They had driven a few streets when she said, "I gather you will have guessed I am here to brief you." "Are you somebody's secretary?" "I am Detective Inspector Chater."
"Sorry, ma'am."
"And that was a sexist remark if ever there was one."
"This," said Hamish, waving an expansive hand, "is sexist country. You cannae be from Strathbane."
"I have been brought up from Glasgow. Don't talk until I negotiate this bloody awful one-way system."
She parked at last in the private car park of the Grand Hotel. Any hotel called the Grand conjures up visions of Victorian or Edwardian elegance, but this one was pure Strathbane: a square, modern building decorated in the height of geek-chic, plastic and vulgar and pretentious.
The dining room was fairly empty. She demanded, and got, a table in a secluded corner.
They ordered from a huge menu filled with glorious descriptions of crackling this and fresh that, and sizzling the other. Hamish ordered fish and chips-"Sea-fresh haddock in golden crispy batter and pommes frites"-and she ordered steak and a baked potato-"Prime cut of Angus with floury baked potato and lashings of fresh Scottish butter."
Detective Inspector Chater surveyed Hamish curiously. "You are a little better than I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"You don't look as stupid as I expected."
Hamish raised his eyebrows.
She clasped neat little hands with well-manicured and unpolished nails on the table.
"These are the facts as they were given to me. You suspect there is something fishy in the death of a junkie, even though it seems a perfectly straightforward overdose. So you take leave, take a job in some weird church and then go calling on two of the dead man's former flatmates. Once there, for God knows what mad reason, you pose as a drug baron and say you've got fifty thousand pounds to pay for heroin. Instead of sticking a knife in you or saying they didn't know what you were talking about, this unlovely pair-we've checked on them-who do not even have a record, promptly play your game." Her eyes took in his outfit of old sweater, frayed shirt and paint-stained trousers. "My guess is that they were playing games with you. How on earth could anyone take you for a drug baron?"
Hamish leaned back in his chair and his face suddenly became a mask of sneering arrogant insolence and his eyes stone-hard. "Why not?" he drawled.
"If you looked like that, they might just have fallen for it, but I doubt it. Anyway, I've been dragged up from Glasgow to play this comedy through to the end."
"Have you got the money?" asked Hamish.
"No, I haven't got the money. Are you mad? We both go to Lachie's for the meet and take it from there. What we want to find out is not if Lachie is dealing but where the supplies come in. The west coast of Scotland is such a maze of sea lochs and creeks, it could be anywhere."
"And who are you supposed to be?"
She gave a little sigh. "I am supposed to be your wife. They've got a house for us."
"And who are we?"
"I will give you the big names in one of the main Glasgow syndicates and brief you on what to say. You are Hamish George-I believe that's the name you were using at the church."
"How did you know that?"
"We have our methods, Watson."
"I'll need to know your first name. I cannae call you ma'am the whole time."
"It's Olivia."
Hamish smiled. "A pretty name."
"Don't get any ideas, Constable, and remember at all times when we are not on the job that I am your superior officer."
"Yes, ma'am," said Hamish meekly,
"You may as well start calling me Olivia and get into the act. Here's our food."
Hamish picked away at a truly dreadful plate of fish and chips while Olivia sawed her way through a tough steak.
"Tell me, ma'am," he said. "I mean Olivia, are you going to be dressed like that?"
"No, I shall look the part. What about you?"
"I've got a good suit," said Hamish proudly, who had bought a Savile Row one in a thrift shop.
"We'll lend you some accessories. A gold Rolex, few bits like that."
"I'll go home this evening and get my suit."
"That's the last time you'll go near that police station of yours until this is all over. What will you tell them at the church?"
"I don't need to tell them anything," said Hamish with a grin. He told her about the loan sharking.
"Good. We'll pull them in today and keep them in. No bail for them." She took out a notebook and wrote in it and tore off a leaf. "That's our address. Be there at seven this evening. I'll go and tell headquarters about the church. Get back there and pack up your stuff. If they're around, pick a quarrel with them and walk out."
"Want coffee?" asked Hamish.
"No, I'll be off. See you later."
Olivia made her way briskly out of the restaurant. It was then that Hamish realised he did not have enough money on him to pay the bill and that he had left his chequebook and bank cards back in Lochdubh, not wanting to take them to the church in case the Owens searched his belongings.
The dining room was empty apart from four other diners. Hamish's waitress appeared to be the only one on duty. She was standing looking out of the window.
"Here, you!" called Hamish rudely. "What about bringing some coffee?"
She threw him an outraged look and stalked off into the kitchen.
Hamish slid out of his seat and was out of the restaurant and out of the hotel door as fast as he could.
He could not afford a cab and so had to walk all the way back to the church. To his relief, there was no sign of the Owens.
He packed up his few belongings and put them into Sean's old car and drove off.
He stopped at Sean's to pick up the police Land Rover and tried to persuade the old man to give him a refund because he hadn't had the car all week.
"Away with ye," said Sean. "That's a valuable car and twenty-five pounds was a damn cheap price for a week's rental. I should've charged you more."
Hamish had a fleeting, treacherous thought that maybe he should have taken Tommy's parents' money. He drove back to the police station.
Lochdubh lay spread out under a sunny, breezy sky. Wind whipped up the sea loch into waves. Washing on lines flapped gaily like flags welcoming him home. He felt he had been away for years instead of a matter of hours. Inside him, he felt a little twinge of dread. What if he could not pull it off? What if his cover was blown? What if it came to the crunch and he was asked for the money? He could not envisage Strathbane police headquarters handing over fifty thousand pounds.
He let himself into the police station. He wished he could confide in someone, share the burden. But even if Priscilla should suddenly arrive back from London, he knew he could not even tell her.
He began to pack his one and only good suit and his few respectable shirts. He also packed several paperbacks. There might be long periods of waiting. He wondered about Olivia. Was she married? She must be tough and competent to have reached the rank of detective inspector.
The police station was so comfortable, so familiar, so safe. It was tempting to manufacture some illness and beg off the job. With a sigh, he finished his packing, carried the suitcase out to the police Land Rover. He would drive it to headquarters, leave it there and walk along to his new address.
He drove to the doctor's and told Angela he was going to visit his parents in Rogart and stay with them for a bit. To his embarrassment, Angela made him wait while she took a cake out of the oven, let it cool and then boxed it up. "Its lemon sponge," said Angela. "A present for your mother. Let me know how she likes it."
Feeling guilty, Hamish took the cake and said his farewells.
Some time later, Olivia opened the door to him. Their "new home" was a bungalow furnished in dreadful taste: fake log fire, velvet three-piece suite, noisy wallpaper, horrible oil paintings of hills and glens, glass coffee table and a giant television set.