by M C Beaton
“That’s one for the book,” said Barry. “Imagine anyone thinking old concrete knickers had been in a blue movie. You have the fair gift o’ the gab, Hamish.”
Hamish found he was about to protest strongly at anyone calling Olivia concrete knickers but decided against it. She was only a pretend wife and he had heard senior male officers dubbed with much ruder names.
“I think we could all do with a drink,” said Kevin. “What’s your poison, Hamish?” He opened the minibar.
“I’ll stick to whisky.”
The two detectives had beer.
“So what’s a bright lad like you doing as a village copper?” asked Barry when they were seated around with their drinks.
Hamish sighed. “I’m sick o’ explaining. I like the job, I like Lochdubh.”
“But where’s the life, the excitement?” asked Kevin.
“I’ve found happiness has got little to do with thrills and spills,” said Hamish patiently.
“Oh, you’ll grow up one day if it’s not too late and get into the real world.”
“And one day you’ll find you’re the children and I’m the grown-up,” said Hamish. “Oh, shut up about it. I’m tired.”
“You must have done a grand job,” said Kevin. “Jimmy White’s the worst of criminals. He’s got brains.”
Hamish took a sip of whisky. “Not as much as he thinks he has and that’s his weakness.”
Olivia came in. She had changed into trousers and a shirt blouse and had scrubbed her face clean of makeup. Her hair was pulled back into a severe knot. Both detectives, who had been lounging in their chairs, straightened up.
“This is what we have decided,” said Olivia briskly. “If we hang around here for a week, we will be followed. They’ll be checking up on us. So tomorrow, we are going to Amsterdam. That is supposed to be your last port of operation outside the U. K., Hamish, so that’s where we’ll go. Someone will contact us while we are there.” She looked at Kevin and Barry. “There will be no need for you to join us. I do not think we will be in any danger until the action starts.”
“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.
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 very 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, just 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.”
