"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.