on the outskirts of town,” Agatha said, slightly wary of Randall’s questions. His probing felt like it was going beyond polite interest. “There were so many different prints on it that it could take weeks to sort them all out, and even then there’s no guarantee that any of them belonged to the two who attacked us. They were wearing gloves.”

“Disappointing,” Randall said, nodding. “Have you anything else to go on?”

“My team’s looking into it. We’ll get them, you can be sure of that.”

“I was surprised your clock turned up in the antiques shop window,” Randall said, returning to his original topic. “It’s a lovely object, but it wasn’t actually working … unless you had someone fix it?”

“I think Mr. Tinkler simply thought it would look nice on display,” Agatha said, noting Randall’s persistent interest in the clock. Was he again showing a little more than a casual interest, or was that just her naturally suspicious nature? “I might put it back there for a while once it’s running—a sort of tribute to him.”

“That’s a nice idea,” Randall agreed, “providing whoever eventually takes over the shop agrees. I can help find someone to repair the clock, if you like.”

“I’d rather not think about that right now,” Agatha said, deciding to terminate the clock conversation without letting Randall press her further, “but there is something that I would like your help with.”

She explained about the Great Barfield Extravaganza as the waiter brought their food. She described how it was all coming together as an upmarket, invitation-only event full of fun, colour and excitement with everything from fairground attractions and balloon rides to a fashion show … and a charity auction.

“I think you can guess which bit I’d like your help with,” she said, smiling and sampling her wine.

“Charity events are all very well…” Randall said, hesitating, pushing some of his pappardelle pasta around in its hare and bacon sauce, “but if I’m to be involved, the reputation of my business demands that I do everything as Randall Auctions is expected to do. That means producing a proper catalogue, for one thing, and I doubt even that can be done in time.”

“Eleanor Roosevelt once said that ‘Nothing has ever been achieved by the person who says it can’t be done,’” Agatha said, producing from her handbag a list of items already pledged. She slid it across the table to him. “This is just the start. We will have much more confirmed over the next few days.”

“I see…” Randall said, scanning the list with an appraising eye. “Nevertheless, to organise everything as I would want in the time you have available would mean diverting significant resources from my company and we…”

Agatha handed him another sheet of paper, this one filled with names.

“These are just some of the people who are donating items and will be in attendance on the day,” she said, watching Randall register each titled aristocrat, business high-flyer and captain of industry on the list. “Some of these people I’m sure you already know. Others are people you really should have in your contacts book. Can you really afford to let them see some other auctioneer running our show?”

“I do get your point, but…”

“And you know these people will overbid on our already very expensive auction lots.” Agatha sensed he was weakening and went in for the kill. “They’ll want to be seen to be doing their bit for charity. As I understand it, the auctioneer’s fee is usually a percentage of the sale price of an item. Those spectacularly high prices will generate large fees and while the proceeds from the sales will go to good causes, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be compensated in the usual way for your time, effort and expenses.”

“Very well,” Randall said, clinking glasses with Agatha to seal the deal. “I’ll do it! I’m very lucky to be having dinner with a glamorous woman of taste who also understands business!”

“Oh, I’m much more than that, Martin,” Agatha replied, doing her best to tone a triumphant grin down to a more demure smile.

“I bet you are. You know, we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other in the near future. Why don’t we start by going on from here to—”

Agatha held up a hand, signalling him to stop, but continuing to smile to let him know she appreciated what he was about to say.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” she said. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of this excellent food before I have to head home. I’m tired and I’ve got another busy day ahead tomorrow.”

He nodded and returned to his pasta, the conversation settling into tales of past adventures in Italy and Agatha’s Eleanor Roosevelt quote prompting a discussion about powerful women they both admired. Randall did not mention either the two men in black who had attacked her or the clock again, but even as she stepped into the taxi taking her home to Carsely, an uncomfortable suspicion nagged at Agatha. Martin Randall was a good-looking, charming man who clearly wanted to make theirs more than just a business relationship, yet she didn’t quite trust him. He wasn’t like John. He didn’t have John’s dependable strength and gentle nature. John—she missed him. She sat bolt upright in the back of the taxi.

“I need to turn this around!” she said, then held a hand over her mouth, realising that what she was thinking had burst its way out.

“Have I gone the wrong way, miss?” asked the driver.

“No, you’re fine,” she said. “I was just thinking out loud.”

She wasn’t going to let the murderers, the kidnappers, the burglars and the riddler stop her from doing what she wanted to do, and what she really wanted to do was fly out to be with John! She wasn’t running away from them—she would go to Mallorca because that’s where she wanted to be! She wanted to be on board the Ocean Palace Splendour with John. He would listen to everything she had to say and help her sort it all out. She could rely on him. She could trust him. Then, once she’d had some breathing space to get everything straight in her head, all those creeps dressed in black had best watch out!


“You don’t have to worry about a thing on the extravaganza, sweetie,” Roy said, attempting to lift Agatha’s suitcase, feeling the weight and then leaving it for Charles. “The whole schedule for the day is falling into place very nicely. Now that we’ve set the ball rolling, all I need to do is to keep on top of things and keep pushing people to do what they’ve said they’ll do.”

“I will check in with you regularly,” Agatha said, tucking her mobile phone into her handbag, “but you can easily reach me if there are any problems.”

“I’ve loaded a huge batch of case files onto your laptop,” Toni said. She had arrived at Agatha’s cottage around the same time as Charles, who had insisted on driving Agatha to the airport. James had joined them from next door to see Agatha off. They all now crowded into her hallway, with Charles about to manhandle the large suitcase out the front door.

“If there are any files you need that I haven’t included, just let me know,” Toni said. “I’ll be talking to Bill every day, so I can update you on anything the police come up with on the murder or the burglaries.”

“Tell him again not to waste time on those nonsense riddles,” Agatha said. “In fact, I’ll tell him myself. It has wheels, Charles.” She pointed to the suitcase. He stood it upright, extended the handle and wheeled it down the path, a Knight of the Realm, the Master of Barfield House looking a little puzzled at having just been treated like … a servant.

“I’ll keep an eye on the house and feed the cats,” James promised. “Don’t worry about a thing here, my dear.” Then his travel writer’s instincts took over. “Take some time to check out the cathedral in Palma. It looks like a fortress from the outside, but it’s glorious inside. There are also lots of Gaudí buildings hidden away in—”

“James, this isn’t exactly a sightseeing tour,” she said before giving him a brief hug and, after checking that her suitcase was actually loaded into the car, climbing into the Range Rover’s passenger seat. Roy turned to Toni, watching Charles’s car trundle down Lilac Lane.

“It seems strange already without her here,” he said. “Almost as if we’ve been let off the hook. When the cat’s away, the mice will play, sort of thing.”

“We’ve all got too much to do to relax,” Toni pointed out, giving Roy a stern warning. “Patrick, Simon and I are talking to every contact we have in order to track down Mr. Tinkler’s killers and we’re all pulling nightshifts to patrol the ‘at risk’ businesses. You’ve got your work cut out for you as well, remember.”

“I know,” Roy said defensively. “It was just a feeling…”

“Well, my feeling,” James said, “is that if any of the mice start playing around, the cat will sense it from across the continent and be back here like a shot.”

“You’re right, of course,” Roy said, laughing and checking his watch. “Back to work, then. I have an appointment in less than half an hour.”


Charles headed out towards Evesham but turned off for Childswickham and on to Hinton Cross before taking the A46 towards Tewkesbury and finally joining the M5 motorway all the way to Bristol.

“We’ll be there in plenty of time,” Charles said. “The whole journey is well under two hours—much quicker than going down to Gatwick.”

“That’s what I thought when I booked my flights,” Agatha agreed. “I planned on driving myself then, of course…” She clenched her teeth and shook her head, the thought of the incinerated make-up bag still riling her. “Gatwick is more than two hours, just a bit longer than driving to London.”

“Yes, providing you don’t have any snarl-ups along the way,” Charles said. “You can leave our neck of the woods early in the morning and be in London for breakfast.”

“You can nowadays…” Agatha mused. “How long would it have taken William Harrison to get to London?”

“More than two days as opposed to two hours, I should think,” Charles said. “The railways didn’t come along until the middle of the nineteenth century and the roads weren’t great, even for someone attempting the journey on horseback. Why do you want to know that?”

“Just curious,” she replied, reaching for the button to recline her leather seat a little more, relaxing into its cushioned splendour. “Travelling is so much easier these days, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” Charles glanced over to see her stretching her legs. “I could come with you, you know … just to keep you company.”

“I’ll have John there, remember?” Agatha said, closing her eyes.

“He’ll be busy with other things some of the time,” Charles pointed out. “I could check into a hotel and wander round Palma with you from time to time.”

“Three’s a crowd, Charles.” Agatha sighed. “Besides, the ship’s only in port for a couple of days before we sail for Tangiers, then Casablanca and Madeira.”

“How long are you planning staying on board?”

“As long as I like. The more chance I get to think, the more answers I’ll come up with.”


Once she was on board the aircraft bound for Mallorca, having browsed designer cosmetics and jewellery in the airport’s duty-free stores, Agatha considered it a decent hour to have a gin and tonic. She sipped it while reading through the glossy magazine she’d picked up at a newsstand, marvelling at scandalous intimate details from the lives of celebrities she’d never heard of. During a flight of just under two-and-a-half hours, she’d picked out at least six cases ranging from paternity disputes to property fraud where the people exposed in the magazine really needed help from Raisin Investigations.

Following a smooth landing, the aircraft taxied swiftly to the terminal where she queued to disembark and, on reaching the door, was pleasantly surprised to find that stepping out of the air-conditioned interior into the open air was not quite as dramatic an experience as she had expected. Unlike in the height of summer, the temperature in the Mallorcan sunshine was pleasantly warm rather than oppressively furnacelike. She would make it to the port to meet John without turning into a sweaty blob after all.

Once through passport control, she collected her suitcase, wheeling it through customs and out of the terminal building, where she quickly found a taxi. On the way to the port where the Ocean Palace Splendour was docked, she marvelled at how quick her journey had been. From sitting in Charles’s car to sitting in the taxi had taken less than an afternoon, whereas she knew (because James had told her that morning) that on a seventeenth-century sailing ship, William Harrison would have taken up to three weeks to make the same journey. Why was that old story still bugging her so much, despite everything else that was going on? Was it simply the horrible miscarriage of justice—three people put to death by mistake? No, there was far more to it than that. There was something truly sinister about the Harrison mystery, and she knew that, when her cauldron of thoughts stopped bubbling quite so much, the solution to the Campden Wonder would float to the surface.

She reached for her handbag and plucked out her compact mirror and lipstick when Palma Cathedral came into view on her right. The cathedral was not, as James had said, like a fortress. It was stunning, standing proudly by the shore against a clear blue sky, the golden stone of its many spires and pinnacles rejoicing in the sunshine. Checking her make-up, however, had no religious significance. It had far more to do with the edifice that now dominated the view to her left. There, just across the Bay of Palma, lay the city’s port, its buildings as well as the hotels, office and apartment blocks in the vicinity of the port dwarfed by the enormous structure that was the Ocean Palace Splendour. Somewhere on board, John would be waiting. That definitely warranted a quick image review.

Judging her make-up to pass muster, Agatha tidied her refurbishing tools back into her handbag and watched the gigantic ship loom ever larger in the car window. She had tried to count the decks once before, but had quickly lost interest when the vivid slashes of blue and orange paint on the superstructure had thrown her off track. The colour scheme, designed, she believed, to give the ship the look of a party venue, was, like most things that screamed “good times are happening here,” really rather vulgar. She had seen the ship before and even spent the night aboard with John when it was docked at the Rome Cruise Terminal in Civitavecchia, but this time she’d be spending a lot longer aboard—a lot longer with John.

By the time the taxi driver dropped her at the terminal check-in, Agatha was feeling distinctly out of sorts. At first, she thought it might have been the coronation chicken sandwich she’d had at Bristol Airport while waiting for her flight, but, no … she didn’t feel off colour … not ill exactly … but.… Then she saw her hand shaking when she went to grip the extended handle of her case and realised what was wrong. She was nervous. She was excited. She had butterflies in her tummy … all because she was about to see John again. Get a grip of yourself, woman! she told herself fiercely, then looked round to make sure she hadn’t spouted it out loud. You’re acting like a flighty schoolgirl meeting her first crush! You’re too old … no … too dignified for all this nonsense.

She decided to visit the ladies’ to calm herself down. Her suitcase wheels rumbled across the tiled floor and in through the door, where she was faced with a bank of mirrors and hand basins. Setting the case to rest, she examined herself in the mirror. Her make-up was still good. The light yellow dress with a subtle floral pattern had survived the journey well without creasing too much. The low, scooped neck had made it a little too chilly for England and for the air conditioning on the flight, but her pale-blue pashmina, now stowed safely in her suitcase, had compensated for that. She adjusted the small gold pendant hanging low around her neck. It had a geometric design that made her think of sails, so it had seemed appropriate for joining a ship, and still did. She then tweaked the wide brim of her white sun hat, which had endured the journey from Bristol in its own overhead locker, one withering look from Agatha having despatched the middle-aged man intent on shoving a carrier bag full of duty-free vodka in beside it.

Holding both hands level with her breasts, palms down, she slowly pushed down towards her waist while breathing out, calming herself and the butterflies.

“He lucky man,” came a voice and Agatha looked to her right, startled to find a young cleaning woman standing with one hand on a mop handle and the other on her hip. She had bright, dark eyes and an infectious smile showing admirably white teeth untainted by the cigarette smoke and coffee that had resulted in Agatha lining her dentist’s pocket so lavishly.

“Who is?” Agatha asked.

“Whatever man you go to see, señora.” The young woman smiled. “You looking muy bien—real good. Lucky man.”

“Thank you … um … gracias,” Agatha said, then fished in her handbag to leave a ten-euro tip on the surface by the basin.

I am looking “muy bien,” Agatha thought to herself, marching boldly out of the building onto the quayside, gripping the extended handle of her case, the bag following on behind her like a loyal pet. I am Agatha Raisin and I have nothing to worry about. She walked out along the quay towards the cruise ship that stood in the water like a gaudy graffiti mountain. Canvas-covered gangways reached out from the hull, providing easy passage from dry land to the ship’s embarkation deck. Beside one of these tented bridges, among small groups of other passengers and crew, stood John, tall and handsome in a white uniform and cap. He grinned and waved when he spotted her, rushing to greet her.

“You look fantastic!” he said, his hands on her shoulders. He stooped to kiss her and she returned his kiss before placing a hand on his chest to push him away.

“You look pretty good yourself, Admiral,” she said, laughing and brushing imaginary dust off his uniform shirt.

“The uniform’s a bit silly. I haven’t worn anything like this since I was a boy in the sea cadets at school. The cruise line likes to make all the senior staff look like officers,” he said, laughing, then went to kiss her again. She backed away. “I know,” he whispered, grinning. “Too much public affection is undignified and really only for teenagers!”

“Quite right,” she said, then threw her arms around him. He lifted her off her feet and spun her around.

“Come on,” he said, picking up her case. “Let’s get aboard and you can see our new cabin!”

“John,” she said, pointing to the extended handle. “It has wheels.”

He shrugged, set the case down and towed it towards the nearest gangway, holding out his free arm for her to link in. When they stepped onto the gangway, he collapsed the suitcase handle and carried it into a carpeted elevator that whisked them up to one of the topmost decks.

“The crew don’t get private balconies,” he said, turning left out of the elevator, “but our cabin is right on this promenade deck, which is almost as good.”

She followed him a few paces along the deck to where he stopped outside a wooden cabin door, fishing in his pocket for his key. At that moment the door to the adjacent cabin swung slowly open. A woman whom Agatha, had she been pressed to do so, could only have described as stunning stepped out onto the deck.

She was in her mid-thirties. Her hair was long, almost down to her waist, sleek and dark. Her eyes were a dazzling blue and she had cheekbones so beautifully sculpted that a tear, should she ever have reason to shed one, would surely plummet straight to earth without sullying any other part of her face. She was tall, although not as tall as John, and had the build of an athlete, lithe and slim with a flat stomach that denied she had ever suffered from the kind of late-night chocolate-brownie-and-ice-cream frenzy that, in Agatha’s opinion, most normal women experienced from time to time.

Her enviable figure and lightly tanned skin were clearly evident due to the fact that the black-and-gold silk robe she was wearing had billowed open in what Agatha judged to be an entirely deliberate manner, revealing the matching black-and-gold bikini beneath.

“Johnny,” she cooed, displaying a perfect smile. “I wondered where you’d got to!”

A single step took her to John’s side where she slipped an arm through his, just where Agatha’s arm had been only moments before, and planted a light kiss on his cheek, leaving a lipstick mark that matched the reddening of his face.

“I was just going up to our favourite spot to catch the last of the sun,” she said. “Aren’t you going to join me for a final breath of air before showtime?”

“Well, no, not today, I have…” John held out a hand to indicate Agatha’s presence and eased the woman’s arm out from under his own.

“You have company?” The woman sounded surprised. “Now, Johnny, I hope you haven’t been fraternising with the passengers—that’s strictly against the rules.”

“No,” John said quickly. “This is Agatha…”

“Oh, you’re Agatha,” the woman said. “I must say, from the way Johnny described you I thought you would be far…” She paused as if considering her words. “Well, nice to meet you anyway. I’m off to grab that sun. See you later, Johnny.” She reached out to wipe the lipstick trace from his cheek, let her hand linger a little too long on his face, gave him a wink and wafted off round the corner.

“Who the hell was that?” Agatha demanded.

“That was my … um … new dance partner, Letitia.”

“Letitia?” Agatha suddenly realised that her fists were clenched and she was standing with her back ramrod straight. “Your dance partner? You didn’t mention her in any of your texts or phone calls. She seemed very familiar with you.”

“Well, you know how it is with dance partners. You have to be good friends.”

“Oh, do you?” Agatha’s temper had now reached boiling point.

“Yes … of course. Some of the Latin and ballroom holds are quite close … quite intimate … and…”

“Intimate!” Agatha yelled. “Yes, I can see she was intimate all right, Johnny! I travelled a thousand miles and left all sorts of trouble brewing at home to be here with you and the first thing I see when I get here is you with your intimate good friend!”

“Listen, I can explain…”

“This is going to be good!”

“Well, when two people are … you know … dancing together every day, you come to see quite a lot of each other…”

“Your Letitia seems very happy for people to see quite a lot of her!”

“… and there has to be a certain … chemistry, I suppose, and things happen, and…”

“Enough! I was wrong! It’s not good—it’s shit!”

“Just listen to me, will you?”

“I’ve heard enough! Letitia missed a bit of lipstick there—let me wipe that for you!”

She drew back an open hand and slapped his face with a sound like an afternoon thunderclap.

“I’m leaving! Don’t come running after me—I never want to see you again!”

She snatched up her suitcase, struggling to balance its weight against her handbag and the carry-on bag in her other hand.

“Wait, Agatha,” he pleaded with her, stepping forward to offer help. “You can’t carry that…”

“I know!” she screeched, slamming the case down and yanking out the handle. “It has WHEELS!”

The elevator journey down to the embarkation deck was mercifully swift and Agatha was quickly striding out along the quay to where she could see a taxi loitering. As she approached, the driver stepped out—the same one who had brought her to the docks.

“A short cruise, señora,” he said, loading her bags into the back of the car.

“Not short enough for me,” Agatha said grimly.

“Where to?” the driver asked once she was in the car.

“As far away from that thing as I can get,” she answered, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the cruise liner.

“Shanghai?” suggested the driver.

“You’re funny,” Agatha said, without cracking a smile. “Far away on the island.”

“Pollensa, maybe?”

“Perfect.”

“Is expensive…”

“Do I look like I care? Just drive!”

The driver took her out of the port onto the coast road and past Palma Cathedral once more. Agatha stared out of the window, watching the city turn to countryside and the craggy peaks of the Serra de Tramuntana casting long shadows in the early evening light. The journey across the island from Palma in the southwest to Puerto Pollensa on the northeast coast took less than an hour, although daylight was starting to fade by the time the taxi reached the outskirts of Alcúdia, where they turned left onto the road that ran round the picturesque Bay of Pollensa to the harbour town.

“Where you like to go in Pollensa?” asked the driver, the first words that had passed between them since leaving Palma.

“Hotel Illa d’Or,” Agatha answered.

“You have stayed there before, señora?”

“Never.”

“Maybe they have no rooms tonight.”

“They’ll have one for me.”

The driver took her round the town on a modern ring road, then into a narrow backstreet, eventually pulling up outside a grand entrance that looked like a Spanish-styled pagoda. He unloaded the bags and Agatha paid him using the last of her cash, adding a generous tip.

“I am Miguel,” he said, handing her a card and circling a phone number with a stubby pencil. “I live close. You need me, I come.”

Agatha thanked him and made her way through the pagoda entrance to find a stylish, modern reception area. A young man in a white shirt and blue tie greeted her pleasantly in perfect English.

“Do you have a reservation, madam?” he asked.

“No, this is a … spur-of-the-moment thing…”

“We have very few rooms available, madam, but…”

“I want the best you have,” she said, placing a credit card on the desk that she knew would leave the receptionist in no doubt that she could afford the best. He seemed completely unfazed by the card.

“Of course, madam. One moment, please, while I check.” His fingers drifted across the computer keyboard in front of him and he studied the screen for an instant. “We have a suite with a terrace that has a wonderful view out across the bay.”

“I’ll take it.”

“How long will you be staying with us, madam?”

“I’m … I’m not sure.”

“Not to worry. We can discuss that tomorrow, if you wish.”

Once she had checked in, a young woman appeared to show Agatha up to her suite, another young man following immediately behind with her bags. The young woman opened the door for Agatha, then gave her a guided tour of the suite. There was a spacious sitting room, comfortably furnished, with light-coloured wooden floorboards polished as smooth as glass. The wood theme was used as a panel motif on the white walls and carried through to the bedroom where there was an opulent four-poster bed, yet still space for another sofa, a couple of armchairs and a coffee table. There was a large, luxuriously appointed bathroom, and two sets of glass doors led out from the bedroom onto the terrace. Standing at the carved stone balustrade, Agatha could see out past the hotel’s waterside bar and restaurant to where boats and yachts of all shapes and sizes bobbed at their moorings, then on across the bay where the sun was now setting behind distant hills.

The staff left her to settle in and she found the minibar beneath the desk in the sitting room. She made herself a gin and tonic, then strolled out onto the terrace. This side of the building, rather than the grand entrance accessible by car, was clearly the public face of the Illa d’Or. She gazed out over the water. A mellow orange glow marked where the sun was dragging the daylight down behind the hills. Somewhere out there, to the south and west, John was aboard the Ocean Palace Splendour … with that woman.

Turning her back on the bay, she walked inside and looked around her bedroom. Here she was, a girl brought up in a Birmingham tower block, who had left her abusive parents when she was just a teenager and worked insanely hard to establish herself in the PR world, building her own hugely successful business. She’d then moved on to create a second business as an investigator and had sent some of the most dangerous killers in the country to jail. Here she now was, on a beautiful island in the most magnificent hotel, in a fabulous suite … alone.

Placing her untouched drink carefully on the coffee table, she sank slowly to her knees on the wooden floor, buried her face in her hands and cried until her sides ached.