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Joyce woke in the evening, feeling groggy and sick. Then memory came flooding back. She struggled out of bed. No sign of Mabel. Joyce saw her own handbag was lying open. She opened her wallet. All her money was gone. Panic set in. What was she going to do?

She decided to go down to the dining room, have a meal and a drink, sign for it and see if food would clear her head.

Joyce was ushered to a table overlooking the sea. A voice said. “What is a pretty lady like you doing dining alone?”

She looked up. A squat little man stood beaming down at her. “Just admiring the sea,” said Joyce.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Please do,” said Joyce, beginning to see a way out of her predicament. This man was ugly but he looked rich. His suit was well tailored and he wore a heavy gold wristwatch.

If I flirt with him, thought Joyce, then maybe he’ll ask me up to his room, and when he’s asleep I can take his wallet and maybe his car keys and make a run for it.

“May I introduce myself? I’m Peter Sinclair.”

“Do you live here?” asked Joyce.

“No, I own a chain of shoe shops in Britain. I’m over here to check up on my buyers.”

Joyce held out her hand. “Ellie Finch,” she said. She experienced a sudden cold shock. Mabel had checked them in. Maybe by now their photographs would be in the British papers and British newspapers were sold in Spain. She’d need to move quickly.

So she began to chat and flirt, but being careful not to drink too much. She would need all her wits about her.

They had started dinner late, at ten o’clock, although that was not very late by Spanish standards. At midnight, Joyce said she would like to retire, giving Peter what she considered her best bedroom look.

“Perhaps you would like to join me in my suite for a nightcap?” said Peter.

Got him, thought Joyce.

Agatha and Patrick were hot and weary. It was their second day of searching. Patrick suggested they return to their own hotel in Marbella for the night and start again in the morning, but Agatha pleaded, “Just a few more hotels. There are two more five stars we haven’t tried. Here’s one. The Splendide.”

Driving carefully in their rented car, and with Patrick navigating, she drove to La Venus beach and parked in front of the Splendide. “Come on, Patrick,” said Agatha.

“Agatha, they may not even be here. This is just another of your wild ideas. I want to go home.”

“Just this once.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Okay. Wait in the car. I’ve got the photos.”

Agatha trudged into the glittering lounge. The night porter looked superciliously at the middle-aged woman in the crumpled linen trouser suit and said, “Yes?”

Agatha explained who she was and took out the photographs of Mabel and Joyce. ‘This one,” he said, selecting the photograph of Joyce. “I think I saw her leaving the dining room with a Mr. Sinclair.”

“Listen!” said Agatha. “These are two murderers wanted by the British police. Call the local police and get them here fast.”

The night porter hesitated only for a moment, thinking Agatha might be deranged. Then he gave a mental shrug. The police could deal with it.

Peter Sinclair was struggling with his bonds on the bed and shouting, “You little bitch,” as Joyce put his wallet in her handbag.

Being tied up had seemed like an exciting sex game. “Help!” he began to shout.

Joyce glared at him and took a silk scarf out of his wardrobe and stuffed it into his mouth.

She made for the door, but it burst open and she found herself confronted by Spanish police and detectives. Behind them, as in a nightmare, she saw Agatha Raisin.

Patrick woke from a heavy sleep as Agatha got into the car. “Can we go home now?” he asked.

“Soon,” said Agatha with a grin. “Joyce has been arrested and she says Mabel is on the road to Lisbon. The Spanish police have alerted the Portuguese authorities.”

“And you let me sleep through the whole thing!”

“There wasn’t time to wake you. Get the bags out. We’re staying here for the night and we’ve to report to the police station here in the morning.”

“How