AN: Thank you as always to reviewers who weren't signed in. Thanks too, to Hummingbird2 for a great American expression I wasn't aware of, and permission to use it.

Struther's van has a standard transmission gearbox, as do the majority of British vehicles, the noise they make when the shift is being mistreated – think Ducky's poor Morgan with Gerald at the wheel in 'Kill Ari'. It's even worse with a van.

Slainthe Mhath

Chapter 3

"Who?" Tim asked, jogging up. Tony and Ronnie both looked at what the younger man was carrying.

"Man who sells gut-rot booze to under-age Americans," DiNozzo told him, and pointed.

If it was possible for a vehicle to act in a guilty manner, the nondescript grey Ford Transit that was edging its way into the parking area was doing just that. Clearly, the driver could not see the parked police unit, hidden as it was by the refreshments van, but Tony could see him looking across at the three schooners out on Loch Ness. He was frowning, and the agent shook his head. Did the guy expect the kids to all be running round loose, just queuing up to buy his bogus hooch, after a death among them?

Well, this Tom Struther was certainly of interest, and Tony wasn't going to miss the chance. With a nod of thanks to Ronnie McHarg for the tip off, he set out across the grass. Tim smiled a greeting to the Scot and set off after him. Unfortunately, Struther noticed both them and the police cruiser at the same time. He brought his van to a shuddering halt, paddled about looking for reverse with a tortuous grinding of gears, and tried to turn round and make a run for it.

Oh no you don't... nearer to the road the young man who'd been talking to Tim was lifting his daughter into her car seat; a panicking petty crook trying to flee was a threat to them and anyone else. The agents broke into a run, angling to get to the driver's door before the van finished its lurching reverse.

"Tony, wait!"

"Wait, McGee?" he threw over his shoulder.

"You're still on desk duty... your arm..."

"You see any desks?" Tony had his hands on the cab door when the van jerked forwards again, and he was pulled off his feet to land on his hands and knees with a yelped "Sheee-hoot!"

"I told you..."

"Never mind that... just run faster, McRabbit..."

O-kay, Tony... Tim lengthened his stride as the police cruiser, being manoeuvred in the small space much more adeptly than the van, drove between it and the entrance. The Ford stopped suddenly, with a fearful jangling of glass from inside, the door opened and Struther took off like a weasel with a Jack Russell behind it.

Tim was not in small terrier mode just then. He'd never forgotten the day, years ago now, when Tony had made him relinquish hold of a key, in the trunk of a booby-trapped car, and told him and Kate to run. The chubby probie he'd been had obeyed orders, and had wished he could move faster, and from that day on had quietly made sure that in future, he could. Today he was a Greyhound... Before the two constables were out of their car to help, and way before the SFA trotted up, his left wrist jammed firmly under his right arm but grinning hugely, he had his quarry face down in the grass, and was snapping on the handcuffs.

Struther was squirming and yelling, despite Tim's polite advice that he should just calm down; the only word the agent could make out in the whole tirade was 'yank'. Oh yeah, preceded by one fairly universal one. He had a sudden picture in his mind of how Ziva would have dealt with the situation, and thought 'No...'. As Tony arrived, with two policemen and Ronnie McHarg, he glared up and said, "I need a translator."

"Nae, laddie," Ronnie told him kindly, "Ye do not."

They sat Struther down on a picnic bench, and towered over him, one policeman, one kilted poet, and two tall Americans. He was a skinny man in his mid thirties, with lank hair that flopped down his face; he wore scruffy jeans, with grimy patches on the thighs that suggested he wiped his hands on them instead of using soapy water and a towel, and Tony winced as he recalled Ronnie's comment on hygiene. He also wore the ubiquitous hoodie that petty crooks the world over seem to think protect them from identification and make them master criminals. He glowered up at the one who'd taken him down, he was scary enough in an understated way, and then his attention moved to the older of the two. There was an unmistakable air about that one that marked him as the leader, but what really got his attention was the slightly unhinged smile the American gave him, as he slapped a strap-on arm splint down on the table beside him. He rubbed his exposed wrist ostentatiously, and Struther cringed.

"Ya hurt my arm, Tom. The Boss is going to be mad at me if I've done more damage. So that makes me mad, OK? Best thing you can do is answer our questions honestly. Is that going to be difficult?"

Both Tony and Tim would have said that their hearing was getting better attuned to the Scottish brogue all the time, but they looked at each other and blinked. "He wasnae what?" Tim asked.

"He wasn't doing anything," Ronnie told them in a virtuous tone. "He'd just come for a walk by the water." The policeman nodded his agreement; he was fluent in that dialect too.

"So, you hadn't come to sell cheap whisky disguised as the good stuff to gullible young Americans?" The tall man wrapped the brace back round his wrist and tightened the Velcro strapping with a short, rasping noise that managed to sound threatening.

Struther muttered something, and again, McHarg translated. "He wouldn't do a thing like that. He didn't do anything."

The American tutted. "I did say you needed to answer honestly, Tommy."

At that moment the other constable ambled back from where the van stood with its back doors open. He carried, by a tissue wrapped round its neck, an identical bottle to the one that stood on the ground in its evidence bag. "Och, Tom," he said cheerfully, "Ye shouldnae have braked sae hard. One of your pretty bottles broke, and your puir van's going to stink for a while... Now when we pull you over, we're going tae think you've been drinking!"

"Not that you're going to be driving it for a while," Tony agreed amiably, "but it's nice to know that when you do, your friends will still be looking out for you."

The policeman sighed. "It's not that easy, ye ken. We cannae hold him. There's no law against putting whisky into a different bottle. Only against selling it as something it isn't. He's good at not getting caught in the act." Frustration was clear in his voice. Tony picked up the bottle from the ground and set it on the table with a clunk. The constable's eyebrows raised delightedly, and he put his own bottle alongside it.

"That's no –" Struther began.

"I found this one floating near where the young man's body was found," Tim said.

"Body? I didnae –"

"Kill him? Or sell him the stuff that did? Don't you listen to your local radio, Tommy? You should have answered truthfully." Tony turned dismissively away from him as he spoke, towards the two policemen. He grinned at the frustrated constable, who was looking a lot happier. "Look, hold him anyway. Mr McHarg saw him with the cadets in Fort..."

"Fort Augustus," Ronnie supplied helpfully, and Tony nodded.

"We should be able to get some evidence off this to back up that statement. He might only be small beer, but clearly he's a damn nuisance to you; and the odds are that what he sold had something to do with that boy's death, so we'd like to find you something to nail him with."

The policeman beamed, and it was settled. He and his partner took Struther, and the two agents thanked Ronnie for his help. He drove away in his splendid FWD, and after collecting another tray of drinks from the refreshments van, they went to stand at the Loch-side until the tender came for them, and after he'd filled Gibbs in by phone, Tony looked sideways at his partner and said, "Nice take-down."

No nickname. Tim grinned. "You said to run faster. Is your arm OK?"

"Oh yeah. I got the removable splint just before we left. They wouldn't have let me have it if they hadn't been happy with how it's doing. Just jolted it a bit. Did you get anything more from your witness?"

"Only that the current carries stuff there, but I found the bottle because of that. And before you ask, I took plenty of shots of the water – no Nessie."

"Ah." Tony sounded regretful.

NCISNCISNCIS

Ducky wondered if they were going to interview everyone on every boat; if so it would take a very long time. He hoped the rest of the team would get here soon. The rest of the team... they needed Ziva. Although he'd be the first to admit that she wasn't necessarily the most empathic person he'd seen in her approach to questioning, she was the one best suited to interviewing female cadets. Whatever, as the younger generation would say, they just missed her.

Gibbs had been in a state of controlled fury since he'd heard about the alcohol in the dead boy's blood, and since Anthony had told him of cadets buying whisky under their leaders' noses, he was ready to boil over. He'd informed the three skippers that they'd be hearing more about that, and demanded a search of all three vessels for contraband. When one captain had protested that people who'd hidden alcohol weren't going to go finding it, the furious marine had simply ordered the searchers to swap boats.

Starting with the crew of the second schooner, who were most likely to know something since Kyle Hooper had been a crew member, they intended to work outwards, but Gibbs' brusque manner was doing more harm than good. Ducky decided to lend a hand. His more grandfatherly approach made the young people less uneasy, but after getting a dozen different versions of 'But I didn't know him that well', he was beginning to despair.

However, it was when he realised that the girl who was waiting to speak to him next looked ill at ease and anxious, that he abandoned any attempt to do things by the book... Her name was Millie, and at fourteen she was one of the youngest cadets on the trip; it was obvious that she was desperate to say something to somebody, but reluctant at the same time.

"I shouldn't say..." She was a child a long way from home, and his heart reached out to her.

"Why do you think that? Come, let's sit here, and tell me what's wrong." He steered her to an up-turned life-raft, sat down beside her, and waited.

"My Dad's a Pastor. He says we shouldn't speak ill of people, it's best just to say nothing. I think that's right, you know? And Kyle's dead... but Dr Mallard, he wasn't a nice person."

"Ducky. Tell me why you think that, Millie, my dear."

"Well... Ducky... he wouldn't keep his hands to himself... he picked on me because I'm younger and smaller, and he thought I wouldn't fight back like the older girls." She took a deep breath. "I did... I'm not weak just because I'm small. I want to be a marine." She looked at him proudly, and then showed him a bruise on her fore-arm. "I punched him and scratched him... he left me alone after that, but he used to watch me, and say things... I had to make sure I never went anywhere where he could get me alone. It spoiled the trip..."

"He used to brag about being able to do whatever he wanted. All of us on this voyage, we were chosen from hundreds who wanted to come; one of the things they used for choosing us was that we wanted to make careers in the Navy. Or Marines, of course. My dad says it's not wrong to be a soldier; to fight for what you believe in, as long as what you believe in's honourable. You don't have to, to become a cadet. Er – I mean, want to join the Navy, not be honourable... He boasted about he'd told them he wanted to, but just to be one of the ones to be chosen for the trip. He said he knew what the selectors wanted to hear and just said it. He and his friend Des, they broke all the rules – they stole food from the galley, they were never in their berths by lights-out, they were late for their watches and never apologised to the ones who had to stay on watch until they arrived. And nobody said anything, because we were all trying to work together and be a team. I'm sorry he's dead... but I'm glad he's not here anymore." She looked at him as if she expected the sky to fall on her for saying such a thing.

"It's all right, Millie. I can't say I blame you, my dear. You say they were up after lights-out... do you know where they went or what they did?"

"We used to hear them talking about a 'secret spot' on deck, they tried to persuade some of the girls to go up there with them. Tina told me they said they'd got some 'party hooch'." She looked at him earnestly. "Some of the boys know where to get it. They shouldn't..."

Ducky patted her hand. "Millie, you've been a great help, and you were right to tell me. I'll speak to Tina. And things will be better, you'll see." He watched the change in the girl's body language as she skipped away, with relief.

After confirming with the girl called Tina that the two youths had indeed said what Millie had heard, the ME went in search of Jethro, who was talking to an embarrassed and angry captain. Two bottles of Struther's whisky had been discovered, and a third handed in voluntarily by a shame-faced fifteen-year-old, who really had bought it for his dad. Gibbs saw instantly that Ducky had something to say, but the doctor asked him first.

"Nothing, Duck," the Marine told him, trying to damp down his exasperation. "I think the kid from the berth above is lying, but no proof."

"Ah. This kid wouldn't be called Desmond, by any chance? Or Desi?"

The merest flicker of his eyelids was the only sign of surprise that Gibbs showed, but he listened intently to what Ducky told him. Only a tightening of his jaw showed the doctor what the skipper of the 'Lady of Morar' was in for, for allowing a girl scarcely more than a child to be sexually harassed under his care.

"So..." Gibbs made himself speak calmly, "the two of them had gotten hold of the stuff, and sneaked up on deck to sample the midnight bottler's stuff. We can guess what happened... but let's not assume. We'll go talk to young Des again." He stopped a passing cadet. "Son, go find Desi Asarola for me? Thanks."

Familiar voices from the stern, where the landing ladder was, caught their attention. They were astonished to see Tim coming aboard first, handing up a tray of hot drinks to the cadet watching the ladder, turning to give Tony a heave up, and, more surprisingly, Tony accepting it.

Everything happened at once... as the Troublemint Twins walked up from the stern, Desi came unsuspectingly up from the mess. He took one look at the bottles one of the agents was carrying and realised he'd been caught. He froze for a moment, and then, of all things, fled.

"Oh really," Ducky said in exasperation, "Where does he think he can go?"

Everyone stood still, thinking exactly the same thing, until Tony gave a resigned huff and began to jog after the boy. Des jumped over the gunwale from the second boat to the first; Tony more practically stepped through the gap that was there for the purpose. He thought his quarry might head for the stern, where superstructure and deck furniture made lots of hiding places, but no, he ran towards the prow. With nowhere else to go, he turned, to see Tony standing blocking his way back, leaning on the gunwale and looking pretty relaxed.

"It wasn't my fault!" he screeched in panic.

"What wasn't?"

"He deserved it! He was a jerk... I only hung out with him because he could afford to buy the whisky! Then he drank most of it and only gave me a bit!"

"Nice friend," Tony said mildly.

"He was rat-arsed! I tried to grab the bottle, and he was so drunk he fell overboard. I didn't even touch him!"

"So... you raised the alarm?"

"No! He was gone – there wasn't anything anyone could do... They'd have smelled the whisky on my breath. I'd have lost my chance to go to Annapolis... I wasn't going to lose my naval career over him!"

"Oh," Tony said with exaggerated sympathy, "I can so understand that. So, what did you do?" He took a casual step nearer; fate was getting ready to get him very wet, he just knew it, and while the jeans and T weren't a problem, his favourite leather jacket was.

"I hid until it was really late, and went down to my bunk when no one else was around. What... what do I do now? It wasn't my fault!"

"What do you do... can you swim?"

"Not much."

"Well, I should step away from the edge then if I were you."

"No! Come any nearer... and – and – I'll jump!"

"That'll do you a lot of good. Get down."

A movement to their left caught the eyes of both of them; a whole audience of cadets was gathering at the prow of the second boat. Des stared wildly at them for a moment, turned back towards Tony, and promptly fell overboard. The agent was already half-way out of his jacket, and for a few moments he stood on the rail, watching dispassionately to see if the youth really was as bad a swimmer as he said. It only took the time he needed to kick his shoes off before the floundering going on ten feet below proved it; Tony groaned despairingly and jumped into the loch.

The leap carried him momentarily below the surface; long enough to register that the water was brown and opaque, the visibility no more than, what? Four or five feet? Not good... He surfaced, looked around, and was alarmed.

"Where'd he go?" he yelled to the cadets now across to the first boat, and surging towards the rail he'd just jumped from. They'd only just got there and all pointed to different spots, and the ripples from his own plunge had disturbed any wave patterns that might have helped. He dived, roughly where he thought the kid had disappeared, but again, he could see nothing.

Nice, DiNozzo... you had to wait those few seconds... you had to play the hero... Gibbs can swim and he's got two good arms, but oh no, you wouldn't wait... Where is he? He can't have sunk far... which direction? Another screw-up, Anthony, no wonder the Boss doesn't want to talk to you. Kill your partner's boyfriend... get her left on the other side of the world, anything else you can think of? Fail in a half-assed rescue attempt? Get a grip, find the kid... go down a bit further...

He'd need to surface for air soon, and once he did, he figured that was all hope of finding the boy gone, but he still swam down, because there was no way the other guy would be floating up.

Crazy... no use if you find him and you haven't got enough air to get yourself to the surface, let alone him...

Something pushed against his legs, driving him sideways. Damn... he must have hit an underwater current, a waterlogged chunk of driftwood, if it pushed him under the boat the kid wouldn't be the only one in trouble.

His lungs tightened and burned, almost all the air in them had trickled away; he'd be inhaling water in a minute... The dim light trickling down from above was getting brighter; how could he be being pushed towards the surface? The pressure left his legs, he guessed the log had gone on its way, and at that moment, something appeared in his vision. An arm, right in front of his face.

Gibbs had shouldered his way through the crowd hanging over the gunwale, and like Tony before him, was half-way out of his jacket, when his SFA broke the surface like a popping cork, and rasped in a huge lungful of air. He transferred his grip to the young man's collar, and hauled his head out of the water, pressing two fingers under his jaw, to the sound of a relieved murmur from the cadets. Gibbs was the only person he saw, and he grinned. "You're not expecting me to throw him up to you, are you, Boss?"

AN: (from scouse) Sorry for the delay – Liz has been crazy busy, and I've been bone idle – not expecting the final chapter to take so long... shirtless Tony, anyone?