by M C Beaton
"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 co
ver. 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 n
ot 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."
