Death Of An Addict

CHAPTER THREE

Hamish leaned forward. "You mean they found something in the pathologist's report other than heroin?"

"They found heroin, all right," said Mr. Jarret, "but they also found traces of a strong sleeping drug. Don't you see? Someone must have drugged him, injected the heroin into him and made it look like an accidental overdose."

"I thought there was something wrong about the whole business," said Hamish. "But surely the detectives in Strathbane are investigating the case. Why come to me?"

"Because they're not," said Mr. Jarret heavily. "They say it was a simple drug overdose and they won't listen to us."

"So how do they explain the presence of the sleeping drug?" demanded Hamish, exasperated.

"They say these drug addicts will take anything. They just don't want to know. That's why we came to you."

"Why me?"

"I heard on the grapevine that you were clever, that you had solved cases and let your superiors take the credit. Justice must be done." Mr. Jarret clasped his hands tightly. "I am prepared to pay you for your investigation."

"That would not be necessary," said Hamish, thinking hard. "It will be difficult for me. I can keep on asking around. Tell me about Tommy."

"He was so clever at school," said Mrs. Jarret, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "We had great hopes of him. He was going to be an engineer. He went to Strathbane Technical College and the first year was fine. During his second year, that was when he started acting strange. He had been living at home, with us, but then he said he was moving out to a flat to share with two others."

Hamish took out his notebook. "What were their names?"

"We only ever heard their first names. Angus and Bob."

"Address?"

"Number 244, Kinnock Tower, Glenfields Estate. We went there once. It was awful. Graffiti everywhere. And the smell! And the boys' flat was so bare. No furniture, only bedrolls on the floor. Not even a television!" Mrs. Jarret looked at Hamish in a bewildered way, urging him to share her amazement at the oddity of a home without a television set.

"Give me a description of Bob and Angus."

Mrs. Jarret looked to her husband for help.

"Tommy said they were fellow students," said Mr. Jarret, "but they didn't look like students to me. Although, mind you, I'm out of touch with modern youth. Angus was very tall, with straggly hair and a moustache. He wore jeans and a leather waistcoat over an undervest. No shirt."

"No shirt," echoed Mrs. Jarret dismally.

"The other one, Bob, was small and fat and dirty. He had a shaven head and tattoos down his arms, small eyes and a sort of squashed nose."

"Anything particular about the tattoos? Anchor, dragon, I Love Rosie?"

"There was a snake tattooed on one arm, a big snake which went round and round his arm."

"Did Tommy ever bring them home to you?"

"Never," said Mrs. Jarret with a shudder. "We tried to get Tommy to leave and come back home, but he said he was happy." Her voice broke.

"He dropped out of college and out of our lives for a bit," said her husband. "Then the next thing we knew he was up on a drug charge. After that, things got better. He was so keen on writing this book, you see. He said that people thought they all knew what went on in the drug world, but they hadn't a clue. We said we would support him until the book was finished. It seemed so safe at that chalet he rented. McSporran seems a nice man, straight, no nonsense."

"And what about his girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" Mr. and Mrs. Jarret looked puzzled.

"Felicity Maundy."

Mrs. Jarret's face cleared. "Oh, that odd little girl who lives in the other chalet. He said she was just a neighbour, nothing romantic. She wrote us a very nice letter of sympathy."

And yet, thought Hamish, the bright and intelligent Miss Black had said they seemed in love.

"About this book," said Hamish instead. "I had a look. It seemed to be a sort of autobiography. There was only chapter one."

"But that's the problem!" cried Mr. Jarret. "The last time we saw him, he said he was halfway through the book and there was a pile of pages on the table in the chalet the last time we visited him."

"So what you think," said Hamish, "is that someone was frightened by what he was writing and they staged it so that it would look like an accidental overdose. Have you told the police this?"

"Yes, but they assured us we were wrong. That detective, Anderson, he said we were suffering from a reaction to the shock of Tommy's death but that there was no mystery at all."

"What about the sleeping pills? Did he take sleeping pills? What did his doctor say?"

"His doctor in Strathbane checked him into the rehab clinic but said he hadn't seen him since."

Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed them thoughtfully. Then he said, "It's a wee bit difficult. I do not have the resources of Strathbane, but I'll see what I can do." He pushed over his notebook. "Write down your address and phone numbers at which you can be reached."

Mr. Jarret wrote down their phone number, his business number and his mobile phone number. He raised weary eyes to Hamish. "Does this mean you'll do it?"

"I'll do what I can," said Hamish. "Is there anything else you can think of?"

"He wouldn't have done anything to harm himself," said

Mrs. Jarret. "He believed in God." Hamish looked at her enquiringly. "He even bought a Bible. He said God would stop him from taking drugs again. I would have liked that Bible."

"You mean the police have still got it?"

"No, they said they had let us have all his effects."

"Did he go to church? And if so, which denomination?"

"We're Church of Scotland. But I don't know which church he was going to."

After the Jarrets had left, Hamish walked along to Dr. Brodie's cottage.

"Come in," said Angela with a smile of welcome. "Did you say something to the Currie sisters?"

"Something."

"Whatever it was, it seems to have worked. They're almost mild, for them."

"I came to see your husband."

"He's in the living room. Go through."

The doctor was sitting in front of a messy smouldering fire. "If you clean the ashpan out, it might burn better," said Hamish.

"Oh, it's you, Hamish. Well, if you feel like cleaning it out, do it yourself."

Hamish went back into the kitchen and collected the ash bucket. The doctor watched for a moment, amused, and then picked up the newspaper he had been reading. Hamish cleaned out the ash into the metal bucket and added several logs to the fire, which immediately sprang into life. He carried the bucket of smoking ashes out through the kitchen and placed them outside the kitchen door, then returned to the living room and sat down in an armchair opposite the doctor.

Dr. Brodie put down the newspaper and looked at Hamish over the tops of his spectacles.

"I'm sure you didn't call just to light the fire."

"No, I've a bit of a problem," said Hamish. "It's that business about young Tommy Jarret."

"Oh, sad business. Heroin overdose."

"Aye, there may be a bit more to it than that." Hamish told him about the visit from the Jarrets and their suspicions.

Dr. Brodie listened carefully. Then he said, "I see their point, but it's all a bit far-fetched for the Highlands of Scotland. It's natural in their grief that they should think up all sorts of conspiracy theories."

"Well, I am not grieving, and I think it's all too pat. Did you prescribe sleeping pills for Tommy?"

"No. He registered with me when he moved to Parry's, but that was all. I don't have anything to do with drug addicts, Hamish, but the damn stuff creeps everywhere and I hope it never reaches up here."

"It's a whole world I know nothing about," said Hamish half to himself.

"I did hear from a colleague down in Strathbane, that there's a disco called Lachie's there. It's been raided several times but nothing has been found. Surely, Hamish, if Strathbane have decided it's an accidental death, then it must be."

"Not necessarily. There's almost a sort of unholy glee when a drug addict dies. Silly bugger, he had what was coming to him. That sort of thing. Now, a lot of respectable businessmen, as you know, cause doctors and hospitals no end of expense and trouble with their drinking. But when one of them dies of a stroke or cirrhosis of the liver or pancreatitis, no one ever says he had what was coming to him. And drug deaths are often among the young and there's an awfy prejudice against young people."

"But if you consider," said the doctor, "that there are warnings the whole time against the effects of drugs and no warnings against the effects of alcohol, other than the usual 'don't drink and drive' warnings, people are apt to think, well, they were told what would happen. Like smokers."

"Could be," pointed out Hamish cynically, "because the highest proportion of alcoholics are to be found amongst the medical profession."

"Too true," said Dr. Brodie. "Which reminds me, I got a present of a fine malt whisky. Fancy a dram?"

"Chust a wee one, then," said Hamish, suddenly assailed by an odd nervousness. He knew that he should let Tommy Jarrets death go and not get under the feet of his superior officers. But at the same time, he knew that if he did not investigate it, that boy's death would nag at his conscience. While the doctor went to fetch the whisky, Hamish wondered what to do next.

Felicity Maundy obviously knew something. Perhaps he would try her again. The following day was Sunday, his day off. He would put on plain clothes and see if that made him any less intimidating to her.

As he approached Sean's cottage, the following day, he saw the old man working in his garden and so drew to a halt outside the front gate and climbed down from the Land Rover.

"Morning, Mr. Fitzpatrick," said Hamish.

Sean straightened up from weeding and surveyed Hamish silently.

"It seems the monster in Loch Drim might be nothing more than seals."

"How did you come to that conclusion?" Sean threw weeds into a bucket at his feet.

"I took a walk along the path that leads to the sea from Drim. There's a. colony of seals on the rocks at the end."

"That's odd," said Sean. "I thought there had been several sightings of something strange."

"Oh, you know how it is here," said Hamish easily. "We pick up a good story and then we all embroider it."

Sean shrugged and bent over his weeding again.

Hamish leaned on the garden fence and watched him. The day was milky grey and mild. It was very still, the sort of day where sounds carried from a long distance. It would be grand, he reflected, not to have to worry about the Jarrets, just let everything slide. Sean straightened up and surveyed Hamish with some impatience. "Was there anything else, Officer?"

"You seem to hear a lot of gossip, although you keep yourself to yourself. Hear any more about the Jarret boy?"

"Nothing much."

"Anything at all?"

"Only that he'd turned religious."

"I heard a bit about that. Any idea if he went to church and if so which church?"

"Somebody said in my hearing it was some sort of odd religion that had started up in Lochdubh."

"The Moonies?"

"No, it wasn't them."

"I'll look into it."

"So you think it was murder, Officer?"

"Chust curious, that's all."

Sean resumed his weeding and Hamish reluctantly got into the Land Rover again, reluctant because he was beginning to think that he would get no further with finding out what had happened to Tommy.

He drove on to Parry's croft and found the crofter at home. "Felicity Maundy in her chalet?" asked Hamish.

"I don't think so. I think herself went out for a walk. Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be fine."

Parry picked up a battered enamel jug from the stove and poured two cups. Both men sat down at the table.

Hamish told Parry about Mr. and Mrs. Jarret's request. "Do you really think there's anything mysterious about his death?" asked Parry.

"On a calm, still day like this, it all seems fantastic. But I won't be easy in my conscience until I've asked around a bit more. Now, this Felicity. She told me she was not that close to Tommy, they were just neighbours. But Miss Black, the woman who runs the village tea shop, she got the impression they were an item."

"I can tell you, they weren't that casual, but I thought, both being young people stuck up here in the wilds, that they were just friends, Hamish. Went for long walks together, things like that. He could have been in her chalet at night, or her in his, and I wouldn't know. I'm dead to the world after ten o'clock at night."

"So she lied, and what else has she been lying about? And then there's the book he was writing. His parents say he was half finished and yet all I could find was chapter one. Then there's the sleeping drug he had taken."

"I didnae hear about that!"

"Aye, they found traces of some sort of sleeping drug. So, far-fetched as it may seem, someone might have laced his coffee and then injected him with heroin."

"Okay, let's go for the far-fetched," said Parry. "In order to let someone into his chalet and, say, offer him coffee, it must have been someone he knew. Say someone he knew was a drug dealer and had mentioned in his book arrived on his doorstep, he'd have been frightened to death."

"So what about Felicity?"

"Why her? She's chust a bit of a lass." Parry's accent, like that of Hamish, grew more sibilant when he became excited or upset.

"I don't know," sighed Hamish. "I'm clutching at straws. Then there's this thing about him turning religious. Know anything about that, Parry?"

"We didn't talk much. No, I can't call to mind any sort of religious talk."

"I'll try to find out from Jimmy Anderson if some weird cult has started up in Strathbane. He won't need to know I'm still investigating. I'll make it sound like idle curiosity."

Parry glanced up at the window. "There iss herself coming back after her walk."

"Right," said Hamish, getting to his feet. "I'll have another wee word with her but I doubt I'll get very far."

He walked next door to Felicity's chalet. The door was open and she was reaching up to take a cup down from a shelf in the kitchen. She turned and saw Hamish in the doorway. The cup fell from her fingers and smashed on the stone floor.

"I'm sorry I startled you," said Hamish gently. He walked into the kitchen, saw a dustpan and brush by the rubbish bin and, crouching down, neatly swept up the broken shards and put them in the bin.

"What do you want?" demanded Felicity shrilly.

"Now, then." Hamish leaned against the kitchen counter. "This is on my beat and I dropped by to see how you were."

"I'm all right," said Felicity defensively. "If that's all, I have chores to do."

"There's chust one thing I must ask you again," said Hamish. "Why did you tell me you and Tommy were only neighbours when from all reports you were closer than that?"

She was wearing a long gown of shimmery silk material of many colours. It made her look more waiflike than ever.

"Well, we were friends, yes, that was all. I thought you meant, were we having an affair?"

"Och, no," said Hamish soothingly. "Don't you find it lonely here?"

"No, I enjoy the peace of the countryside."

"Do your parents support you?"

"I haven't seen my parents for a year. They're in Somerset."

"So what do you do for money?"

"I'm on the dole."

"I thought these days you had to get a job."

"I'm a poet. There are no jobs for poets."

"Neffer were, neffer will be," said Hamish comfortably. "Even Chaucer had a job."

"There are not many jobs to be had in Strathbane that are suitable. I report every fortnight to the dole office to tell them I am still looking for work. What's it to you?"

"Curious, that's all. Was Tommy religious?"

"Like me, he led a spiritual life."

"Whateffer that means. Did he go to church?"

"I really don't know," she said, half turning away.

"You mean he didn't say anything on Sunday like, Tm off to the kirk'?"

"We didn't live in each other's pockets. We respected each other's space. Now, if that is all…"

"Did he show you any of the book he was writing?"

She began to take carrots out of the vegetable basket and, turning on the cold tap, washed them.

"He said he would show it to me when he was finished."

"And how much had he written?"

"How should I know?" she suddenly shouted. "Am I under suspicion of anything?"

Hamish decided it was strategic to beat a hasty retreat before she threatened to report him to his superiors.

"I really chust called by to see that you were okay," he said.

"I am. So goodbye."

Hamish walked outside, looked around and wondered what to do next.

Then he decided to drive to Strathbane. He could take Jimmy Anderson out for a drink, if he wasn't out on some job. It was easy to get information out of Jimmy over a glass of whisky-provided Jimmy wasn't paying.

Hamish was in luck. Jimmy was not only at police headquarters but just finishing his shift. Soon they were seated in a nearby pub. Hamish had paid for two doubles.

"What brings you to Strathbane?"

"Day off. I thought I'd look at the shops. I've heard there's a good few open on the Sabbath."

"There are that, but mostly the supermarkets and a few clothes shops. Everything else is closed down, just like the old days."

"Someone was telling me something about some sort of religious cult that's started up in Strathbane."

"Oh, them. Call themselves the Church of the Rising Sun."

"Sounds a bit like a Rolling Stones record. What are they like?"

"Harmless bunch of freaks. Bearded men in sandals, dotty women. They'd got a shack of a place out on the north side."

"And what do they do?"

"Bit like the Quakers. They wait until the spirit moves them and then they get to their feet and talk."

"And who runs this place?"

"Chap called Barry Owen. English. No record. Sent a plainclothes along to one of their sessions. Said he was bored out of his mind. Why're you asking, Hamish?"

"Someone mentioned it. Just interested, that's all."

"Anything happening up your way?"

"Nothing much. That fuss about some monster sighted in Loch Drim."

"I told you. There's one daft report after another these days."

Hamish looked at Jimmy's empty glass. "Want another?"

"If you're paying."

Hamish fetched another couple of doubles.

"I hear poor Tommy Jarret took some sort of sleeping drug afore he injected himself."

"Where did you hear that?"

"The parents."

"That poor couple plagued us with conspiracy theories about drug barons bumping their son off."

"You must admit, the sleeping stuff looked funny."

"Not to me. You don't have experience of junkies. They'll take anything."

"So that's that."

Jimmy looked at him narrowly, his foxy face suddenly alert. "I should have known it wasnae just the pleasure of my company you wanted."

"What gave you that idea? Just struck me as odd."

"Junkies are odd, Hamish."

They talked of general things and then Hamish took his leave. He drove out to the north side of Strathbane and stopped and asked several pedestrians until he had directions to the Church of the Rising Sun.

As Jimmy said, it was a shack, a wooden hut with a tin roof. A board outside in Gothic lettering proclaimed it to be the Church of the Rising Sun.

Hamish swung the police Land Rover around and parked it some distance away and then made his way back on foot.

As he approached the door of the building, there was such a silence that he thought there might be nobody inside. He tried the door and it opened. He blinked a little at the sight that met his eyes. About fifty men and women were sitting on the bare floorboards, facing a bearded man whom Hamish decided must be Barry Owen, the leader. Many of the congregation were in the lotus position. All were silent. Hamish sat down at the back of the group and waited.

Then one woman began to speak. She said she felt less than a woman because she could not achieve an orgasm. Then she fell silent. Another man began to speak. He spoke of his lusts, of his unfaithfulness to his wife. Hamish listened in amazement. It was more like a sex therapy group. Joss sticks were burning in old wine bottles at the corners of the room and the air was heavy with their smell.

After an hour of lurid revelations, Barry Owen got to his feet. He was wearing a denim shirt, jeans and trainers, no robes. He raised his arms. "You have left all your troubles with me so they no longer exist. God be with you."

And that was that. They all rose to their feet and made their way to the exit. One woman passed Hamish and he noticed that the pupils of her eyes looked unnaturally dilated. He had planned to interview Barry Owen when the "service" was over, but he wondered rapidly whether he should pose as a new member of the congregation. From time to time his photo had been in the newspapers, but always just a small picture and in uniform.

He was still wondering what to do as he rose to his feet when Barry approached him.

"Welcome, brother." He had a deep, sonorous voice.

"Welcome," echoed Hamish.

"How did you hear of us?" asked Barry.

"Och, you know how it is," said Hamish. "I overheard someone talking about it."

"And what troubles you, brother?"

"Maybe another time. I see folks are leaving."

Barry put a hand on Hamish's shoulder and stared up into Hamish's hazel eyes. "I am on call night and day. Speak, brother."

"I don't think you can help me," said Hamish. "My troubles are not sexual."

"We talk of other things," said Barry. "But most people are plagued with sins of the flesh."

"I've often wondered why when anyone thinks of sin, they think of sex," said Hamish, his treacherous Highland curiosity aroused. "What about malicious gossip, ill will, unkindness?"

"You will find, brother, that all bad feelings stem from repressed sexuality."

"But I'm not sexually repressed."

"Ah, you think you are not, but excess of sex can in its way be a repression."

Hamish was about to complain that he was hardly suffering from that either, but decided on the spot to become a member and see if there was even a smell of drugs about the place.

"I suffer from deep depression," he lied. "Sometimes I just don't want to get out o' bed in the mornings."

"Ah, well, we must explore the root core of your depression. What is your job?"

"Nothing at the moment. I'm looking for one."

Barry reached up and put an arm around Hamish's shoulders. "There is a quality of innocence in you that I like. I tell you what, I could do with a helper here. I cannot afford to pay you much."

"What would my duties be?" asked Hamish.

"Cleaning up the place, helping to repair the fabric of the building. I would like the inside here painted green for a start. Green is a restful colour."

Hamish's mind worked at great speed. He was due two weeks' leave. He could demand it immediately for family reasons. Sergeant McGregor at Cnothan could take over his beat.

"When would you like me to start?"

Barry beamed. "Tomorrow is as good a time as any. Are you collecting the dole?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well, go on collecting it and I'll pay you seventy pounds a week."

"That's very kind of you," said Hamish, privately thinking it was an encouraging sign of villainy that Barry should be prepared to cheat the government, forgetting that cheating the government out of its dues was considered in the Highlands as a legitimate occupation. "Could you tell me when you started this… what is it, church or order or what?"

"I started a year ago. There's a wee room at the back. Come along and have a dram and I'll tell you about it."

Hamish followed him through a door at the far end of the hall. It was a lean-to kitchen with a table and four hard chairs. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink. Barry saw Hamish looking around and said, "You can see why I need help. The place is a mess."

"I thought some of your ladies might help."

"Women, brother, women-these days we do not talk about ladies. They're all women and they are apt to get a crush on me."

Poor souls, thought Hamish. He accepted a glass of whisky.

"I notice you did not take up a collection," he said.

"We do that as they come in the door at the beginning. I teach them to have minds above material things and urge them to give generously. Money given to the church is never wasted."

"So how did you get the idea?" asked Hamish, sipping his whisky and noticing it was a very expensive malt.

"God came to me," said Barry, "and He said to me, Barry, He said, there are folks out there with deep secret personal problems which are blocking the light of the spirit. Get them to come to you, urge them to talk so that their souls may be cleansed and let in the light of the spirit. I advertised in the local paper, people came along and I am building up a nice congregation."

And probably a nice little moneymaker, thought Hamish cynically. It was amazing how people who claimed to have direct instructions from God always seemed to be justifying some selfish purpose.

"What time would you like me to start tomorrow?" he asked.

"About nine o'clock. You will find I am not very strict. Have you anywhere to live?"

"I've been sleeping in my car," said Hamish. "And yet you have kept yourself neat and clean. That says a lot for you. What is your name?" "Hamish George."

"Well, Hamish, there is a cot bed in the cupboard over there. I'll bring a pillow and a duvet. You can stay here for a bit. There's a stove there and coal and wood out the back."

"That's very good of you," said Hamish. "Maybe my depression got worse because I had nowhere to live and no useful work."

"Now you will be working for the Lord," said Barry. Hamish's quick ear caught an almost mocking lilt in Barry's voice. Hamish had been bending his head in what he hoped was an attitude of grateful humility, but he looked up quickly. Barry looked back with an unctuous smile.

"Here's the key," said Barry. "It's a spare. I have things to do. I'll be on my way and leave you to lock up and fetch your things."

Hamish waited until he had left and then he began to search the cupboards in the kitchen, under the sink, every nook and cranny, in the hope of finding a trace of drugs, but there was nothing. So here I am, he thought ruefully, wasting two good weeks' holiday working for a crackpot organisation. Well, he could give it a few days and if nothing came of it, he could always go back on duty.

As a sign of his goodwill, he washed up all the dirty dishes and cleaned the stove before locking up and walking to his Land Rover.

He drove back to police headquarters and spun them a tale about an urgent family crisis. Then he headed out back through the town. There were several shops still open for business although it was Sunday. He stopped at a red parking light and glanced idly out of the window. An expensive-looking boutique was open for business and in the window was a dress Hamish recognised. It was a twin of the one Felicity had been wearing when he had last seen her. The light turned to green. He drove round the corner and found a parking place and walked back to the boutique, which was called Lucille Modes.

He opened the door and went in. "How much is thon dress in the window?" he asked. "The silky one with the different colours."

"One hundred and ninety pounds."

Hamish blinked. "That's a fair bit."

The assistant said severely, "It is pure silk and designed by Lucille herself. There is one on the rack over there." She pointed. Hamish walked over and examined the dress. "Do you make many of these?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Lucille made only three. People around here don't like to pay that much and then run into a lot of other people wearing the same dress," said the assistant.

"It's a bit too much," said Hamish, backing towards the doorway.

"Thought it would be," said the assistant pertly.

Hamish drove thoughtfully back to Lochdubh. On his arrival, he mechanically went about his chores on the croft, made himself a simple meal, ate it and then sat down in the living room in his favourite armchair, clasped his hands behind his head and thought about Felicity.

How could she afford a dress like that? He went over every scrap of conversation he had had with her, how on the day of Tommy's death she had looked so frightened when she had seen him outside Patel's, then about how she had snapped at him that first time when he had looked at the vegetables on the draining board in the chalet kitchen.

He suddenly sat up straight. Mushrooms. What had he heard about mushrooms?

Angela Brodie was on the Internet and seemed able to conjure up reams of information.

He hurried out and along to the doctors cottage. Angela answered the door.

"This a social call, Hamish?"

"No, I'm after some information about mushrooms."

"What kind?"

"The druggie kind."

"Come in. I think they're called shrooms. I'll see what I can get for you. Go in and take a seat and wait."

Hamish went into the living room. There was no sign of the doctor. Must be out on a call.

He sat down and picked up the day's papers, which he had not read.

After half an hour, Angela came in and handed him a printed sheet. "That's what I got, Hamish."

The page was headed "Liberty Cap/Magic Mushroom, Psilocybe semilanceata." There was an illustration of some spindly mushrooms. The liberty cap's habitat appeared to be in grass, fields, heaths and meadows. Season was given as late August to mid-January. Colour: buff when dry, brown with bluey tinge when wet. Thin black lines can also be seen through the lower margin when wet.

Then came the comments. "Psilocybe semilanceata has been used for thousands of years and is probably the most well known and most used psychedelic mushroom in the UK. The usual number of mushrooms ingested is between 25 and 50. Effects are similar to many of the psychedelics but often without the harshness and intensity that is associated with LSD. The effects come on between 10 and 40 minutes after ingestion and last approximately 3 to 4 hours. Eating fresh magic mushrooms is legal in the UK."

Hamish put down the printed sheet and said half to himself, "If it's legal, why was she so afraid of me?"

"What's this about?" asked Angela.

"These magic mushrooms. I think that wee lassie Felicity Maundy may have been peddling them."

"They grow pretty much everywhere, Hamish. She wouldn't get much for them. She'd get more from growing cannabis."

"I tell you, Angela, she was wearing a dress and I saw the twin o' that dress in Strathbane and it cost a hundred and ninety pounds and yet herself said she was on the dole."

Angela looked at him thoughtfully. Then she said, "Well, maybe sweet little Felicity was peddling something else."

Hamish thanked her and went back to the police station. How could a mushroom which caused a psychedelic effect lasting up to four hours be legal?

He phoned Strathbane. Jimmy Anderson was at home but when Hamish volunteered that he wanted to ask someone about drugs he was told that Detective Constable Sanders had just come in and was their expert.

Hamish introduced himself and then asked why shrooms, or magic mushrooms, were legal.

"Ah, but they're not really," said Sanders. "You pick them, that's legal. You prepare them, dry them, make tea from them, then it's illegal. It's illegal to change them in any way so I suppose you can say that someone picking them was actually changing them."

Hamish thought about the mushrooms he had seen on Felicity's draining board. They certainly had been small-capped and with thin stems.

"Would anyone get much for selling them?" he asked.

"Not that I've heard. People mostly pick them for their own use. Mind you, we raided a house last year after a tip-off and the attic floor was covered in those mushrooms."

"I wondered if you ever heard of anything against a young English lassie called Felicity Maundy."

Sanders's voice sharpened. "You mean the one that lives next door to Tommy Jarret?"

"Don't be telling anyone I asked," said Hamish, alarmed. "I'm told the case is closed."

"Look, I'm going off duty. Do you mind if I pop over to Lochdubh for a wee word?"

"Not at all," said Hamish. "I'll be waiting."