Death Of An Addict

CHAPTER SIX

Hamish sat on a British Airways flight to Amsterdam and wished he could thaw the atmosphere between himself and Olivia.

They had shared the hotel bed the night before, each lying chastely as far away from the other as possible. But somehow during the night he had, in his sleep, put an arm around her and gathered her close and Olivia had awoken first to find her head pillowed on his chest and herself held fast in his embrace.

She had woken him, demanded to know what the hell he was about, taking advantage of the situation. In vain he had protested that it must have happened in his sleep.

They had been tailed by the man Hamish had dubbed the Undertaker to Inverness Airport but as far as he knew, they were no longer being followed. Of course, the Undertaker could have found out they were on the plane and a tail could pick them up in Amsterdam.

So here he was bound for his first foreign trip with a pretty woman who was just about as much company as Chief Inspector Blair would have been.

Hamish thought of the now silly dreams he had nourished while falling asleep beside her, how they would walk along the canals, see the museums, and just perhaps, just perhaps, something might happen between them.

The plane began its descent to Schiphol Airport. "Where are we staying?" asked Hamish, breaking the heavy silence.

"The Hilton."

More silence. Hamish sighed. Come into the twentieth century, he chided himself. If she were a man and your senior officer, you would be quiet and respectful. She must be used to men coming on to her.

Hamish nonetheless could not help feeling excited as the taxi bore them the eighteen kilometres into Amsterdam. He was abroad. If only he had a camera. So that when this was all over, he could show the folks in Lochdubh that he, Hamish Macbeth, had actually been abroad. Of course, he could probably buy one of those disposable ones. He could see Anne Franks house, take a trip by boat along the canals, buy some souvenirs. He must buy a present for Angela.

They arrived at the Hilton, which overlooked the Amstel. He was relieved to see their room had twin beds.

"Did you notice if we were followed from the airport?" asked Olivia briskly.

"No, ma'am. But they might send someone over."

Hamish unpacked his suitcase and then looked hopefully out of the window. There were lights glittering along the canal.

"Would you care to go for a walk before dinner?" he asked.

"No, we will wait. We are to be contacted."

Hamish sighed, picked up a paperback and slumped down in an armchair by the window.

He would have liked a cup of coffee, but Olivia was exuding such a terrifying air of chilly authority that somehow he did not dare, and he resented her at the same time. Damn all women. Why couldn't he forget she was a woman?

The phone rang. She answered it, listened and said, "Send him up."

Hamish looked up at her enquiringly, but obviously he was still in the doghouse and expected to wait until she chose to tell him.

He stifled another sigh. Here he was in this exciting city with a pretty woman and he was trapped in this hotel room, rather as if he was some foreign dignitary under house arrest.

There was a knock at the door. Olivia opened it. A small dapper man entered. He was balding, had a round smooth face and gold-rimmed glasses.

"I am Pieter Willet," he said, holding out a plump, well-manicured hand. He looked at Hamish, who had got to his feet. "And you are this British chief inspector?"

"I am Chief Inspector Chater," said Olivia frostily. "This is Police Constable Hamish Macbeth."

Pieter bent over her hand and deposited a kiss somewhere in the air above it. "Apologies, dear lady. I did not expect such beauty."

Olivia gave him a nasty sort of cut-the-bullshit look, but said, "And you are? I mean your job?"

"I am attached to the drug squad but always undercover. I am a good person to send to you because my face is never connected to that of the police. Were you followed?"

"Not that we know of. But we feel sure there will be someone in Amsterdam shortly."

"We will go out for dinner and let them find us. We will discuss our plans over dinner. You are my guests."

"That's verra kind of you," said Hamish with a charming smile.

Oh, that frosty look of Olivia's! Wasn't he even supposed to be civil?

"Do we have to change for dinner?" she asked.

Pieter surveyed her rather tight suit, very short skirt and low-cut blouse. "You look delightful as you are."

"I do not normally dress like this," said Olivia. "But as I am supposed to be his wife"-she jerked a thumb at Hamish-"I may as well look the part."

"Some of the top drug barons favour a French restaurant called Moulin Rouge. You may as well start to look part of the underworld scene."

"Will I have to talk to any of them?" asked Hamish. He caught Olivia's cold look and said impatiently, "Look, ma'am, the minute we go out, you are my wife and I'm the one who has to do the talking."

"Some may approach our table. I am known as a businessman, importer-exporter. You will not need to do any business. You're an associate of mine, that's all. But if anyone is watching, then it will create the right effect. Shall we go?"

As tall buildings, canals, bridges glittering with lights, and gaily painted boats flew past, Hamish longed to be able to get out and walk around. He felt quite sulky, rather like a child being taken to the seaside and told to stay indoors and do his homework. He didn't want to go to some French restaurant favoured by villains. He wanted to try Dutch cooking. He wanted to shop for souvenirs and take photographs. He began to wonder if he could give Olivia the slip the following day.

He was sitting in the back, Olivia in the front with Pieter, who was driving. Hamish looked out of the back window. There was a black BMW behind. He could not make out who was driving it. He waited a few minutes until Pieter had made a right-hand turn down a narrow street. There was now a little red car behind, two cyclists and, behind that, turning slowly into the street, the black BMW.

He kept glancing back. The BMW was always there, sometimes close behind them, sometimes letting two cars get between them.

On they went, now in a broad thoroughfare, past clanking trams, then another right-hand turn and along a side street, and finally in front of them in a square was the Moulin Rouge, not, despite its name, in an old windmill like some of the famous Amsterdam restaurants like De Molen De Dikkert, but a low modern building with a fake neon-illuminated windmill on its roof.

"There's parking round the back," said Pieter.

Hamish looked round as the car drove into the parking lot at the back of the restaurant. No BMW

They all got out and began to walk towards the front of the restaurant. Pieter and Olivia, arm in arm, walked ahead of Hamish into the restaurant. Despite its garish outside, inside was expensively quiet and smooth, expanses of white linen, mahogany and brass and the smells of good cooking.

"I'll be with you in a minute," Hamish called to the retreating backs of Pieter and Olivia, who were following the maître d' to a table in the far corner.

He went out of the restaurant and looked around. Then he walked quickly around to the car park. He stood in the shadows at the entrance. The black BMW was just being parked. Then the man Hamish called the Undertaker got out. Two other men also got out. The Undertaker said something to them and then got in behind the wheel. The two men began to walk out of the car park. One was small and swarthy, wearing a blazer with some improbable crest on the pocket and flannels with turn-ups and suede shoes. The other was taller, wearing a black leather jacket over jeans. He was bald, with a tired crumpled face.

"You'd better put a tie on, Sammy," said his companion. Glaswegians, thought Hamish. Jimmy White's men. He walked swiftly back to the restaurant.

He joined Olivia and Pieter. "They've caught up with us. Two of them are about to walk into the restaurant. And Olivia, dear, chust a wee point. You may be flaming mad with me but as you're supposed to be my wife, you don't walk ahead of me into a restaurant with another man. Here they come."

Olivia looked at them covertly over the top of a large leather-bound menu. "Look like a couple of idiots," she said. "Nonetheless, they have to report back. Is there any hope that your villainous friends will be here tonight?"

"Oh, I should think so," said Pieter. "Let's order."

"Is the food any good?" asked Hamish.

"What there is of it," said Pieter dryly.

It turned out to be nouvelle cuisine, that genre of cooking which saves any restaurateur great expense. Hamish, for the main course, had ordered pigeon. He looked gloomily down at two pigeon drumsticks on a bed of rocket, one small potato and one tomato cut to look like a flower.

"I would never have thought," he said to Pieter, "that the top honchos of the drug world would have dined in a place like this. I would have thought decent platefuls of food would have been more in their line."

"They feel safe with the proprietor."

"Oh, is that it? I'll need to order some sandwiches when I get back to the hotel."

"Ah, here's the American contingent."

"I'll need to change my ideas about what a drug baron's wife should wear," said Olivia, studying the newcomers. Two men, who looked exactly like wealthy American businessmen, were sitting down at a table in the centre with two women. One woman was a statuesque blonde in a slinky dress and very high heels. She had a beautiful face and her makeup was perfect. The other woman was middle-aged, in a smart silk trouser suit, her iron-grey hair carefully styled. Olivia looked ruefully down at her own plunging blouse and push-up bra. "Trust the powers that be to think I had to dress like a tart. Will they come over?"

"They'll probably drop by the table to exchange a few words. They're well known in the drug world, so your minders will have something to talk about. It looks like being a quiet night, so you're lucky they've turned up."

Hamish looked in amusement at the two Glaswegians, who were staring at the tiny portions on their plates as if they couldn't believe their eyes.

They were just finishing their coffee when one of the Americans approached their table. He was a large man with a gin-and-sauna face.

"Evening, Pieter," he said.

"Evening, Gus. Let me introduce you. This is Hamish George, a Scottish businessman, and his wife, Olivia. Hamish, Olivia, Gus Peck."

Gus drew up a chair and sat down. "And what's your line of business, Hamish?" he asked.

"Same as Pieter's," said Hamish. "Import-export."

"How about that?" said Gus, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm in the same line of business myself. Where are you staying?"

"The Hilton."

"Vacation?"

"Business and pleasure."

"Hope to see you around. Pieter knows where to find me."

He rose and smiled expansively and went back to his table.

"I hope that does some good," said Hamish. "But will our minders know who he is?"

"They'll probably get his name from the maître d' and phone it to Jimmy White and Jimmy White will recognise the name. Gus is big."

"If you know all these villains, it stands to reason the police know who they are," said Hamish. "So why don't they pick them up?"

Pieter shrugged. "All these sort of men have impeccable cover. I just keep my ear to the ground and tip the police off from time to time if I get word of any shipments of drugs, but not too often. I have my own cover to maintain."

Olivia stifled a yawn. "Let's go. I'm tired. What's on the cards for tomorrow?"

"I'll take you to a nightclub tomorrow evening where they all hang out," said Pieter. "We don't really need to do anything during your week. Just be seen in all the right places."

"Our minders don't seem to be following," said Olivia as they left the restaurant.

"It's more important to them to stay behind," said Hamish, "and find out Gus's identity. Besides, they know where we're staying."

Later that evening Hamish and Olivia lay in their twin beds. There was still a distinct frost emanating from Olivia. She was reading a magazine.

"Olivia," ventured Hamish.

"What?"

"As we're not to be doing anything until tomorrow evening, we could spend the day looking around, visit some of the sights."

"We will stay here," said Olivia crossly. "Have you forgotten you're supposed to know Amsterdam? Not ponce about like some bloody tourist."

I hate her, thought Hamish. I really hate her.

The morning dawned sunny and crisp, sunlight sparkling on the canal below the window.

They had a silent breakfast. Hamish began to feel mutinous. He did not want to stay locked up in this hotel room.

He made for the door.

"Where are you going?" demanded Olivia sharply.

"Just downstairs to get the English papers," said Hamish mildly.

"Don't be long."

With a feeling of being let out of some sort of prison, Hamish went downstairs and straight out of the hotel. He was aware that the two Glaswegians, who had been sitting in the hotel lobby, had risen to follow him.

He walked slowly, looking always for a way to lose his pursuers. He went into a souvenir shop. His pursuers took up a position in a doorway across the road.

"Can I help you?"

Hamish found himself looking at a very pretty blonde. She had a mass of blond curls, bright blue eyes and a voluptuous figure in cut-off jeans and a shirt tied at her waist.

"Just looking," said Hamish. She smiled at him. She had dimples. Hamish stared at her.

"What is the matter?" she asked in a prettily accented voice.

"I was thinking I hadn't seen dimples in a long while," said Hamish.

"Dimples? What is that?"

"Those indentations in your face when you smile."

"You like?" she asked flirtatiously.

"I like." He smiled down at her. "Is this your shop?"

"No, I do not normally work here but I am helping out my friend, who has gone for coffee. I am a student."

Hamish looked at her thoughtfully. "Is there a back way out of here?"

"Yes, but why?"

"It's my wife. She's an awfy bully. I gave her the slip. I wanted to see a bit of Amsterdam but she wants to stay in the hotel room. She's got her brother following me."

The girl laughed. "And why should I help you?"

"Because you've got a bonny face."

"Bonny?"

"It's Scottish for pretty."

"Here is my friend. Greta, we're just going out the back way."

Greta said something in Dutch and Hamish's new friend replied rapidly in the same language. Greta appeared to be lecturing the girl to be careful but she shrugged and said to Hamish in English, "This way."

She held up a curtain at the back of the shop. Hamish ducked his head and went through. There was a sort of back parlour-cum-kitchen and a glass door leading out into a sunny courtyard.

"We cycle," she said.

"You're coming with me?"

"I show you some of Amsterdam, yes? I am Anna." She held out a small hand.

"Hamish."

"Haymeesh? What sort of name is that?"

"It's Highland, Scottish for James."

"I love the Scots. So we go."

They wheeled bicycles out into a narrow cobbled street which ran along by a canal. She pedalled off and Hamish, with a feeling of exhilaration, mounted and pedalled after her.

"I do not know what you are talking about," said Greta, facing the two Glaswegians. "My friend Anna went off with her friend."

The one called Sammy thrust his face close to Greta's and said menacingly, "You'd better tell us, hen."

Greta pressed an alarm button under the counter and took a step back. "I do not know what you are or what you want," she said. "Get out of here."

The alarm button was not only connected to the local police station, but lit up a warning light outside the door of the shop, which, unknown to the two Glaswegians, was flashing like a beacon.

So that just as Sammy was about to utter further threats, suddenly there were four very large Dutch policemen in the shop.

Greta spoke in rapid Dutch. The Glaswegians were handcuffed and led off. One policeman waited behind and took a statement from Greta. "It's Anna," said Greta ruefully. "I don't know who the man is she went off with. He was very tall, with flaming-red hair. British."

Water, water, everywhere, thought Hamish as Anna's delectable rump bobbed on the bicycle in front of him. They shot down cobbled streets, each one looking remarkably like the other, and then along the banks of yet another canal until Anna stopped in front of a tall building.

"I live up there," she said. "Coffee?"

Hamish's spurt of rebellion was beginning to fade. Olivia's cold and angry face rose in his mind's eye. But, hey, he was supposed to be in charge of the operation.

Olivia was pacing up and down in front of Pieter. "What do I do now?" she asked. "He's been gone for ages. They may have killed him."

"I shouldn't think so," said Pieter. "I'll go off and check with my contacts with the police."

Hamish was sitting by a sunny window in Anna's kitchen, sipping coffee and enjoying the foreignness of it all. The very coffee he was drinking tasted foreign and exotic.

"Hamish/" Anna's voice calling from another room.

He got to his feet. "Where are you?"

"In here."

He looked into the living room: heavy carved fruitwood furniture, canary in a cage by the window, tall dresser with thick pottery blue-and-white mugs and plates.

"Hamish!"

He pushed open a door. The bedroom. Anna lying on the bed, naked.

"Come here." She held out her hand.

"I haff n-not the p-protection," he said, but approached the bed all the same, gazing at the ripe young body as if hypnotised.

She turned away from him and jerked open the drawer of a bedside table. "Help yourself"

Hamish moved round the large double bed and looked down into the drawer. Piles of condoms.

"I d-don't think…" he began, but she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"We have a little fun… yes?"

How long had he been gone? wondered Olivia. He had left at nine in the morning and it was now approaching two in the afternoon. No word from Pieter. What should she do? She was feeling guilty. She knew she had treated him with unusual coldness. Soon, she would need to phone Strathbane and tell them what had happened. Then Pieter's discreet inquiries would be no good. There would need to be a full-scale police search for Hamish Macbeth.

There was a knock at the door. "Hamish!" she cried, and ran to open it. But it was Pieter who stood there.

"Any news?"

"Yes."

"Is he alive?"

"Very much so."

"What happened?"

"They have video cameras at about every street corner in central Amsterdam. By running back the film of the street corners near the hotel for about the time you said Hamish disappeared, we saw him leave. He went into a souvenir shop. The woman said he had gone off with her friend Anna, who sometimes minds the shop for her. They left by the back way. The two Glaswegians came in and threatened her. She pressed the alarm bell and got them arrested. They have been told they are not welcome in Holland and sent on their way. I told the police at a high level that arresting them would complicate our business here."

"But this Anna…?"

"She's a prostitute. Friend Greta tried to claim she was just a girl who likes a good time. But she's on the books. She does have a good time but she takes money for it. I wonder what excuse our friend Hamish will have when he eventually shows up."

Hamish Macbeth awoke from a deep sleep. He felt marvellous. Then he looked at the clock. Two in the afternoon?

He hurriedly got into his clothes. He shook Anna awake. "I've got to go."

She smiled up at him. "I'll have another sleep. Just leave the money on the table."

Hamish's mouth dropped open.

"I take sterling," she said cheerfully. "Fifty pounds."

Hamish fished out his wallet. Anna had closed her beautiful eyes again.

Vanity, vanity, he thought dismally. And I thought you fancied me. At least he was carrying around enough money in his role of drug baron. He peeled off the money and put it down on the table.

He made his way down the narrow dark staircase and stood outside blinking in the sunlight. He didn't know where he was. How on earth was he going to explain his absence? Perhaps he could say that he had given the Glaswegians the slip and then turned and followed them, to see if they contacted anyone. That would do.

He walked and walked down cobbled streets and along by canals until he saw a taxi and hailed it. "Hilton," he said, and lay back in the cab, thinking all the while of Olivia's angry face.

He used his own key to let himself into the hotel room.

Pieter and Olivia were sitting in armchairs. They looked up at him, waiting, waiting, and with that Highland sixth sense of his, he all at once knew that somehow they knew not only where he had been but what he had been doing.

"Where have you been?" asked Olivia.

Hamish pulled up another chair and sat down. Nothing but the truth would serve.

"I've been making a fool of myself." He sighed. "It wass like this. I felt confined in here. I've never been abroad before and I thought the only part of Amsterdam I'm going to see is this hotel room and maybe the odd restaurant or nightclub. I only meant to walk around for a bit. I went into a souvenir shop around the corner and I met this girl. I could see the Glaswegians across the road and wanted to give them the slip. She led me out the back way, lent me a bicycle and asked me to follow her and I did. We went to her flat. I didn't know she was a prostitute until she demanded payment. I paid her and came back."

"And this is what I'm supposed to be working with," said Olivia to Pieter. "The village idiot abroad. I'd better phone Strathbane and abort the whole business. This man"-she jerked a contemptuous thumb at Hamish-"is going to get us all killed."

Pieter repressed a smile. He had expected Hamish to tell some highly embroidered lie. The fact that Hamish had told nothing but the truth amused him. Also Pieter found Olivia's dictatorial manner irritating. Men must stick together against bullying women. Poor Olivia, had she been a man, Pieter would have backed her all the way.

"I think that Strathbane would be furious with you for aborting an already expensive operation," said Pieter smoothly, "and as you are in charge of this case, it is you who would look bad, not Hamish here."

Olivia felt suddenly weary. Oh, what it was to be a woman.' Hamish would emerge as a bit of a lad and she would emerge as a carping bitch.

"I shall never forgive you for this," she snapped at Hamish. "But Pieter has a point. A lot of money has already been paid out on this. But from now on you will obey orders and do as you are told."

"Yes, ma'am," said Hamish meekly.

Pieter took his leave and said he would collect them later for the nightclub.

"Don't you know a prostitute when you see one?" demanded Olivia. "What kind of copper are you?"

Hamish had suffered enough. He rose to his feet.

"If you will excuse me, ma'am, I will go to my room."

He walked stiffly past her, his face flaming as red as his hair, and, ignoring her shout of "It's my room, too," he went into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

He threw himself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Prostitutes in Strathbane were raddled middle-aged women or pallid young girls with so many needle marks on their arms they looked like pincushions. And even that damns me as a fogy, thought Hamish. When did anyone last see a pincushion? How was he supposed to know that a fresh-looking young girl who was helping out in a souvenir shop was a prostitute? She had been warm and generous and loving. He had thought his dreams had come true. He remembered that just before he fell asleep, he had imagined her in the kitchen of the police station in Lochdubh, busy among the cooking pots, her canary singing in a cage by the window. He felt almost tearful with shame.

Olivia was on the telephone to headquarters in Strathbane, using the mobile phone. Much as she would have liked to shop Hamish, to put in an official complaint, she was well aware that it would be the end of the operation. She would save the gem about Hamish and the prostitute for her final report. Mr. Daviot listened to her report about how they had laid the ground, that they were going to a nightclub tonight to set the scene. Then she said, "We were followed by two of Jimmy White's goons but they got arrested for harassing some woman in a shop. So I do not see any reason why we should stay here any longer than tonight, running up expensive hotel bills."

"I will rely on your judgement," said Daviot, who had a slight crush on Olivia. "So we can expect you back tomorrow?"

"Yes, I'll make the travel arrangements."

She said goodbye and then collected her own and Hamish's airline tickets from her bag and phoned the airline and booked them both out on an early flight in the morning. Hamish Macbeth would be easier to control on home ground.

"Good morning, sir," said Chief Inspector Blair as he met Mr. Daviot in one of the long dreary lime-green corridors of police headquarters in Strathbane.

"Ah, good morning. Mrs. Daviot thanks you very much for the flowers. Fancy you remembering her birthday."

"Just a little something. Everything going well over there?"

"Things seem to be running smoothly so far. I hope Macbeth realises at last that he has potential. He's too bright to be locked away in a Highland village."

Blair nodded and walked on. He had a pounding headache, having drunk too much the night before. He seethed at the idea of Hamish Macbeth getting any glory at all. Would it be so terrible to drop a word in the wrong quarters? They wouldn't kill Hamish, just probably disappear back to Glasgow. It would not be as if he, Blair, would be thwarting the police and Customs and Excise from seizing a valuable cargo. The cargo was a scam.

He would never be found out. All it would take was one little whisper.

Hamish received the news of their impending departure calmly. He had lost all his resentment to Olivia. He was so ashamed of himself that he actually now welcomed her cold, brisk efficiency.

Olivia had put on less makeup that evening. She was wearing a brief black evening dress with gold jewellery. Her hair was down on her shoulders, smooth and shining.

"You look very well," said Hamish awkwardly as he helped her into her coat.

She threw him a brief smile. "I thought I was beginning to look a bit too vulgar."

Pieter called to collect them and they all set off for the nightclub.

The nightclub was dark, with candles on the tables. "I don't know how anyone's even going to see us here," he murmured to Pieter.

"The cabaret's about to begin," said Pieter. "We're near the front and the lights from the stage will show us clearly. We'll just need to hope your Glaswegians have been replaced."

"There was that chap with them, the one I saw in Lachie's office, the one I call the Undertaker," said Hamish. "He'll still be around. If he's not here himself, he'll send someone else."

Suddenly the stage was lit up and the compere dashed on. He spoke in rapid Dutch and then German and English. Lola was to be the first turn, a lady of renowned international beauty. The audience laughed and Hamish wondered what was so funny about that.

Then Lola came on, a statuesque blonde with enormous breasts and high cheekbones. In a Marlene Dietrich voice, she started to sing "Falling in Love Again." Hamish realised with a little shock that Lola was a man. The wrists and ankles were always a giveaway.

"That's a man," whispered Olivia to Hamish.

"I know," he said crossly, thinking she really must consider him some sort of dumb hayseed, and then he remembered she had every reason to consider him an innocent abroad.

After Lola had finished, the lights blazed out from the stage as she began to sing "I Will Survive."

Hamish glanced covertly around. Just sitting down, a few tables behind him, was Anna, accompanied by a heavy-set businessman.

Pieter followed his gaze. "That's your lady of today," he said.

"How do you know?" asked Hamish, raising his voice to be heard above Lola's singing.

Pieter leaned forward and told him about the street videos.

"I feel a right fool," said Hamish. "Does she have a pimp?"

"No, she's a bit of an enthusiastic amateur. But any day now, someone's going to take her over. She's only been busted once. She tried to pick up a businessman in a hotel and his wife phoned the police. That's the only reason she came to their notice. Cheer up, Hamish. It was an easy mistake to make."

Olivia, who had overheard the conversation, studied Anna. Anna looked as fresh and wholesome as newly baked bread. She could easily have passed for her escort's daughter. She could all at once understand why Hamish had made such a mistake.

Lola departed the stage in a flurry of ostrich feathers and sequins. She was replaced by a conjuror. The audience promptly ignored what was happening on the stage and the babble of voices rose.

"Our American friends have just come in." Pieter waved. "And there's a thin man in a black suit leaning against a pillar at the back. Take a look, Hamish, and see if you recognise him."

"Which pillar? Where?"

"At the back, to the left of the exit."

Hamish looked and then looked quickly away. "It's the Undertaker, Lachie's man. I wonder why he's so obvious. He must know I would recognise him."

"They probably want you to know you're being checked up on. Good. Then on the road out, we'll stop at various tables."

"Surely these drug people will be mighty suspicious of anyone muscling in on their territory."

"Amsterdam is not their home ground, not the ones you'll meet. They're here to see to shipments."

The conjuror finished his act to a spattering of applause.

"How long do we sit here for?" asked Olivia, ignoring the compère's patter. "I'm getting bored." "Just a little longer," said Pieter.

"I'm hungry," complained Olivia. "I haven't had any dinner."

"And I didn't have any lunch either," said Hamish.

"No, you were eating the fair Anna," said Pieter, and laughed.

"Cut that out, now," snapped Olivia. "Remember Hamish is supposed to be my husband. I don't like coarseness."

"Then don't look at the stage," said Hamish.

But Olivia looked. Two men and a woman were engaged in complicated sexual acts.

"Aren't you enjoying it?" she asked Hamish.

"I'm not a voyeur," said Hamish, averting his eyes from the stage. Pieter ordered more drinks after the cavorting threesome had been replaced by semi-naked showgirls. Hamish sipped his drink cautiously. He was beginning to feel the effects of champagne on an empty stomach.

"I think we should leave now," said Olivia, much to Hamish's relief.

They all rose. As Hamish passed Anna's table, she looked up at him and gave him a glad smile.

Hamish cut her dead. He was supposed to be with his wife. Also she had left him with a bill for fifty pounds, which he would somehow have to explain away on his expenses. Anna's face fell. Hamish felt like a heel. But didn't the silly girl know what an awful sort of existence she was on the threshold of?

Pieter stopped by the Americans' table. Then he introduced them to a party of Turks and then some Spaniards before leading them towards the exit. There was no sign of the Undertaker.

"Do you know," said Pieter outside, "how the Spaniards are shipping cannabis into Britain?"

"No," said Olivia.

"They put the cannabis resin into onions. So when Customs and Excise see a truckload of onions, they simply look for the man with the dart."

"The dart?" asked Hamish, his eyes roaming up and down the cobbled street.

"A man carrying an ordinary dart, you know, darts? Like in English pubs? Well, he simply stabs this dart into the sacks of onions until he finds the hard onions and he knows he's got the right sack."

Olivia shivered. "Let's eat."

"I'll take you back to your hotel. Probably safer for you to eat in your room. I have business."

He flagged down a cab and gave the driver instructions. Hamish looked wistfully out at the night lights of Amsterdam. "I wish we didn't have to eat in the hotel."

"We'd best do as we're told," said Olivia. "What a cold night it's turned out to be."

Hamish noticed that her attitude to him had thawed.

Once in the room, they ordered steaks to be sent up. Olivia switched on the television set and they ate and watched the news. Then watched an American sitcom and drank coffee and there was a friendly atmosphere between them when they both went to bed. Hamish smiled in the darkness. Soon it would all be over. Soon he would be back at his police station.

Rain was drumming down on the car park at Inverness Airport when they arrived. They got into the Mercedes and Hamish set off on the drive back to Strathbane. "So do we just wait out the rest of the week?" he asked.

"I think we should try to speed things up," said Olivia. "We'll go and see Lachie tomorrow and tell him to tell Jimmy that the consignment is on its way."

For some reason, Hamish suddenly found his thoughts turning in the direction of Chief Inspector Blair. He wondered if Blair had got wind of what he was up to. He knew Blair hated him.

"I'll be glad when this is over," said Olivia suddenly.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about it. Things have been running a bit too easily, apart from your gaffe in Amsterdam."

"I'm sorry about that," said Hamish ruefully. "I thought I had landed lucky at last. I could even see us married. I would never have believed I could be so naive. If you see any of the prostitutes in Strathbane, well, they've practically got labels round their necks screaming prostitute. I meet the girl of my dreams and then she says, 'Leave the money on the table as you go out.' "

"Pieter did say she was a happy amateur, but she won't be happy for long."

"She told me she was a student."

"Student of what?" commented Olivia dryly. "A lot of these silly girls just drift into it. It can start with a simple date with an older man. He gets the wrong end of the stick and pays up. Girl is mortified, then she giggles about it a bit with her friends, and the money comes in handy. Who knows? Maybe Anna was a student, and recently, too. It seems a harmless way of making a bit of money on the side. Some pimp starts to sit up and take notice. He acts as the John, introduces her to dope, gets her hooked and then puts her on the street."

"Perhaps she'll just stop."

"I doubt it. Are you so lonely, Hamish, that you should want to marry some girl you had just met?"

"I suppose I'm a romantic."

"You're in the wrong job. A lot of the men down in Glasgow consider me cold and harsh, but I have found that any sign of softness is taken as a come-on."

"I'm glad I'm not a woman," said Hamish, negotiating a hairpin bend.

There was a companionable silence and then he said, "I wasn't making a pass at you in the bed at the Grand. I really wasn't."

"I believe you, but I'll get us a room with twin beds this time so there will be no… awkwardness."

"You were saying you had a bad feeling about this job," said Hamish. "You know something? I cannae help worrying that too many people at headquarters know about it."

"Only the top brass, surely."

It's the top brass I'm worried about, thought Hamish.