'Well, well,' Malone said, getting a sneer into his voice, 'finding it tough in Civvy Street, are we, Frank?' Face stiff, black eyes sweeping coldly from Dillon to take in the others. 'Any aggro from any of you and you're on your way, understand?'

'Malone? Can I have a word?'

The estate manager, John Griffiths, appeared at the office door and beckoned him over. A tall, slender, fair-haired man with a beaked nose and receding chin, he had public school written all over him, and sounded it too, a drawling, negligent tone as if all the world was at his beck and call, which of course it was. Jodhpurs tucked into green Wellington boots, thick polo-neck sweater, heavily darned, with leather patches on the sleeves, he was fashionably scruffy in the approved upper-class manner, and played the part to perfection.

'You think they'll be enough? Sure they can handle it?' asked Griffiths, nodding to the group clustered round the jeep.

'The dark-haired guy's an ex-sergeant, explosives expert,' Malone said, indicating Dillon. 'We were in the same Regiment. The other four are good, steady soldiers.'

'Yes, well, this isn't exactly a war, Malone,' Griffiths retorted, a trifle testily.

Malone grinned at him insolently, not bothering to hide his distaste. He turned his head to look at Dillon, muttering under his breath, 'Wanna bet?'

Griffiths took Dillon and the others on a tour of the estate, pointing out the lie of the land, and where he felt they were most vulnerable to the poaching gangs. The scenery was breathtaking, but after seeing Malone Dillon wasn't in the mood to have his breath taken. Had he known the score, he wouldn't have accepted the job in the first place. He sat beside Griffiths in an open-topped Land Rover, the rest following on in the jeep, and tried to show polite interest, though his heart wasn't in it.

'Malone tells me you were in the same Regiment.'

'Yes, sir.' Dillon stared straight ahead. 'Then he quit, went over to the RMPs.'

'Explosives expert I believe,' Griffiths said, getting a nod and nothing more. 'How long have you been out of the Army?'

'Couple of months, sir. Eighteen years' service, sir.'

Griffiths pulled over suddenly and produced his field glasses, aiming them towards a rocky crag about five hundred yards away. 'There he is, see him?'

Dillon took the field glasses and found himself gazing at the proud, uplifted head of a magnificent stag with a huge spread of antlers. The animal surveyed the glens and lochs below, his world, his kingdom.

'He's the one with the price on his head, sir?' Dillon said, handing the glasses back.

Griffiths pursed his lips. 'Word certainly travels fast… some bloody taxidermist in Edinburgh,' he muttered darkly. 'He's very rare, and with antlers that size, a fair trophy. But he's worth a lot more than five thousand for stud.'

They drove on, Dillon glancing back. Five grand standing up there on the hill. He stroked his moustache, frowning thoughtfully.

Next stop on the itinerary was the main event, and it was clear from the boyish enthusiasm in Griffiths ' voice that the salmon tanks were his pride and joy. Enclosed in a compound of chain-link fencing topped with razor-wire, the three huge steel tanks, lined with polythene sheeting, were teeming with full-grown salmon, silver bodies flashing and tumbling in their thousands. To Dillon and the others the sight was mesmerising, almost hypnotic. They stood on a wooden gangway while Griffiths gave them the low-down.

'These are the big 'uns, the ones the poachers go for. We lost the entire stock last year, more than fifty thousand pounds' worth.' Griffiths shook his head. 'Can't afford to lose out this year.'

'How did they do it?' Dillon was curious to know.

'Very simply – Hoover them up! They move fast, and with that machine it doesn't take long…'

Cliff's jaw dropped. 'Did he say Hoover ?'

'You have any guard dogs?' Dillon asked, looking around.

'They were shot with a.22 rifle in '89. Bastards used Cymas that year; they also took the stock from the other tanks, so we were wiped out… fish and financially,' he added gloomily.

Dillon jumped down and Griffiths followed him over to the edge of the compound, the two of them looking out at the banks of heather stretching away to the stony ridge. Casting his military eye over it, Dillon was less than happy. 'You're wide open,' he said, rubbing his chin.

Griffiths spread his hands. 'To electrify the fences would be astronomical…'

Don Walker strolled up and offered an opinion. 'The one plus – if you can call it a plus – is that these men are professionals and dealing in bulk, so they need big trucks, not only to take the fish away, but to freeze it.'

'I think Malone's right,' Griffiths said. 'Best protection has to be manpower. That's why I got you chaps up here.'

Spoken like an officer, Dillon thought, which was what Griffiths was, in effect, certainly of the officer class.

The estate manager went off somewhere. Don had his field glasses out, checking the terrain. The other lads were messing about, joking and laughing, and Don waved them over, obviously excited about something.

'There he is, see him?' Don handed the glasses to Jimmy, pointing, chuffed as a schoolboy. 'Just on that ridge!'

'Oh yesssss…' The word hissed through Jimmy's grinning mouth. 'A fair set of coat hangers.'

Dillon said, 'Where's the nearest Para base to here, Jimmy?'

Jimmy turned to Dillon with a sly wink.

'This taxidermist on the level, is he? We heard last night he's got three grand on his head.'

Don grabbed the glasses off him. 'You touch him and I'll mount your fucking' head,' he promised, and stumped off.

'Nature boy's a bit touchy about the hatstand, isn't he?' Jimmy shrugged, raising an eyebrow.

Dillon said, 'Let's get the security sorted first.' He gave Jimmy a deadpan stare. 'And it's not three, it's five grand.'

'Five?' Jimmy looked towards the ridge and quickly back at Dillon. 'Thousand? Five?'

They both turned to contemplate the ridge for a moment, and then each other. A low growl of laughter came up from Jimmy's chest and he punched Dillon on the shoulder.

Steve Harris was having one of his filter problems. Leaning against the jeep, face puce, coughing and spluttering, thumping himself. Dillon went over as he was getting his breath back.

'All right, mate?' Steve nodded, sweat glistening on his brow. Dillon fished out a list and gave it to him. 'Okay, I want you to go into the village, get some stores.'

Dillon had intended to hand over the list to Griffiths, but seeing Steve in trouble he decided he would get him out of the way. 'Get yourself rested up, check your filter, okay mate?… Steve?'

Steve nodded. At that moment Jimmy walked past, he gave Steve an icy stare. 'Ruddy liability, I told you not to bring him!'

Dillon glared at Jimmy, then patted Steve's shoulder. 'Pay no attention.'

Steve stuffed the list into his top pocket, and climbed back into the jeep. His breath rattled, a hoarse sound in his chest and he couldn't look at Dillon, knowing he was already making excuses for him. He hated it. He started the engine, released the handbrake.

'Take your time, get back when you're done…'

Steve nodded, the errand boy, the waster, the liability. He looked back at Dillon, but he was already walking away, so Steve headed into the village. The simple errand of getting the stores, the packs of beer, the food for the camp was an effort. He had to write everything down and pass the note to the shop owners, and, already feeling depressed, he became worse. He needed a drink, needed something, anything, to give him the confidence to face them.

Hearing the jeep crunching over the gravel, Sissy MacFarland nipped out from behind the reception desk and skipped through the doors and down the steps.