"Dillon was wonderful," she said. "Drove like Nigel Mansell going down the hill. I really thought we'd had it."

"My God!" He gave her a squeeze. "How can I thank you, Dillon?"

"Self-preservation," Dillon told him. "I always struggle to survive, Mr. Morgan."

Asta said, "I'll go in, Carl. I think I'll go to bed."

She went inside and Morgan turned as Dillon got in the Range Rover. "Thanks again. Will you be at the fair tomorrow?"

"I should imagine so."

"Good, we'll see you then." He went in and closed the door.

"And I'll see you, you bastard," Dillon said as he drove away.

ELEVEN

The following day was a local holiday, Ardmurchan Village awash with people from the surrounding district and others who had driven many miles to see the fair and take part in the games. And there were the tinkers and the gypsies with their ponies and horses to trade. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah arrived just before lunch, parked the Range Rover at the church, and walked down to the Campbell Arms.

"A little bracer, I think, then all the fun of the fair," Ferguson said.

"Ten minutes short of noon, Brigadier," Hannah reminded him. "That counts as morning drinking."

"If the booze was going to get me, Chief Inspector, it would have done so long ago, the Korean War to be exact as a twenty-year-old subaltern. I sat in a trench in the snow, twenty degrees below, with the Chinese attacking ten thousand at a time. Only the rum kept me going."

He pushed open the door and led the way in. The saloon bar was packed, nowhere to sit, but he shouldered his way through cheerfully to the bar where Molly worked feverishly with four local women to aid her.

"Guinness," Ferguson called, "three." He turned to Hannah. "Extremely nourishing."

Molly served them herself. "Were you hoping to eat, Brigadier?"

"It's an idea," he said.

"Nothing fancy today, just hot Cornish pasties."

"A unique thought as we're in Scotland, but why not? We'll have one each."

"Right. There's someone moving from the settle by the fire right now. You sit yourselves down and I'll bring them."

She was right, three men getting up at that moment and moving off, and Ferguson pushed through the crowd to secure the places. He sat down and rubbed his hands. "Nothing like a day out in the country."

"Shouldn't we have more important things to do, sir?" Hannah asked.

"Nonsense, Chief Inspector, everyone needs a break now and then."

Molly brought the Guinness and the three pasties, which were enormous. "If that isn't enough for you there's the refreshment tent," she said as Ferguson paid her. "Up at the fair."

"We'll bear it in mind, my dear."

Ferguson sampled his drink and then tried the pasty. "My goodness, this is good."

Hannah said, "All right, sir, but what happens now?"

"What would you like to happen?" Dillon asked her.

"I don't know. In fact, all I do know is that Morgan took care of Fergus rather permanently and then tried to kill the lot of us last night. I'd say that amounts to open warfare."

"Yes, but now we've got Asta on our side," Ferguson told her, and at that moment Asta came in followed by Morgan and Marco.

She saw them at once and came straight over. She was wearing the bonnet she had worn when deer stalking and the plaid skirt, and there wasn't a man in the room who didn't look her way.

She smiled. "There you are."

Dillon stood up to let her sit. "You're looking particularly fragrant this morning."

"Well that's how I feel. Fighting fit, Dillon. It seems to me that's the way I need to be."

Behind her Morgan spoke to Marco, who went to the bar, and Morgan crossed to join them. "How are you? Asta was describing what happened last night. That's terrible."

"Exciting to say the least," Ferguson told him, "but the boy here kept his head and drove like Stirling Moss in his prime." He smiled. "A long time ago, but still the only British racing driver worth his salt, as far as I'm concerned."

Marco brought two lagers, gave one to Morgan and the other to Asta, and retired to the door. Asta said, "All the fun of the fair. I'm looking forward to it."

The door opened again and Hector Munro entered with Rory. On seeing them by the fire he paused and put a finger to his forehead. "Ladies," he said courteously and started to the bar.

"No sign of that son of yours, I suppose," Morgan said.

"Ah, well Fergus is away to see relatives, Mr. Morgan," Hector told him. "I doubt he'll be back for a while."

He moved off to the bar and Ferguson finished his drink. "Right, let's get moving." He stood up. "See you later, Morgan," and he led the way out.

There was a refreshment tent, two or three roundabouts for children, and a primitive boxing ring, which for the moment was empty. The main event taking place when they arrived was the horse sale and they stood on the edge of the crowd and watched the gypsy boys running up and down, clutching the horses' bridles as they showed their paces. Dillon noticed Hector Munro and Rory at one point, inspecting a couple of ponies.

He strolled over, lighting a cigarette, and said in Irish, "Dog meat only, those two."

"Do I need telling?" Hector replied in Gaelic.

Rory grinned. "Expert are you?"

"I spent enough time on my uncle's farm in County Down as a boy to know rubbish when I see it."

Dillon smiled amiably and returned to the others. "Games just starting," Ferguson said. "Come on."

There were fifty-yard dashes and sack races for the younger children, but the adult sports were more interesting. Large men tossed the caber, an object resembling a telegraph pole. There was hammer throwing and the long jump, even Scottish reels danced to the skirl of the bagpipes.

Morgan and Asta, Marco behind them, appeared on the other side of the crowd. She saw Dillon and waved. He waved back and then turned to watch as the wrestling began. Brawny men in kilts with thighs like tree trunks grappled with the power and striking force of sumo wrestlers, the crowd urging them on.

"Rather jolly all this." Ferguson produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the top and took a swallow. "Just like Samson. Didn't he smite the Philistines hip and thigh, Chief Inspector?"

"I believe he did, sir, but frankly, it isn't my cup of tea."

"No, I don't suppose it would be."

And then the crowd moved away toward the boxing ring, carrying them with it. Dillon said, "Now this looks more like it."

"What is it?" Hannah demanded.

"Old style prize fighting, I'd say. Let's see what happens."

A middle-aged man in boxing boots and shorts slipped under the ropes into the ring. He had the flattened nose of the professional fighter, scar tissue around his eyes. On the back of his old nylon robe was the legend "Tiger Grant."

"By God, he's seen a few fights," Ferguson said.

"A hard one," Dillon nodded in agreement.

At that moment Asta joined them, Marco forcing a way through for her and Morgan. The Sicilian looked up at Tiger Grant, his expression enigmatic.

Dillon said, "From the look of his face, Marco here has done a bit himself."

"Light heavyweight champion of Sicily in his day," Morgan said. "Twenty-two fights."

"How many did he win?"

"All of them. Three decisions on points, twelve knockouts, seven where the referee stopped the fight."

"Is that a fact?" Dillon said. "I must remember to avoid him on a dark night."

Marco turned to look at him, something in his eyes, but at that moment a small man in tweed suit and cap climbed through the ropes clutching a pair of boxing gloves and turned, waving for silence.

"Now there must be a few sporting gentlemen here, so I'll give you a chance of some real money." He took a wad of bank notes from his inside pocket. "Fifty pounds, my friends, to any man who can last three rounds with Tiger Grant. Fifty pounds."