"Do we drive there?" asked Hamish.
"No, we leave the car at Inverness Airport, fly down to London and catch a plane from there. They will send round our tickets and money in the morning."
"I hope nobody around at police headquarters is gossiping," said Hamish anxiously.
"Only a few of the top brass are in the know," said Olivia. "Surely you trust your senior officers, Hamish."
The answer to that one was no, not at all. But Hamish did not think it would be politic to say so.
"So the jammy bastard's got hisself a trip tae Amsterdam," growled Blair over a glass of whisky as he looked across the barroom table at Jimmy Anderson.
"Aye, and he's pretending to be husband to that chief inspector from Glasgow and she's a looker by all accounts."
Jealousy like bile rose up in Blair's throat. If only he could get rid of Hamish Macbeth for once and for all.
CHAPTER SIX
'Twas for the good of my country that I should, be
abroad-Anything for the good of one's country.
– George Farquhar
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.