Death Of An Addict

CHAPTER FOUR

Detective Constable Sanders had sounded brisk and intelligent on the phone. Hamish imagined him as being tall, dark and with severe features.

He was surprised when he opened the door some time later to what at first in the darkness looked like little more than a schoolboy.

"Sanders," announced the detective.

"Come in," said Hamish.

In the bright light of the kitchen, Sanders turned out to be a fairly small man with a thatch of thick blond hair, a boyish fair face with a snub nose covered in freckles and bright blue eyes.

"You look too healthy to be a drug expert," said Hamish.

"Well, I don't take the stuff myself." Sanders sounded amused. "So you're the infamous Hamish Macbeth."

"Take off your coat and sit down," said Hamish. "Tea?

Coffee?"

"Coffee would be grand. Dash of milk, no sugar."

When they were seated over their coffee mugs, Sanders said, "We meet at last. I've heard a lot about you." He held out his hand. "I'm Joe."

Hamish shook it.

"So, Joe, what brings you all this way?"

"It's the Tommy Jarret business. I wasn't satisfied."

"I wasn't either and I still am not," said Hamish.

"Tell me why."

"I think you had better tell me your reasons first. I don't want to get into trouble."

Sanders laughed. "Meaning you want to know if you can trust me? Here goes. I think the case was closed quickly on Tommy because he had a record, because he took drugs. There was a general feeling that he was asking for it, that one less junkie in Strathbane can only be good. It was the pathology report that bothered me first. Do you know there were traces of a sleeping drug in the body?"

Hamish nodded.

"Then there was that book he was writing. It all seemed too neat and easy that only chapter one detailing his early life should be found. Then there was the matter of fingerprints."

"You mean there were no fingerprints!"

"I'm not saying that. There were Tommy's, Parry McSporran's and Felicity's. But the door handle was wiped clean."

"The outside door?"

"Yes."

"But Parry found the body. Surely his prints would have been on the handle?"

"Parry said the door was wide open and he walked in. He said the bedroom door was open as well."

"Why did Parry go in? I forgot to ask him."

"He said he saw the front door wide open and walked across to make sure Tommy was at home. Parry said that although nobody locks their doors up there, he thought if Tommy had gone out and left the door open, it was tempting someone to steal his word processor."

Hamish leaned forward eagerly. "But footprints!"

"Now here we come to the real mystery," said Sanders. "From the bedroom through to outside, the floor had been wiped clean and there was a mop propped outside the chalet without a fingerprint on it."

"Then they can't say the case is closed!" cried Hamish.

"They have and it is. So what's your interest?"

Hamish decided to trust him. He told Sanders all about the visit from Tommy's parents, about Felicity and the dress and what he suspected about the mushrooms.

"But if she was messing with magic mushrooms," finished Hamish, "they would have found something when they searched her chalet."

Sanders remained silent, looking down into his mug of coffee.

"Neffer say they didnae search her chalet!" exclaimed Hamish.

Sanders raised his eyes. "No, they didn't. But acting on your information, I can organise a raid and let you know if we find anything. We'll check her bank account as well, see if she's been banking any unusual sums of money."

"There's one thing I didnae tell ye," said Hamish. He described his visit to the Church of the Rising Sun and how he had taken leave to work there because it looked like Tommy had been a member.

Sanders began to laugh again. "Now I know why Blair calls you the worst headache in the police force. Man, what if you're recognised?"

"I'll take that risk."

"I'll get news to you somehow. I've always thought there was something wrong about that church. Now, I'd better go and get some sleep before I raid Felicity's place tomorrow."

"And I'd better go and borrow an old car from someone," said Hamish. "I'm supposed to have been sleeping in my car because I'm one of the homeless."

"You know that recluse Sean Fitzpatrick, who lives out on the Crask turn?"

"Aye."

"He bought a new car last year. His old one is round the back. It may still be working. He's like a crofter. They never throw an old car away, just keep it in the garden for spares."

"I'll try him now."

"It's nearly midnight."

"He's old. He's probably still awake."

Sure enough, when Hamish parked outside Sean Fitzpatrick's, he saw the lights were still on. He knocked at the cottage door and after a few moments, Sean answered it.

He sighed when he saw Hamish. "The reason I get the reputation of being a recluse," he growled, "is because I am one. So leave me alone."

"I chust wanted to know if I could rent your old car out the back."

"What for?"

"I've got two weeks' break and them in Strathbane don't like me driving around the police Land Rover."

"Its not insured.".

"I'll get it insured," lied Hamish.

"I've a feeling the only way I'm going to get rid of you is to let you have it. Wait and I'll get the keys and we'll see if it starts."

He reappeared with the keys and they walked round the back of the house, Sean carrying a torch. "That's it," he said.

It was an old Volvo, one of those large ones built like an undertaker's hearse. It was rusted and dirty.

Sean got into the driving seat and turned the key. The old car roared into life. He backed it out onto a heathery track that ran down the side of the cottage.

"I'll charge you twenty-five pounds a week and I want it back with a full tank of petrol," said Sean, getting out.

"Thanks," said Hamish.

"And I'll be having the first twenty-five now."

Hamish fished out his wallet in the lights of the car. A solitary five-pound note stared up at him.

"I haven't the money on me."

"A cheque will do."

Hamish got out his chequebook and wrote a cheque out, leaning on the bonnet.

"There you are," he said, handing it over.

"Fine. I'll just write the number of your bank card on the back."

"I'm a policeman," said Hamish huffily. "You ought to trust me."

"From what I've heard, you're a permanently broke policeman. Card, please."

Hamish handed it over. "Hold the torch for me," said Sean.

Hamish shone the torch while Sean carefully copied out the bank card number on the back of the cheque.

"Fine," said Sean. "Take care of it. It's a good car."

Hamish looked moodily at the dirty, rusty car. "You'll get it back in the same grand condition you're letting me have it," he said bitterly.

He drove back to Lochdubh and before he went to bed, he packed up the back of the Volvo with a bag of clothes and then spread out an old quilt and a pillow to make it look as if he had been sleeping in it.

He then set the alarm before he went to bed. In the morning, he would start his new job. And before that, he'd better stop off at the doctor's and beg Angela to look after his sheep and hens while he was away.

Joe Sanders had hoped to raid Felicity's chalet as early as possible the morning but he found he had to cut through a lot of resistance and red tape before he got the necessary search warrant.

It was nearly midday when, flanked by a policewoman and a policeman, he arrived at Felicity's chalet.

To his relief, she was at home. When he held up the search warrant, she looked as if she might faint. He began the search. Neither kitchen, living room nor bedroom yielded anything. Another dead end, he thought, and wondered briefly how Hamish was getting along.

Hamish had been doing very well. The old Volvo was very convincing, he thought. He started the painting job. He was up a ladder, whistling to himself and reflecting that painting walls was a relief after police work, when he felt himself observed.

He looked down. Barry Owen was standing there and beside him was a hard-faced woman with flaming-red hair which owed all to art and nothing to nature. She had a stocky, muscular figure encased in a pink track suit which clashed horribly with the colour of her hair.

Barry called up. "The wife and I are stepping out for a moment. I'll introduce you when I get back."

Hamish swore under his breath as his eyes met the hard suspicious eyes of Mrs. Owen.

Parry appeared in the doorway of Felicity's chalet. "What's going on here?" he asked.

"I have a search warrant," said Sanders. Parry could see behind him the small figure of Felicity slumped at the kitchen table.

"Find anything?" he asked.

"Nothing in the kitchen, bedroom or living room. There's nowhere else. We're just finishing up."

"Nothing in the upstairs room?" asked Parry.

Felicity began to cry. Sanders ignored her.

"What upstairs room?"

"I'll show you."

Parry led the way into the bedroom and pointed to the celling which had been covered with an Indian curtain. "Up there is a trapdoor. I made a spare room upstairs."

"Where's the ladder?"

"It's in this cupboard."

Parry opened a cupboard and brought out a folding steel ladder. Sanders opened it up, mounted it and then tore the curtain away from the ceiling and dropped it on the floor. He raised the trapdoor and looked around and then smiled. The whole of the floor of the room was covered in mushrooms, drying out, piles and piles of liberty caps-magic mushrooms.

He climbed back down, grinning in triumph. "She's got enough magic mushrooms up there to send the whole of Strathbane on a trip!"

Barry Owen and his wife, Dominica, walked a little away from the church. "Where did you find him?" Dominica jerked her thumb back at the church.

"He turned up yesterday at the service," said Barry. "I had a word with him. He was sleeping in his car. I offered him the job of painting and caretaking."

"God, you're naive," sneered Dominica. "I go away for a few days and you risk taking on someone we know nothing about."

"I am a good judge of character," said Barry huffily, unconsciously echoing Hamish Macbeth.

"I tell you what we are going to do," said Dominica. "We're going back in there and you will get him down from that ladder and I will speak to him… alone."

Barry shrugged. "I've got to go down into the town anyway. You'll find he's harmless."

"Hey, you up there!"

Hamish looked down. Dominica Owen was standing there, her hands on her hips, glaring up at him.

"What iss it?" he asked, his accent made sibilant by nerves.

"I want a word with you."

Hamish reluctantly placed the paintbrush on top of the pot of paint, which was balanced on a cross beam, and slowly made his way down the steps. He followed her through to the kitchen.

"Sit down," she commanded.

He sat down at the kitchen table and looked at her meekly.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Hamish George."

"And you are unemployed?"

"Yes."

"But you must have worked at some time?"

"Crofting. I wass a shepherd."

"So what happened?"

"I got a bit funny and low in my head. I couldnae get out o' bed in the morning."

"Who were you a shepherd for?"

Hamish suddenly clutched her hand between his own. "You must help me," he wailed.

"What with?" she demanded in an exasperated voice, and tried to drag her hand away, but he had it in a strong grip.

"With the black devils that come into my brain," said Hamish. "You must exercise them."

She succeeded in snatching her hand away. "Exorcise, you village idiot," she corrected.

Dominica looked at Hamish in distaste. A thin trail of spittle was running from a corner of his mouth down his chin.

"You're drooling," she said sharply, and Hamish muttered, "Sorry," and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

"You will need to speak to my husband about your devils," she said, getting to her feet. "Get back to work."

Hamish gave her a vacant look and shambled off.

"Trust you to employ the village idiot," she said to her husband later. "There must be a lot of inbreeding in the Highlands and Islands. Oh, well, he seems harmless enough."

Sanders was determined to get something out of Felicity Maundy. A charge for possession of the mushrooms, he knew, would probably get her a suspended sentence.

She had screamed and cried and protested and called him "fascist pig," but now she was silent and mulish.

He wondered briefly if she had an eating disorder. Her wrists and ankles looked thin and fragile. Or, he then wondered cynically, did she go out of her way to cultivate a waiflike image as a shell of protection?

He returned to the attack. "You told PC Macbeth that your income was from the dole."

Silence.

"Answer me!" Sanders thumped the table between them in exasperation.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Louder. For the tape."

"Yes!" she shouted.

"And yet according to your bank, a regular monthly sum of eight hundred pounds is paid into your account. The cheque comes from a Mr. James Maundy. Your father?"

"You have no right to poke your nose into my affairs," she hissed.

Sanders sighed. "Don't you see? You are a very silly girl. You wear expensive clothes. Where did you get the money? If we had not found out your father was sending you a generous allowance, we would have assumed that you had got the money pushing drugs, hard drugs, for you won't get much for your bloody, stupid mushrooms. Still, I may as well ask. Have you been pushing drugs?"

"No!"

"Very well, then. Let's discuss the death of Tommy Jarret."

He noticed the sudden stillness, the rigidity of her body. He suddenly decided to take a chance, although he cursed the running tape and the presence of the policewoman behind him. What he was about to do could get him into serious trouble. He could only be glad about one small thing. She had not asked for a lawyer.

He leaned forward and stared straight into her eyes. "We know you killed Tommy Jarret," he said.

He fully expected her to shout another no, and then to threaten to call down the wrath of the authorities on his head.

But she began to shake and tremble. "I didn't mean to," she said, and then she began to weep, great tears coursing down her face.

He handed her a box of tissues and waited, suppressing a rising feeling of excitement. When she had calmed down slightly, he said soothingly, "You'll feel better if you let it all out. What happened?"

She continued to gulp and sob for what seemed to Sanders a long, long time. Then she dried her eyes and said in a dry whisper, "I didn't mean to."

"Tell me about it."

"Tommy told me he had been going to this church in Strathbane."

"The Church of the Rising Sun?"

"Yes. He said Barry Owen, the preacher, was very spiritual. Tommy said he still often had a terrible craving for heroin, but that Barry had told him that if he got in touch with God, then he would be able to fight the craving. He… he told me, he felt so earthbound, that although he believed in God, he could not get a sense of God. I… told him, I told him about the mushrooms, and about how they made things of the spirit so tangible."

She hung her head.

"So you encouraged him to go on a mushroom trip. When was that?"

"The day before he died." She raised pleading eyes. "Don't you see? I started him on the road back to drugs. I didn't mean to. I really didn't mean to. I didn't think I had done any damage. He told me he should never have taken the mushrooms. He said he never wanted to take any form of drug again, and I heard that pathologist say that one drug leads to another…"

For the first time, Sanders realised he was listening to the truth. And all she had said only went to confirm the idea that Tommy had gone back on heroin and overdosed. He had known reformed alcoholics hit the bottle again because they had taken a liqueur chocolate or some of Auntie's sherry trifle.

And it seemed as if the Church of the Rising Sun might be nothing more sinister than some sort of minor scam to dupe money out of the gullible.

Hamish Macbeth may as well chuck in his job and save the rest of his holidays for something better.

Hamish, meanwhile, had discovered that there were services every weekday evening between six and seven. Barry urged him to attend.

"I'll be there, but I don't have sexual problems," said Hamish.

"But you see," said Barry eagerly, "although sex, I believe, is at the root of our problems, we share our other troubles. People take the subject from the person who speaks first. So you must speak of your depression and others will follow your lead."

Hamish was sitting on the floor at the back of the hall that evening, waiting for the service, if it could be called that, to begin. There were fewer people than on Sunday, only about twenty-five. Just as Barry made his entrance from the kitchen to stand in front of them, Hamish sensed someone sitting down next to him and glanced sideways. Sanders!

"Now," began Barry, raising his arms in a sort of benediction, "before we begin, I must thank you all for your generosity. But"-he held up the collection box-"I am sad to say that some of you are not giving freely. To get in touch with God, you must cast aside material things. We will pray together and then the collection box will be passed among you for further contributions.

"Dear God, soften the hearts of your people so that they may give generously. You, dear Lord, know the paucity of the collection and you frown and your wrath is terrible."

Hamish switched his mind away from the prayer and wondered instead what Sanders had found out to bring him to the church. Then there were those two supposed students Tommy had lodged with. He had their names and address in his notebook. Maybe go into town after the service and after he had heard what Sanders had to say. His thoughts ran busily on until the prayer was finished and the collection box came round again. He noticed a woman putting a twenty-pound note into it. When it came to him, he put in a pound. Barry would not expect him to afford any more. He was not paid until the end of the week.

He was looking up towards the ceiling and admiring the start of his paintwork when he became aware his name was being called.

"Hamish!"

Hamish started and looked at Barry Owen. "Come forward, brother," commanded Barry.

Feeling every bit the idiot Mrs. Owen believed him to be, Hamish went forward. He stood with his shoulders hunched and a vacant smile on his face. Then he saw that Mrs. Owen was not in the congregation and decided it would not be politic to act the empty-headed fool too much, as he had not pulled that act on Barry.

"Now, brother," said Barry, "tell us your troubles."

"I suffer from depression," mumbled Hamish, seeing a mocking grin on Sanders's face.

"Louder. The Lord must hear you!"

"I suffer from depression," shouted Hamish, thoroughly embarrassed. "Och, I cannae talk about it in front of all these people."

"You will, when the spirit of the Lord enters you." Barry reached up and laid his hands on Hamish's head. Hamish felt a shock like an electric current running through his body.

The superstitious Highland part of his mind wondered if Barry really did have healing powers. The police side wondered what electrical device Barry had hidden in the palm of his hand.

"Go and join your brothers and sisters and listen to their help," said Barry.

Hamish thankfully hurried back to his place next to Sanders.

One by one, various members began to talk about how depressed they had been until they had joined the church.

Then to Hamish's amazement, Sanders leapt to his feet. "I had been a sufferer from chronic depression for years," he said, "until the light entered my soul."

"Hallelujah," shouted a thin woman, clutching a shopping bag on her lap.

"And do you know why?" he shouted.

"Tell us!" urged the congregation.

"My sexual orientation was wrong, wrong, wrong!'

"Ah.'" A sigh of satisfaction came from the congregation. Back to good old sex at last.

"I was locked in an unhappy marriage. I could not bring myself to touch her. She repulsed me. I prayed to the Lord. My brain cleared. I was gay. I would not admit that before, even to myself. My black cloud lifted and I saw the light." Sanders smiled fondly down at Hamish, who glared at him.

"My brother here will come with me and I will explain in private how he might be helped." He stretched down his hand. "Come, brother Hamish."

"Yes, go," cried the congregation in a state of ecstasy.

Blushing as red as his hair, Hamish allowed Sanders to lead him out of the church.

"Well, hullo, sailor," said Hamish bitterly.

"How else was I to get a private word with you?" said Sanders.

"So you can let go of my hand."

"Such a nice hand," said Sanders, patting it. "You should see your face."

"How did you know they would just let me walk out with you?" asked Hamish.

"Easy, I'd dropped in there before, undercover. Sex, always sex. They wank off just talking about it. So I knew if I got them back on their usual track, they wouldn't mind."

"So what's this all about?" asked Hamish. "How did you get on with Felicity?"

Sanders told him as they walked down towards the town.

Hamish felt depressed. "So all that does is add evidence to the fact that Tommy did kill himself by accident."

"Looks that way, and I think you're wasting time in that damn church."

"Maybe something there," said Hamish. "Maybe they show blue films?"

"So what? Have you seen television lately? Even the BBC shows everyone screwing everything. Turn to the nature programmes for a bit of relief, and they've got animals shagging."

"Are you gay?" asked Hamish abruptly. "Not that it matters. I'm just curious to learn if the hidebound dinosaurs of Strathbane police have moved into the twentieth century."

"No, but it was the best thing I could think of to get you out of there."

"So what now?" asked Hamish. "I suppose that's that. I might have a go at just one more lead."

"What's that?"

Hamish told him about the two supposed students that Tommy had lodged with.

"I doubt if you'll find them still there," said Sanders. "Worth a try all the same."

Hamish looked at him sharply. "You mean you still think there was something funny about Tommy's death?"

"Yes. It's a gut feeling."

"So are you going to come with me to see these two former friends of Tommy's?"

"No, I go on a lot of drug raids. They might be a couple I busted."

"Then what about the people in the church, for heavens sake?"

"I checked them out as they went in. Nothing sinister there."

"Oh, my," moaned Hamish. "I'm working at that church for nothing."

"You mean they aren't paying you?"

"Aye, they're paying me, and I better look noble if I stay to the end of the week and put the money in the collection box because if headquarters gets a wind of me taking money, I'll be out on my ear."

"I'll leave you here," said Sanders, stopping by his car. "I parked well away from the church."

"It's an ordinary car, not a police car," said Hamish. "Why did you do that?"

"I wanted to go on foot for a bit. Gave me a better chance to suss out the people going into the church. Are you going to see these blokes in your capacity as police officer?"

"No."

"Well, you look a damn sight too clean. Take my advice and muck yourself up a bit. And let me know if you even get a whisper." He took out his notebook. "I'll write down my home address and number. You may get into trouble." He tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Hamish.

Hamish waved to him and walked off into the night.

What a smelly place Strathbane was, he reflected as he headed down to the old docks where he knew Glenfields housing estate to be. Smells of gas and sour earth and cheap cooking.

He wished he hadn't shaved that morning. He wished he hadn't pressed his shirt. He was too old to pose as a student.

He walked through the estate until he found Kinnock Tower. The lift wasn't working. Wearily he began to climb the stairs. The walls of the staircase were covered in graffiti and the stairs themselves in garbage. The whole estate had been due for demolition for some time but kept being put off, because temporary accommodation would have to be found for the inhabitants and then new houses built and there was no money for that, perhaps because the councillors of Strathbane had a propensity to travel to exotic places en masse on "fact-finding" missions, and taking their wives with them, and all at the taxpayers' expense.

The flat he was looking for was near the top of the building. He trudged along until he came to 244. A blast of stereo sound came through the thin door. He rang the bell, and then, reflecting that the bell probably didn't work, knocked at the glass panel of the door, which had been broken at one time and stuck together again with sticky tape. Still no reply. He bent down and shouted through the letter box, "Anybody home?"

The door was suddenly jerked open.

A small, fat, piggy man stood there. He was bare to the waist. A snake was tattooed around one arm. Bob, thought Hamish.

Bob's eyes dropped to Hamish's feet. Hamish was glad he had put on an old pair of trainers instead of his regulation boots, which he often wore even when he was in plain clothes.

"Whit d'ye want?" demanded Bob.

Hamish leaned indolently against the doorjamb. "I heard I could get some good stuff here."

Bob thrust past him and peered up and down. "Come in," he said.

The outside door opened straight into a living room. The noise from the stereo was so loud it seemed to make the thin walls vibrate. There was little furniture, beanbags on the floor, one with a knife slash in it and the contents spilling out onto the bare boards. The room was littered with empty Diet Coke cans. Hamish had never seen so many.

"Wait here," said Bob.

He went into another room. There came sounds of an altercation. Then silence. Then Bob came back, followed by a tall young man with long unkempt hair and a straggly moustache. Angus, thought Hamish.

"What stuff?" demanded Angus.

"Heroin," said Hamish.

"Oh, yeah? What makes you think we've got any drugs."

"You haven't," said Hamish insolently. "Not in the quantity I need to buy."

Hamish knew impersonation came better from the inside. His very sneering insolence, the contempt in his eyes as he looked them up and down, he knew was a better disguise than if he had tried to dress up in the character of a drug baron.

"How much are we talking about here?" demanded Angus.

"Fifty thousand pounds for starters."

"Whit! Show us the money."

"Do you think I'd bring that much into a slum like this?" Hamish's eyes raked over the mess of the room. "I'm moving business to Strathbane and someone told me you two knew the drug scene."

"Oh, aye? And just who would that someone be?" demanded Bob, who had taken out a large knife and was waving it about.

"Put that bread knife away, you silly wee man," said Hamish.

"Who re you calling a silly wee man?" roared Bob. "I'll cut your face."

Hamish stared at him unmovingly.

"Put the blade down," snapped Angus. "So, big man," he said to Hamish, "which syndicate are you from?"

"As if I would tell you," jeered Hamish. "Just get me in touch and there's money in it for you."

"How much money are we talking about?"

"A hundred for each of you. You get me the contact and you get your money."

"Where do we get in touch?"

"You don't. Name a place and time and I'll be there."

"Wait a bit." Angus jerked his head at Bob and both went into the other room and shut the door behind them.

When they had gone, Hamish forced himself to maintain his role of big-time drug dealer. He knew if he relaxed the act for one moment, he would feel frightened and the fright would show.

There was an opened packet of cigarettes lying among the debris of Coke cans and half-eaten food in a corner of the floor. He stared at it hungrily, all the old longing for a cigarette flooding his body.

But just when he felt himself weakening, the door opened and Bob and Angus came back in.

"Took your time, didn't you?" demanded Hamish.

"Lachie's. Do you know Lachie's?"

"The disco."

"That's the one. Be there Thursday at nine o'clock."

"Okay. I'll be seeing you."

Hamish walked quickly to the door, nodded to them and walked outside, shutting it firmly behind him. He then stood a little way away from the door so that his silhouette could not be seen against the frosted glass and listened. "Follow him," he heard Angus say.

Hamish took off like a hare, running lightly on his trainers. He darted down the stairs and then along a corridor leading to the flats below. He pressed against the wall and waited until he heard Bob clattering down the stairs in pursuit. He waited until Bob's footsteps had faded away and then he made his way leisurely down the stairs, his mind in a turmoil.

What had he done? How on earth could he follow it through? What on earth had possessed him?

He would need to get hold of Sanders fast.

He made his way cautiously along the dark empty nighttime streets, always listening for the sound of pursuit. In the centre of the town, he found a phone box and dialled Sanders's number.

"Hamish," said Sanders crossly. "What now?"

"I need to see you. Now," said Hamish. "I'm in a mess."

"Okay, come round. Get to police headquarters, go on along Strathie Street past four turnings on the left going north, and the fifth is Tummock Drive."

"I'll be as fast as I can," said Hamish, and rang off.

Sanders listened to Hamish in silence and then said, "There's two things you can do, Hamish. One, go back to Lochdubh and forget about the whole thing. Two, come with me to police headquarters and let's see if we can follow this through."

"Blair will have my guts for garters."

"Blair's away for a week. Superintendent Daviot'll need to be in on this. You'd better stay the night and come in with me in the morning."

Wondering what they were making of his absence from the church, Hamish endured the wrath of Jimmy Anderson the next morning. Anderson howled that Hamish had lost his mind. Sanders said quietly that they had never really nailed a good drug bust and if Hamish could lead them to where the supplies were coming in, it would be a marvellous coup. Jimmy Anderson sourly said they should put the whole matter before Chief Superintendent Daviot. Hamish endured another gruelling session and then was told to go back to the church and maintain his cover until they got in touch with him. Until then, he was not to be seen at police headquarters again.

"Where the hell have you been?" demanded Barry when Hamish arrived looking haggard and unshaven.

"I talked most of the night with that fellow. He wass most helpful."

"I'm docking the time from your wages," said Barry. "Get to it. Any more days off and you're finished here."

Tired as he was, Hamish was glad of the work to take his mind off his troubles. He had gone to see Bob and Angus with no clear idea of what to say. Whatever had possessed him not only to tell that monstrous lie, but to say that he could come up with fifty thousand pounds?

He worked until just before the evening service was due to take place and put away his paint pots and soaked his brushes and then got in Sean's old car and drove to Lochdubh. After he had soaked in a hot bath and changed his clothes, he began to feel better. He had not been fired. As he had pointed out, he was doing the investigation in his own free time. They could either go ahead with it or tell him to stop being a maverick and never, ever do anything like that again without consulting his superiors.

There was a knock at the door. It was Angela, the doctor's wife. "Your sheep are all right and your hens are fed and locked up for the night."

"Thank you," said Hamish. "Come in."

"I can't. I'm rushing. You look awful. Been out on the town?"

"Aye, you could say that," said Hamish.

After he had said goodbye to her, he locked up the police station and drove off towards Strathbane. It was a cold, crisp night and great stars blazed overhead. He drove steadily until he saw the orange blot on the sky which meant he was approaching Strathbane.

He parked outside the church and walked around the back to the kitchen door. There were lights on in the kitchen. He stopped and then went forward softly and put his ear to the kitchen door.

Barry's voice sounded sharp and clear. "Betty Jones hasn't paid up. She's in arrears."

"Then take her pension book," came his wife's voice.

"She won't give it up."

"Threatened her with the wrath of God, did you?" sneered his wife.

"Didn't have the slightest effect. She says she can't pay."

"We need some muscle on this. Trust you to employ a halfwit."

"I wanted the church painted," said Barry peevishly. "We employ muscle, we'll have to pay for it."

Hamish drew softly away from the door. So the Owens were loan sharks, using the church as a front. Lend money at high interest and if they didn't pay, take their pension book or dole payment book. He was about to retreat and go back to police headquarters and report what he had heard. But he had been told to stay at his job at the church until he was contacted.

He went back to the car, let in the brake and cruised down the hill a little without switching on the engine. Then he switched it on and turned and drove back up to the church, revving the engine before he stopped and this time getting out and slamming the door loudly. Then he walked up to the kitchen door, whistling loudly, and opened it.

The Owens were sitting there over cups of coffee. Mrs. Owen had a large bag at her feet which she zipped shut when Hamish walked in. No doubt where she had shoved the books, thought Hamish.

"Come in, lad, and the Lord be with you," said Barry unctuously. "We were just leaving."

Hamish tried to look as vacant-eyed as possible until they had gone, for Dominica kept throwing him nasty little looks.

At least he had something on them. How horrible they were! Now all he had to do was wait until headquarters managed to get in touch with him.

He was working busily on Wednesday, wondering all the while if the powers that be had decided to let the whole thing drop. It was a blustery, windy day and he had left the church door standing open to dry the paint. He had reached ground level of one of the walls and was bending down to fill in a bit he had missed when his sixth sense told him he was being watched.

He straightened up slowly and turned round. A woman of about his own age, thirty-something, stood there. She had thick black hair tied at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon. She was wearing a tailored suit and flat shoes. She had an oval face, large brown eyes and a generous mouth.

"What can I do for you?" asked Hamish.

The woman looked around. "Can we get out of here for a bit? We need to talk somewhere private."

Hamish glanced at his watch. "It's just about lunch-time."

"Then we'll have lunch."

They walked a good bit away from the church before she stopped by a small car. "Get in," she said, "and we'll go into the centre of town."

They had driven a few streets when she said, "I gather you will have guessed I am here to brief you." "Are you somebody's secretary?" "I am Detective Inspector Chater."

"Sorry, ma'am."

"And that was a sexist remark if ever there was one."

"This," said Hamish, waving an expansive hand, "is sexist country. You cannae be from Strathbane."

"I have been brought up from Glasgow. Don't talk until I negotiate this bloody awful one-way system."

She parked at last in the private car park of the Grand Hotel. Any hotel called the Grand conjures up visions of Victorian or Edwardian elegance, but this one was pure Strathbane: a square, modern building decorated in the height of geek-chic, plastic and vulgar and pretentious.

The dining room was fairly empty. She demanded, and got, a table in a secluded corner.

They ordered from a huge menu filled with glorious descriptions of crackling this and fresh that, and sizzling the other. Hamish ordered fish and chips-"Sea-fresh haddock in golden crispy batter and pommes frites"-and she ordered steak and a baked potato-"Prime cut of Angus with floury baked potato and lashings of fresh Scottish butter."

Detective Inspector Chater surveyed Hamish curiously. "You are a little better than I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"You don't look as stupid as I expected."

Hamish raised his eyebrows.

She clasped neat little hands with well-manicured and unpolished nails on the table.

"These are the facts as they were given to me. You suspect there is something fishy in the death of a junkie, even though it seems a perfectly straightforward overdose. So you take leave, take a job in some weird church and then go calling on two of the dead man's former flatmates. Once there, for God knows what mad reason, you pose as a drug baron and say you've got fifty thousand pounds to pay for heroin. Instead of sticking a knife in you or saying they didn't know what you were talking about, this unlovely pair-we've checked on them-who do not even have a record, promptly play your game." Her eyes took in his outfit of old sweater, frayed shirt and paint-stained trousers. "My guess is that they were playing games with you. How on earth could anyone take you for a drug baron?"

Hamish leaned back in his chair and his face suddenly became a mask of sneering arrogant insolence and his eyes stone-hard. "Why not?" he drawled.

"If you looked like that, they might just have fallen for it, but I doubt it. Anyway, I've been dragged up from Glasgow to play this comedy through to the end."

"Have you got the money?" asked Hamish.

"No, I haven't got the money. Are you mad? We both go to Lachie's for the meet and take it from there. What we want to find out is not if Lachie is dealing but where the supplies come in. The west coast of Scotland is such a maze of sea lochs and creeks, it could be anywhere."

"And who are you supposed to be?"

She gave a little sigh. "I am supposed to be your wife. They've got a house for us."

"And who are we?"

"I will give you the big names in one of the main Glasgow syndicates and brief you on what to say. You are Hamish George-I believe that's the name you were using at the church."

"How did you know that?"

"We have our methods, Watson."

"I'll need to know your first name. I cannae call you ma'am the whole time."

"It's Olivia."

Hamish smiled. "A pretty name."

"Don't get any ideas, Constable, and remember at all times when we are not on the job that I am your superior officer."

"Yes, ma'am," said Hamish meekly,

"You may as well start calling me Olivia and get into the act. Here's our food."

Hamish picked away at a truly dreadful plate of fish and chips while Olivia sawed her way through a tough steak.

"Tell me, ma'am," he said. "I mean Olivia, are you going to be dressed like that?"

"No, I shall look the part. What about you?"

"I've got a good suit," said Hamish proudly, who had bought a Savile Row one in a thrift shop.

"We'll lend you some accessories. A gold Rolex, few bits like that."

"I'll go home this evening and get my suit."

"That's the last time you'll go near that police station of yours until this is all over. What will you tell them at the church?"

"I don't need to tell them anything," said Hamish with a grin. He told her about the loan sharking.

"Good. We'll pull them in today and keep them in. No bail for them." She took out a notebook and wrote in it and tore off a leaf. "That's our address. Be there at seven this evening. I'll go and tell headquarters about the church. Get back there and pack up your stuff. If they're around, pick a quarrel with them and walk out."

"Want coffee?" asked Hamish.

"No, I'll be off. See you later."

Olivia made her way briskly out of the restaurant. It was then that Hamish realised he did not have enough money on him to pay the bill and that he had left his chequebook and bank cards back in Lochdubh, not wanting to take them to the church in case the Owens searched his belongings.

The dining room was empty apart from four other diners. Hamish's waitress appeared to be the only one on duty. She was standing looking out of the window.

"Here, you!" called Hamish rudely. "What about bringing some coffee?"

She threw him an outraged look and stalked off into the kitchen.

Hamish slid out of his seat and was out of the restaurant and out of the hotel door as fast as he could.

He could not afford a cab and so had to walk all the way back to the church. To his relief, there was no sign of the Owens.

He packed up his few belongings and put them into Sean's old car and drove off.

He stopped at Sean's to pick up the police Land Rover and tried to persuade the old man to give him a refund because he hadn't had the car all week.

"Away with ye," said Sean. "That's a valuable car and twenty-five pounds was a damn cheap price for a week's rental. I should've charged you more."

Hamish had a fleeting, treacherous thought that maybe he should have taken Tommy's parents' money. He drove back to the police station.

Lochdubh lay spread out under a sunny, breezy sky. Wind whipped up the sea loch into waves. Washing on lines flapped gaily like flags welcoming him home. He felt he had been away for years instead of a matter of hours. Inside him, he felt a little twinge of dread. What if he could not pull it off? What if his cover was blown? What if it came to the crunch and he was asked for the money? He could not envisage Strathbane police headquarters handing over fifty thousand pounds.

He let himself into the police station. He wished he could confide in someone, share the burden. But even if Priscilla should suddenly arrive back from London, he knew he could not even tell her.

He began to pack his one and only good suit and his few respectable shirts. He also packed several paperbacks. There might be long periods of waiting. He wondered about Olivia. Was she married? She must be tough and competent to have reached the rank of detective inspector.

The police station was so comfortable, so familiar, so safe. It was tempting to manufacture some illness and beg off the job. With a sigh, he finished his packing, carried the suitcase out to the police Land Rover. He would drive it to headquarters, leave it there and walk along to his new address.

He drove to the doctor's and told Angela he was going to visit his parents in Rogart and stay with them for a bit. To his embarrassment, Angela made him wait while she took a cake out of the oven, let it cool and then boxed it up. "Its lemon sponge," said Angela. "A present for your mother. Let me know how she likes it."

Feeling guilty, Hamish took the cake and said his farewells.

Some time later, Olivia opened the door to him. Their "new home" was a bungalow furnished in dreadful taste: fake log fire, velvet three-piece suite, noisy wallpaper, horrible oil paintings of hills and glens, glass coffee table and a giant television set.

"Who usually lives here?" asked Hamish, putting down his suitcase and placing the cake box on the coffee table.

"Some friend of Superintendent Peter Daviot who's letting us have the use of it. You brought cake?"

"Aye, one of my friends thought I was going to see my mother and gave me a cake for her."

"We may as well have some. I'll make some tea. Your bedroom's second on the right down the corridor. Put your things away."

She was wearing a shirt blouse tied at the waist and jeans. They should have put a man on the job, thought Hamish. It didn't matter how liberated the decade, women aroused protective feelings which could get in the way.

When he had put his things away, he returned to the living room. The sponge was on a plate with the tea things on the table.

"Your friend's sponge seems to have fallen in the middle," said Olivia.

"Oh, well, that's Angela," said Hamish. "Heart of gold and the worst baking in the Highlands."

"Maybe if we eat the outside and leave the soggy bit in the middle, it'll be all right."

But it tasted as bad as it looked. Angela had used so much lemon and so little sugar that the sponge actually tasted sour.

"Don't let's bother with it," said Olivia. "Let's get down to business. You are a headman for Jimmy White's syndicate in Glasgow. You want to do business in the Highlands."

"And what do the Highland lot think of that?"

"We'll find out. According to DC Sanders, who will be joining us shortly, they are a small outfit suddenly getting larger. Somehow, they are getting shipments of drugs into the country, undetected. Our job is to somehow find out where on the coast the supplies are coming in. Glasgow CID recently seized two shiploads so it's feasible that someone from Glasgow would come up here to purchase drugs."

"Fifty thousand pounds is not going to impress them."

"They're still not that large an outfit." The doorbell rang. "That'll be Sanders," she said, going to answer it.

DC Sanders came in, looking more like a picture on a cornflakes packet than ever.

"Sit down, Sanders," said Olivia. "Tea?"

"Yes, milk and two sugars, please."

"Help yourself," said Olivia curtly, as if to say it was not a senior officer's job to pour tea just because that senior officer happened to be a woman.

"Tell Hamish what you know about the drug situation in Strathbane," she commanded. "I am getting in the way of calling him Hamish because we need to pose as man and wife."

"It's like this," said Sanders. "We raided houses and arrested pushers. The pushers are usually small fry who are on drugs themselves. Through them we sometimes get one of the middlemen but never anyone at the top. Lachie's has been raided several times. We found some of the young people with ecstasy tablets but that was all."

"What about Lachie's? Who owns it?"

"John Lachie. Up from Glasgow. Opened the disco a year ago," said Sanders.

"Any record?"

"Early record. Robbery with violence. Did a stretch in Barlinnie Prison. That was ten years ago. Nothing since then."

"What sort of man is he?" asked Hamish.

"Middle-aged, likes the high life, flashy car, flashy clothes. His disco's very popular. Young people come from all over the Highlands. There's not much else for them. If Lachie's the kingpin, then it's Lachie you'll meet tomorrow night. Could be someone else we don't know about."

"What if Lachie gets onto Jimmy White?" asked Hamish uneasily. "What if Jimmy White says he's neffer heard of me?"

"That's something we will deal with when the time comes," said Olivia briskly. "You will be issued with a gadget with an alarm button. You just press it and the place will immediately be flooded with police."

"Meaning they will be on standby in the streets round about?"

"Yes," said Sanders.

"I don't like it," said Hamish.

"Why?" demanded Olivia.

"If they are dealing in hard drugs, they will be alert to any sign of police surveillance."

"The men will be in plain clothes," said Olivia testily.

"I can tell a Strathbane copper a mile off," said Hamish, "and I'm sure they can, too."

Olivia looked at him impatiently. "Then what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we take our chances. Headquarters isn't far from Lachie's. Why can't they wait there?"

"I'll see what I can do," said Olivia uneasily, thinking of Superintendent Daviot's enthusiasm and of the maps he had pinned up on his office wall, of the fun he had had briefing the "troops" personally. "Wait here."

She went off into her bedroom and then they could hear her voice as she spoke into her mobile phone.

"Grand cake," said Sanders, eating busily.

"Have all you like," said Hamish, thinking the man must have a cast-iron stomach.

"Quite a looker," said Sanders.

"Olivia? She makes me uneasy," said Hamish. "They should have put a man on this job."

"She's not a token woman appointment," said Sanders. "She's got a reputation of being clever and tough."

"Is herself married?"

"No, and don't get any ideas. Some detective came on to her in Glasgow and she poured boiling coffee on him where it would hurt the most."

"She is safe from me," said Hamish. "I tell you this, it is the long time since I've fancied any woman."

"Wait to you see some of the nymphets at Lachie's."

"I am not the baby-snatcher either."

"Hamish Macbeth, I think you're a puritan."

"How is he a puritan?" asked Olivia, coming into the room.

"He doesn't fancy the lassies."

"Are you gay?" asked Olivia.

"No, I am not," said Hamish. "I am chust that wee bit disenchanted with women. What did headquarters say?"

"They're thinking about it. You know what the trouble is? There's just too many cop shows on television and Strathbane at the moment seems to be a case of life determined to imitate art. They swear no one will be able to detect their men."

"Oh, aye," remarked Hamish cynically. "I'll bet they haff the street sweeper in sort of clean-dirty clothes out on the streets when every other street sweeper has packed it in for the day. Then there will be the ice cream van that doesn't sell ice cream. Oh, and what about the window cleaner cleaning windows in the dark? And the courting couple."

"They're looking into it," said Olivia curtly. "We're going ahead with this because you got us into it in the first place. I hope you are not to go on showing a lack of enthusiasm."

"He's got a point, ma'am," said Sanders uneasily.

"As I said, they are looking into it."

"Well," continued Sanders, "what we are really looking for is a big shipment of heroin coming in. We've picked up whispers."

"The monster," said Hamish suddenly. "The monster in Loch Drim."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Olivia.

He told them about Ailsa thinking she had seen a monster. "It could have been the light from a boat," he said. "Or they could have rigged up something to frighten the locals and keep them away."

Olivia sat frowning in silence. Then she said, "We're doing nothing this evening. We may as well drive over and have a look."

"I'm on duty, ma'am," said Sanders. "Will I be expected to come with you?"

"No, that won't be necessary. We'll just have a recce."

After Sanders had left, carrying the remains of the cake, Olivia made omelettes for them. After Hamish had washed up the dishes, she said, "We'd better put on some dark clothes. You know the villagers there, don't you?"

"Yes, Drim is on my beat."

"How will you explain me?"

"Monster fanatic. There's a lot of them around."

They set out an hour later, Olivia driving. "You know," she said, "I've never, ever been this far north in Scotland before."

"No Highland holidays?"

"You know how it is, everyone goes abroad these days. Why spend a holiday in the Highlands of Scotland getting soaked to the skin when you can bask in the sunshine in Spain?"

"It's good for the complexion," said Hamish. "Just think of the damage the sun does to your skin."

"And just think of the damage cold, wet weather does to your temper."

"Aye, you could be right."

"Tell me, Hamish, you seem to be an intelligent if unorthodox officer, and yet you're still only a policeman. Why is that?"

"I'm considered too much of a loose cannon for promotion. Besides, you've seen a wee bit of Strathbane. Would you like to work there?"

"It's not very different from Glasgow. Aren't you ambitious?"

"Not at all."

"That's very odd."

"I suppose it is, but it makes for a contented life. I love Lochdubh."

"What's so special about the place?"

"It's easygoing, the people are friendly, I've got my bit of croft at the back of the police station. It's beautiful everywhere you look. If I moved to Strathbane, I'd be old before my time. I don't have to deal with any bad crime-well, not lately. The odd burglary, boundary disputes, sheep-dip papers, things like that."

"Don't you get bored?"

"Hardly ever."

"You're not married."

"No," said Hamish flatly.

"Which way now?"

"The signpost to Drim is just coming up. Make a left round the next bend."

They made their way down the one-track winding road which led to Drim. Olivia could just make out the gleam of the sea loch. The wind had died down and everything was very still. A few lights twinkled in the cottages.

Because of the towering mountains above Drim and on either side of the loch, Olivia felt they were sinking down into complete blackness.

"Just stop the car outside the stores there," said Hamish. "We'll get out and walk."

"I don't much like the atmosphere of this place," said Olivia with a shiver. "At least no one is about to see us."

"Oh, they've seen us all right," said Hamish. "Every curtain in the village will have been twitching."

"So why doesn't someone come out and ask us what we are doing?"

"That's not their way. They prefer to speculate. Much more fun. The path is along here. We'd better switch on our torches. As we get near the sea, we'll switch them off. The mountains fall back there, and there'll be enough light from the sky. I suggest we don't talk anymore. Sound carries a long way up here."

He took out a black woollen hat and pulled it over his hair. "Just in case we meet someone who shouldn't be here, my hair shines out like a beacon."

After some time, they heard the sound of the sea and switched off their torches.

"All quiet," whispered Olivia.

"Get down and don't make a sound," Hamish hissed suddenly.

"What…?"

"I sense something."

Hamish pulled up a clump of heather from the side of the path. "Take some of the dirt and black your face."

They smeared their faces and then waited in silence. Olivia began to relax. Hamish was a nice fellow but she was beginning to think he was eccentric, maybe a bit touched in the head.

She was just about to press his arm, to say something, when two great green eyes glared at them out of the blackness. "Don't move," urged Hamish. The eyes came closer. They were attached to a small head and long prehistoric neck. In the faint starlight, they could make out the coils of a serpentine body.

They waited. Olivia could feel cold sweat breaking out on her face. Then the creature turned and disappeared around the bend to the sea. Olivia tried to rise to her feet but Hamish grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down. "Wait!"

They waited for what seemed to Olivia like an age. Then Hamish rose and pulled her up and said, "Come on. Let's see who's playing tricks."

"We're unarmed and I don't have the thing with the panic button with me," muttered Olivia. "We're not in a position to confront drug smugglers."

"I haff this feeling it is not the smugglers. Let's see."

They walked quietly to the end of the loch. The sound of the sea was very loud now and would, Hamish hoped, drown any sounds of their approach.

"A cave. There must be a cave around here."

His keen eyes scanned the steep rocks on either side of the entrance to the loch. "Over there," he whispered. "Do you see that dark cleft? I bet it's there. Over on the other side."

"How do we get over there?"

"We swim. You can swim?"

"Yes, but…"

"And you'd best keep close to me. The current can be strong."

Olivia thought miserably as she entered the loch after Hamish that it must be the coldest water in the world. She was a strong swimmer but found she had to use every ounce of energy to battle with the current. Hamish reached down and pulled her up on the other side.

Together they approached the entrance to the cave. "Just leave the thing to deflate," said a voice. Jock Kennedy, thought Hamish. The bastard!

"Come on," he said to Olivia. "It isn't the drug smugglers."

He strode into the cave. By the light of the hurricane lamp he saw Jock Kennedy and two men. The rubber neck of the monster was making a hissing sound as it deflated.

"Whit's the meaning of this, Jock?" demanded Hamish sternly.

"Och, it's yourself," said Jock in a disgusted voice. "I thought I had frightened you off"

"What the hell were you up to?"

"Trade at the shop has been that slack. I thought if I had a monster and spread stories that the folks would come. You know what they're like in Drim, Hamish. They're aye putting the tourists off. I thought a monster would draw folks."

"But you told me not to encourage Ailsa in thinking she had seen a monster."

"Aye, but I didn't want you to take it seriously or I know you would start poking your nose in."

"How did you know we were on our way?"

Jock held up a mobile phone. "We just happened to be along here putting more finishing touches."

"Finishing is the word," said Hamish bitterly. "Get rid of that damn thing and, instead, try to get the villagers to be nice to strangers. How did you get over here?"

"There's a track a bit up the mountain on this side."

Olivia found her voice. "Book him," she said savagely.

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary," he said soothingly. "Jock won't be pulling that trick again."

"Outside, Macbeth," snapped Olivia.

He followed her out. "You cannot be calling me Macbeth and giving me orders in front of the locals," he chided, "or they will guess you are a senior officer, and gossip spreads like wildfire in the Highlands. It wass only a prank and we've got more important work to do than charge Jock Kennedy. Surely the drug job is too important."

"Just get me out of here," she shouted.

Hamish went back into the cave. "You'd best lead us back, Jock."

"Who is the lady?"

"Some monster hunter like they get up in Loch Ness. And she's really sore with you."

"Sorry," mumbled Jock. "But it was the grand monster."

They silently followed him up the mountain and along a rocky track, broken in places by falls of scree.

Then they walked around the end of the loch to where Olivia's car was parked.

"Come in and dry yourselves and have a dram," said Jock.

"That would be grand," started Hamish, but Olivia said furiously, "Just get in the car. We are leaving… now"

"Very good," said Hamish meekly.