"Get off fast," he ordered. "I don't want you hanging around."

"Yes, sir." Damn, it's a wonder he didn't salute, thought Hamish furiously.

He turned to Jimmy. "There's the first instalment."

"Bring the torch here," Jimmy ordered one of his men. He took a wicked knife out of his pocket and cut open the package and looked down at the cellophane bags.

"Aye, that'll do, Hamish. Now we wait a bit until my man comes back."

"So if you're satisfied," said Hamish, "we can let you have the rest of the stuff in, say, another two days."

"Aye, we'd best make it here. Say Wednesday morning. I'll pick you up same as this evening."

"You know what I'd almost forgotten about," said Hamish when he and Olivia were back in their hotel room. "The person whose death started all this. Tommy Jarret. I've no doubt his parents have been trying to get hold of me. They must have thought I'd forgotten about the whole thing."

"When we catch them, we'll sweat it out of Lachie."

"I think such as Lachie won't talk."

"Anyway, let's get this over with. If you like, I'll get us some time off and we can see if we can find out anything further about the boy's death. I'm going to bed. It's been a long night."

Hamish waited until she had finished using the bathroom and then went in and ran himself a hot bath. He put on his silk pyjamas-courtesy of the police force-and went into the bedroom.

He felt his way in the darkness to his bed. He should be tired, he thought, but he was plagued by a strung-up, restless feeling mixed with an uneasy feeling of apprehension.

"Hamish." Olivia's voice was soft in the darkness.

"Yes?"

"I can't sleep. I'm worried."

"Me, too."

"Hamish?"

"Yes."

"If you come over here, we could worry together."

"Yes, ma'am," said Hamish Macbeth. It was the first time he had obeyed a senior officer's orders with any enthusiasm.

It was a pity that Superintendent Daviot could not tell the difference between duty and grovelling. He rated Blair highly because Blair always praised him. The temptation to boast about the latest success of the operation was too much. He sent for Blair.

"We're doing just fine," said Daviot, rubbing his hands. "Just fine."

"So what's the latest, sir?"

Daviot told him about the success of the first drug delivery. "So all we have to do is hope the second meet goes as well and then we'll have them. And Detective Chief Inspector Chater has done splendidly. When they went to Lachie's and Jimmy White was bragging about his contacts, she taped every word. We could do with someone bright like that here. We haven't got a single woman detective and it's bad for our image."

"I think the success of the whole thing is due to your meticulous planning, sir," said Blair.

"Well, I must say I've had a hand in it. But give credit where it's due, I think we owe a lot to Hamish Macbeth. He's been rotting up in that village of his for too long. Drink?"

"That would be very nice, sir. Just a splash of whisky."

Blair's mind raced. This was awful. Hamish Macbeth transferred to Strathbane was bad enough, but to have a woman of the same rank was worse. Women should stay at home and in the kitchen where they belonged.

"So you were saying," said Blair, taking the glass of whisky handed to him, "that the final operation is at two o'clock on Wednesday morning at the head of Loch Drim?"

"That's it and then we start a massive round-up of all the other villains. Thanks to Chater, we've got all the names."

Blair went back to his desk afterwards and brooded over the problem. He then took out his book of informants, or snouts as they were called, and ran his finger down the list. He picked up the phone. "Callum," he whispered. "Blair here. Meet me down at the Fisherman's Bar at the docks. Can you be there in an hour? There's big money in this for ye."

He listened to the reply and then said, "I'll see you there. Don't let me down."

The Fisherman's Bar dated from the days when there were fishermen and the harbour at Strathbane had been crammed with trawlers. But overfishing and European Union quotas had crippled the fishing industry and the harbour lay deserted apart from a few rusting hulks of boats. The Fisherman's Bar consisted of little more than one small smelly room. Nicotine from millions of cigarettes had stained the once-white walls yellow. There was an ancient jukebox in the corner, still containing a stack of sixties records. No one could quite remember the last time it had worked. A television set over the bar was relaying the latest horse racing from Ayr and Cheltenham. No one ever came to the bar for any good purpose. It was a haunt of small-time villains. Callum, the snout, was one of those dwarf-sized men who still inhabit inner cities. His sparse hair was combed carefully over his bald spot. He had a deeply wrinkled face, no teeth, not even false ones, to lend shape to his sour and wrinkled mouth. He wore glasses and chain-smoked.

His information was usually as small-time as the villains who used the bar-petty theft, people who grew and sold cannabis, the odd ram raid, burglary and some warehouse break-ins. He passed these tidbits on to Blair, who would pay him the occasional tenner for the information.

Blair came in and sat down at the battered table in the corner which Callum had chosen. "I'm surprised you chose this place," said Callum.

"Nobody knows me down here," said Blair.

"Aye but you stink of copper," said Callum, watching a couple of men swallow their drinks quickly and make for the door.

"Okay, we'll take a walk." Callum looked disappointed. He craved a drink but had not ordered anything, expecting Blair to pay for one.

Both men walked out. The day was cold and clear. Mournful seagulls swooped overhead. Plastic cups, condoms, burger wrappers and other detritus bobbed on the filthy water.

"So what brings you?" asked Callum.

"This is big money," said Blair.

"How big?"

"Very big. I'm giving you information to sell."

Callum's heart beat hard as he went into the noise of Lachie's disco that night. How much should he ask for such information? A thousand?

He went up to the bar. The bartender eyed him with disfavour. "What d'ye want, old man?"

"Not so much o' the old man, laddie," said Callum. "I'm here to see Lachie."

"Oh, aye? And what's your business?"

"I've got information for him."

"Awa' wi' ye. He's busy."

"Okay, tell him I'll see him in prison." Callum had shouted the last words to be heard above the disco beat. "Wait here," said the bartender.

Callum turned round and watched the gyrating couples. How could folks get enjoyment out of dancing like that? The stabbing strobes hurt his eyes and the music hurt his ears. No damn tune, either.

The bartender came back. "Come with me."

He led Callum through to Lachie's office.

Lachie was alone. Callum threw a longing glance at the bar in the corner.

Lachie was sitting behind his desk. He did not ask Callum to sit down.

"So what's this information?" he asked.

"I'm not saying anything until I see Jimmy White and get paid for it."

Lachie leaned forward. "I don't know anything about anyone called Jimmy White. Get out o' here."

"He's caught in the middle o' a police scam," said Callum sulkily.

Lachie looked at him long and hard, and then he smiled. "Have a seat. What's your name?"

"Callum."

"Callum what?"