be a marvellous coup. Jimmy Anderson sourly said they should put the whole matter before Chief Superintendent Daviot. Hamish endured another gruelling session and then was told to go back to the church and maintain his cover until they got in touch with him. Until then, he was not to be seen at police headquarters again.
'Where the hell have you been?' demanded Barry when Hamish arrived looking haggard and unshaven.
'I talked most of the night with that fellow. He wass most helpful.'
'I'm docking the time from your wages,' said Barry. 'Get to it. Any more days off and you're finished here.'
Tired as he was, Hamish was glad of the work to take his mind off his troubles. He had gone to see Bob and Angus with no clear idea of what to say. Whatever had possessed him not only to tell that monstrous lie, but to say that he could come up with fifty thousand pounds?
He worked until just before the evening service was due to take place and put away his paint pots and soaked his brushes and then got in Sean's old car and drove to Lochdubh. After he had soaked in a hot bath and changed his clothes, he began to feel better. He had not been fired. As he had pointed out, he was doing the investigation in his own free time. They could either go ahead with it or tell him to stop being a maverick and never, ever do anything like that again without consulting his superiors.
There was a knock at the door. It was Angela, the doctor's wife. 'Your sheep are all right and your hens are fed and locked up for the night.'
'Thank you,' said Hamish. 'Come in.'
'I can't. I'm rushing. You look awful. Been out on the town?'
'Aye, you could say that,' said Hamish.
After he had said goodbye to her, he locked up the police station and drove off towards Strathbane. It was a cold, crisp night and great stars blazed overhead. He drove steadily until he saw the orange blot on the sky which meant he was approaching Strathbane.
He parked outside the church and walked around the back to the kitchen door. There were lights on in the kitchen. He stopped and then went forward softly and put his ear to the kitchen door.
Barry's voice sounded sharp and clear. 'Betty Jones hasn't paid up. She's in arrears.'
'Then take her pension book,' came his wife's voice.
'She won't give it up.'
'Threatened her with the wrath of God, did you?' sneered his wife.
'Didn't have the slightest effect. She says she can't pay.'
'We need some muscle on this. Trust you to employ a halfwit.'
'I wanted the church painted,' said Barry peevishly. 'We employ muscle, we'll have to pay for it.'
Hamish drew softly away from the door. So the Owens were loan sharks, using the church as a front. Lend money at high interest and if they didn't pay, take their pension book or dole payment book. He was about to retreat and go back to police headquarters and report what he had heard. But he had been told to stay at his job at the church until he was contacted.
He went back to the car, let in the brake and cruised down the hill a little without switching on the engine. Then he switched it on and turned and drove back up to the church, revving the engine before he stopped and this time getting out and slamming the door loudly. Then he walked up to the kitchen door, whistling loudly, and opened it.
The Owens were sitting there over cups of coffee. Mrs. Owen had a large bag at her feet which she zipped shut when Hamish walked in. No doubt where she had shoved the books, thought Hamish.
'Come in, lad, and the Lord be with you,' said Barry unctuously. 'We were just leaving.'
Hamish tried to look as vacant-eyed as possible until they had gone, for Dominica kept throwing him nasty little looks.
At least he had something on them. How horrible they were! Now all he had to do was wait until headquarters managed to get in touch with him.
He was working busily on Wednesday, wondering all the while if the powers that be had decided to let the whole thing drop. It was a blustery, windy day and he had left the church door standing open to dry the paint. He had reached ground level of one of the walls and was bending down to fill in a bit he had missed when his sixth sense told him he was being watched.
He straightened up slowly and turned round. A woman of about his own age, thirty-something, stood there. She had thick black hair tied at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon. She was wearing a tailored suit and flat shoes. She had an oval face, large brown eyes and a generous mouth.
'What can I do for you?' asked Hamish.
The woman looked around. 'Can we get out of here for a bit? We need to talk somewhere private.'
Hamish glanced at his watch. 'It's just about lunch-time.'
'Then we'll have lunch.'
They walked a good bit away from the church before she stopped by a small car. 'Get in,' she said, 'and we'll go into the centre of town.'
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
