"Show a bit of respect," snapped Olivia. "What do we do for a week?"

"We wait," said Hamish. "Lounge about. Spend the state's money."

"Won't do. They'll be watching us and they'll probably search the hotel room. Wait a minute. I've a phone call to make."

She picked up the mobile and went into the bedroom.

"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.

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 verra kind of you," said Hamish with a charming smile.