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 Hamish George-I believe that's the name you were using at the church."

"How did you know that?"

"We have our methods, Watson."

"I'll need to know your first name. I cannae call you ma'am the whole time."

"It's Olivia."

Hamish smiled. "A pretty name."

"Don't get any ideas, Constable, and remember at all times when we are not on the job that I am your superior officer."

"Yes, ma'am," said Hamish meekly,

"You may as well start calling me Olivia and get into the act. Here's our food."

Hamish picked away at a truly dreadful plate of fish and chips while Olivia sawed her way through a tough steak.

"Tell me, ma'am," he said. "I mean Olivia, are you going to be dressed like that?"

"No, I shall look the part. What about you?"

"I've got a good suit," said Hamish proudly, who had bought a Savile Row one in a thrift shop.

"We'll lend you some accessories. A gold Rolex, few bits like that."

"I'll go home this evening and get my suit."

"That's the last time you'll go near that police station of yours until this is all over. What will you tell them at the church?"

"I don't need to tell them anything," said Hamish with a grin. He told her about the loan sharking.

"Good. We'll pull them in today and keep them in. No bail for them." She took out a notebook and wrote in it and tore off a leaf. "That's our address. Be there at seven this evening. I'll go and tell headquarters about the church. Get back there and pack up your stuff. If they're around, pick a quarrel with them and walk out."

"Want coffee?" asked Hamish.

"No, I'll be off. See you later."

Olivia made her way briskly out of the restaurant. It was then that Hamish realised he did not have enough money on him to pay the bill and that he had left his chequebook and bank cards back in Lochdubh, not wanting to take them to the church in case the Owens searched his belongings.

The dining room was empty apart from four other diners. Hamish's waitress appeared to be the only one on duty. She was standing looking out of the window.

"Here, you!" called Hamish rudely. "What about bringing some coffee?"

She threw him an outraged look and stalked off into the kitchen.

Hamish slid out of his seat and was out of the restaurant and out of the hotel door as fast as he could.

He could not afford a cab and so had to walk all the way back to the church. To his relief, there was no sign of the Owens.

He packed up his few belongings and put them into Sean's old car and drove off.

He stopped at Sean's to pick up the police Land Rover and tried to persuade the old man to give him a refund because he hadn't had the car all week.

"Away with ye," said Sean. "That's a valuable car and twenty-five pounds was a damn cheap price for a week's rental. I should've charged you more."

Hamish had a fleeting, treacherous thought that maybe he should have taken Tommy's parents' money. He drove back to the police station.

Lochdubh lay spread out under a sunny, breezy sky. Wind whipped up the sea loch into waves. Washing on lines flapped gaily like flags welcoming him home. He felt he had been away for years instead of a matter of hours. Inside him, he felt a little twinge of dread. What if he could not pull it off? What if his cover was blown? What if it came to the crunch and he was asked for the money? He could not envisage Strathbane police headquarters handing over fifty thousand pounds.