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  people I mean, there are plenty of them in their late seventies or into their

  eighties, playing every day and looking ten, sometimes fifteen years younger

  jthan they really are. Imagine if one of them suddenly withdrew from the

  world for no obvious reason, and degenerated physically over a period of

  weeks to the point of pouring himself a scalding bath by mistake and dying

  in it.

  'You can't, can you?'

  'Only with difficulty,' Bob admitted.

  'Well, from what you've told me and from what I've read, that seems to

  be what happened here. Dr McCallum reports some degeneration of vital

  organs, but she was able to record that they were all in excellent condition.

  Analysis of the liver showed that Mr McConnell had never been an excessive

  drinker, his kidneys were almost donor class, the alimentary system was

  clear.

  'The muscles, particularly those of the arms and legs, appeared to be

  wasted, but there was sufficient bulk to indicate that this process had begun

  recently.

  'There was clear evidence of cardiac seizure, but this is consistent with

  my supposition that the old man might have been immersed in a scalding

  bath. It might have rendered him unconscious, but it didn't kill him. He

  drowned all right.'

  'So are you saying that Mackenzie should scale down his investigation,

  even though the whole thing screams "Suspicious death" at both of us?'

  She smiled at him. One of those specials which, as he knew so well,

  always preceded a metaphorical rabbit appearing from an imaginary top

  hat.

  'I would, save for one thing. Analysis showed bloodstream traces of

  temazepam - significant traces, I'd say, given the man's age and rapidly

  deteriorating physical condition. You told me earlier that Mr McConnell

  hadn't been under any form of medical supervision or treatment.'

  'That's Mackenzie's information.'

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  'Okay. He'd better check with his GP and with the local pharmacies, to

  find out who prescribed or dispensed such a strong sedative, and why. And

  here's something the clever lad's missed. He should also ask Dr McCallum

  to repeat her analysis of the stomach contents, because she reports no

  temazepam residue there.

  'However, she has a reputation for being very efficient, so I'm sure a

  second check will come up with the same result.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Meaning that the drug was injected. You can forget examining the body

  for puncture marks; they'll be long gone. But there can be no other

  conclusion. I take it that no hypodermic syringe was found in the house.'

  He took her meaning at once, and gave a soft whistle. 'There's no mention

  of that in the papers I've read. It wouldn't have been left out either; it

  would have hit Mackenzie right between the eyes.'

  'In that case, even though it'll still be damn near impossible to prove

  homicide at the end of the day, the inspector's investigation is still up and

  running.

  'However, what he should be looking at first and foremost is the

  possibility that this old man was a temazepam junkie, and that someone. . .

  maybe Ruth's lookalike ... was feeding his habit.'

  Skinner's scowl was thunderous. 'And stripping his assets in the process.

  In which case it's a good bet that when they'd bled him dry of cash, they

  simply killed the poor old sod.'

  'Honest to God,' Sammy Pye murmured. 'Women are unpredictable

  creatures; and you more so than any other I've ever met. Yesterday this

  Mackenzie had horns and a tail. Today he's not such a bad bloke.'

  She laughed softly; it sounded in his ear like the tinkling of a small bell.

  'That's the power of Bob Skinner. I don't know what the boss said to him,

  but it had a dramatic effect. He couldn't have been more considerate, really.'

  'What about that torn-faced witch of a sergeant of his? Was she there?'

  'No. He said she was out pounding pavements. You're being too hard on

  her; she might have looked severe, but she was taking her lead from

  Mackenzie. All she did in the interview room, more or less, was nod her

  head when he expected it.'

  'So what did you find in your uncle's house?'

  'Nothing. Somehow or other, he's managed to dispose of all of his assets,

  save the house itself. On what, God alone knows.'

  'Is Mackenzie still convinced that he was murdered?'

  'Yes. And so is Mr Skinner. He's taking a personal interest in the

  investigation; on my behalf, I suppose.'

  That's nice of him.'

  'Ah, but I think it's professional too. He's fascinated by it, I think. His

  nose has started twitching. When he starts to follow it, anything can happen.'

  'Wait till he gets a whiff of Dan Pringle's first big case down in the

  Borders. That should stir his imagination.'

  'Why? What does that involve?'

  'A couple of ton of farmed trout; missing, presumed dead.'

  She beamed as she made a connection. 'So that's what Mackenzie meant

  yesterday. At the start of the interview he made some crack about fish

  rustling. At the time I thought he was loopy.'

  'No, he'd know about it all right. Dan's got an All Points Bulletin out on

  those trout.'

  She laid a hand on his chest, smiling sadly as she leaned across and

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  kissed him. 'The lives we lead, Sammy, eh.'

  He combed his fingers through her long hair, running their tips lightly

  down her naked back, drawing a gasp from her.

  'Well, Sergeant,' she whispered. 'You've got me into bed again. What

  do we do now?'

  'Let me show you.' He breathed the words in her ear as he eased her on

  to her back. They kissed, long and slow. She felt for him, down beneath the

  duvet, but he moved downwards out of her reach, licking her nipples lightly,

  left, right, left again.

  'Hello ladies,' he murmured, then slid further down her body. She cried

  out, a soft scream, as she felt his tongue again. 'God, Sammy,' she moaned.

  'If I ever tell you to stop that, ignore me, please.'

  She thrust her pelvis upwards, opening herself to his touch, writhing

  with it, until he slid back upwards and she could grasp him, big and rock

  hard, and guide him towards her, towards where she wanted him. She called

  out again, louder than before, as he entered her, bucking and heaving beneath

  him, surprising him with her strength, exultant as he matched her.

  They were still breathing hard, lying there entwined, glowing with sweat

  and satisfaction, when the phone rang out, beside the bed. They looked at

  each other and laughed in unison.

  'Let it ring,' he said.

  'No, better answer it.'

  He reached across her and picked up the instrument. 'Yes?' he began,

  still smiling, his tongue working to free a hair which had become trapped

  between his front teeth.

  'Sure, sir,' he continued at last, forcing himself to speak evenly. 'She's

  right next to me.' Ruth's eyes widened as he passed her the telephone. 'It's

  Mr Skinner. He's got some news for you.'

  'Have we got any other crime on this patch apart from vanishing bloody

/>   trout?' Dan Pringle asked Detective Sergeant Jack McGurk.

  'A farmer down Hawick way shot a dog that was worrying his sheep,

  sir,' his tall assistant replied. 'But other than that, that's it.'

  'Shooting a dog's not a crime to a farmer.'

  'I was talking about sheep-worrying, boss.'

  The superintendent drew him a long look, and a half smile. 'You know,

  son, there's times I wish I'd left you in Edinburgh.'

  'We've only been here for a week and a half, sir, but there's times when

  I wish you had too.'

  'Listen,' said Pringle. 'When Big Bob and Andy Martin posted me down

  here, they said I could take my ten favourite records, one book, and a familiar

  object. The last one's you; end of story.' He laughed at the young sergeant's

  mock outrage. 'Ach, don't worry, Jack. There'll be plenty to do down here.

  Up in the city, it was as if crime came to you; busy all the time. It's different

  here, with different styles of crime and maybe of criminal, but the basics

  are the same.

  'Our good colleagues laugh at the notion offish rustling, but it's theft of

  property nonetheless. It's just as serious as a wages snatch, or a jewel

  robbery, or a housebreaking.

  'Anyway, if there's one thing I've learned in the two centuries in which

  I've been a detective officer, it's never to complain when things are quiet,

  because sooner or later, they won't be. Don't you forget that the thing which

  drove John McGrigor to early retirement was the murder of his best friend

  in an armed robbery, right in the middle of this patch.'

  McGurk winced. 'I suppose you're right, boss,' he conceded. 'Anyway,

  the fish are keeping us busy, up to a point, even if the chances are they're

  long gone from our patch. All the out-stations have finished the rounds of

  fish farms in their areas . . . and there's more of them than you'd imagine.

  Some are just cottage industries, but there are a few as big as Mellerkirk.'

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  'What sort of fish do they farm?'

  'Trout, boss, all of them. They're the only sort you can farm around

  here.'

  'What about salmon?'

  'No,' said the sergeant, with a shake of his head. 'Salmon are farmed in

  salt water, in the West Coast sea lochs mostly, and in the fjords in Norway.

  There are hatcheries on shore, but they're all close to the farm sites.'

  'You seem to know a bit about this, Jack,' the superintendent remarked.

  'I've done a bit of research, sir. Bill Gates at Mellerkirk was a big help.'

  'So is there money in this fish farming, then?'

  'Oh yes boss, there's money in it all right. But it's high-risk too. If you're

  a salmon farmer, once you've put your smolts into the cages...' He caught

  Pringle's puzzlement. 'Smolts are young fish, raised in the hatcheries.

  'Once you've put them to sea, you have to feed them, treat them, and

  medicate them for two years before you can harvest them. It's high-cost,

  long-term husbandry, and it calls for patience from everyone, not least the

  industry's bankers. During that two-year rearing period there's lots of things

  can go wrong. The stock can become infested with sea-lice, so they have to

  be constantly treated. They're subject to disease, so they have to be given

  antibiotics. They're prey to things like red algae bloom, that will kill all the

  fish on a farm site if it flows through it. On top of that, there are the grey

  seals, tens of thousands of the buggers, that can sometimes swim up to a

  pen and take a bite out of a fish right through the net.

  'When salmon farming started, there were lots of small operations, but

  the costs and the risks resulted in it consolidating to the point where now

  there are a few big producers and that's it.'

  He paused. Trout farming's different; a much more attractive proposition

  as a small business. Less risky all round. You can do it on land, in sheltered

  sites. Other than a few otters, and man, of course, there are no natural

  predators. You can harvest your stock much quicker, and sell it more easily.

  Some small farmers sell at the roadside more or less; the punters walk in,

  pick a fish and they just whip it out with a net and hit it on the head.

  The bigger boys, like Mellerkirk, are more sophisticated. They go for

  volume production and sell to specialist fish shops, supermarkets, or

  processors.'

  'And how many of the bigger boys have we got on our patch?'

  Three,' replied the big sergeant. 'One in Berwickshire, one just outside

  Jedburgh, and one in Langholm.'

  'What's their security like?'

  'The Langholm one's good, but the other two are crap. Like Sir Adrian

  Watson, they had advice from Mr McGrigor, but they felt that, with a

  manager on site, they didn't need to spend that amount of money. The truth

  is, sir, in trout farming it's cheaper just to insure against stock loss.

  'I must have a word with the insurers' association,' said Pringle, 'or ask

  Big Bob if he'll do it. They need to change that situation.

  'Meantime, you'd better talk to the managers. Don't scare them, but

  warn them to sleep with the light on this weekend. D'you know anything

  about them?'

  'According to Gates, they're both young, single people like him; that

  seems to be the type you find in that job. One's a woman.'

  'Jeez,' the superintendent muttered. 'Security! I don't suppose they ever

  go to the pub of an evening, or anything like that. . .

  'You got the names and addresses of the owners of those two farms?

  John McGrigor's rugby club network approach doesn't seem to have worked

  with these people. Let's see if a touch of Pringle diplomacy does any better.'

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  Never having met Sarah Skinner, Bandit Mackenzie found Dr Helga

  McCallum a break from the normal run of forensic pathologists. She was

  tiny, no more than five feet tall, ash blonde, and with facial features that

  made him think of a delicate china doll. She looked as if she was in her

  early twenties, although the policeman knew from the job she did that she

  was probably at least ten years older.

  For a minute or so he felt himself falling in love, until he fought it off by

  imagining her at work, standing on tip-toe and up to her elbows in innards.

  Tm sorry to have brought you here, Inspector,' she said in a slow

  Glasgow drawl, looking round the mortuary. 'You've taught me a

  professional lesson. I thought it was bloody obvious that if there were no

  stomach traces of a drug, then it was introduced by other means; either up

  the bum, or by injection.

  'Obviously, I have been guilty of not spelling everything out in my report.

  It hasn't been necessary with the officers I've worked with up to now.

  'Henceforth,' There was a cutting edge to her voice, 'every "t" will be

  crossed, and every bloody "i" dotted.'

  Mackenzie slipped immediately into mollifying mode. 'My fault, Doctor,

  not yours. The report was quite clear; I just misread it.

  'I'm sorry to have to ask you to repeat your analysis of the stomach

  contents, but their absence has become a crucial factor in my chain of

  evidence. And since you might wind up in the witness box, it's
in your