Mabel looked up from her unpacking. “No, we can’t,” she said in a flat voice. “You’ve pushed me too far, Joyce. We will stay in our suite and have our meals sent up until I figure out where we should go that’s safer.”
“They’ll never find us here. Thanks to the European Union, we didn’t even get our passports stamped.”
“Some border guard might remember us. Marbella is still a thieves’ kitchen. They might think of here.”
“But that’s only for train robbers and big-time crooks. We’re only …”
“A couple of murderers. Now shut up and let me think.”
Joyce studied Mabel for a long moment and then said, “Okay. What about a drink?”
“All right. See what’s in the minibar.”
Joyce opened it up. “Pretty much everything.”
“Fix me something and close those windows and put on the air conditioning. I’m going to splash my face with cold water.”
“I’ll mix us a couple of Cuba libres,” shouted Joyce.
She took out the bottle of rum and two small bottles of Coke and then extracted two tumblers. She went to the bed and rummaged in her bag until she found a bottle of sleeping pills. She split them open with her long lacquered nails and shook the contents into one of the tumblers. Then she poured generous measures of rum into each tumbler and filled both glasses up with Coke.
Just in time. Mabel appeared. “I’ve been thinking about Brazil. If that train robber, Ronnie Biggs, could hide out there forever, then so can we. I’ll have a drink and start making arrangements. You haven’t closed the windows.”
“Sorry.” Joyce handed Mabel her drink and went over and closed them, reluctantly shutting out the splendid view of sun and sea.
Mabel looked down at her drink. There was a small fleck of white powder floating on the top. She quickly switched her drink for Joyce’s.
“Here’s to us,” Mabel said, raising her glass.
“Good luck,” said Joyce. “How do we get to Brazil?”
“Dangerous now to fly,” said Mabel. “Maybe we’ll drive over to Lisbon and see if there’s a ship.”
Joyce drank eagerly, watching Mabel the whole time for signs of sleepiness. When she felt herself beginning to feel groggy, she could hardly believe it. She stood up and swayed.
“You look tired, dear,” said Mabel, steering her through to her bedroom. “Lie down.”
Joyce began to struggle. “You switched the glasses.”
“You’re becoming delirious.” Mabel forced Joyce down on the bed. Joyce fought to keep awake, but she was sucked down into blackness.
“That’s solved one problem,” said Mabel. She lifted a pillow and was about to press it down on Joyce’s face but felt squeamish. She was no longer fuelled by the insane, jealous rage which had turned her into a murderer. She put the pillow down and went back and searched Joyce’s handbag. She took out the empty bottle of sleeping pills and threw it in the waste basket. Then she opened Joyce’s wallet and took out all the money she had given her. Lying in the bottom of the handbag was an engagement ring. Mabel scowled. She had given it to Joyce to get rid of. She flushed the ring down the toilet and then put the money she had taken out of Joyce’s bag into her own. Putting a few belongings into a beach bag, Mabel left the room and hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. She would have to leave her clothes behind.
She took the lift to the ground floor, found the Land Rover in the car park and drove off, a little smile on her face as she imagined Joyce stranded, without money.
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 middleaged 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 did that bat Raisin do it?” raged Wilkes the following day. “How did she know where to look? She’s been withholding information, that’s what.”
“Without her, I don’t think we might have found them,” said Bill. “You say Mabel Smedley’s been picked
