M. Beaton: Death Of An Addict

"Wait a bit," Hamish interrupted. "I saw Tommy today and he was healthy and happy."

The pathologist sighed. "Any addict is a tricky person. Very sneaky. He could have been talking to you and planning all the time in his brain when he was going to shoot up."

"Could the dose have been forcibly injected?"

"There are no signs of violence or of forced entry to the chalet."

"There wouldnae be any signs of forced entry. He probably kept his door unlocked day and night. I wonder about that book he was writing," murmured Hamish. "Oh, dear, I think that must be the boy's parents arriving."

A stolid, middle-aged couple were getting out of a police car. The woman, plump and matronly, was weeping, her husband with the blank look of shock on his face.

Hamish said goodbye to the pathologist. There was nothing more he could do. But he took Parry aside.

"Look, Parry, Jimmy Anderson will get mad if I interfere but could you do me a wee favour? If you get a chance to speak to the parents-they'll be getting Tommy's effects-ask them if I could have a look at what he was writing.".

"I'll do that. Are you off then?"

"I'll just stop at the Irishman's cottage at the Crask turn.

He might have seen some cars."

Sean Fitzpatrick was a crusty old man. No one was quite sure when he had arrived from Ireland, only that he was a retired builder. He had bought a ruin of a cottage and had restored it. The locals had tried to be friendly but as they said, "Sean likes to keep himself to himself."

Hamish had only exchanged a few "good days" with the man but any attempt he had made to stop the police Land Rover and get out when he saw the old man working in his garden had resulted in Sean scuttling indoors.

He drove up, parked and got out. The sky was still brightly lit by a full moon. A thin thread of smoke was rising from the cottage chimney up to a black velvet sky where only a few faint stars glimmered. The black clouds he had seen earlier had retreated. The evening was cool and the air was sweet.

A deer, magnificently antlered, stood silhouetted on the crest of a hill above the little cottage with the moon behind it, as if posing for a photograph, and then disappeared with one long bound.

The peace of the evening entered Hamish's soul. He felt sure now that Tommy had indeed taken an overdose. It was his own vanity, he thought ruefully, that had made him want to find out it was murder, because he had instinctively liked and trusted Tommy.

He opened the green-painted gate and walked up the short path and knocked at the door.

He waited patiently. At last the door opened a crack and an eye looked out at him.

"Police, Mr. Fitzpatrick," said Hamish. "A wee word with you, please."

The door opened wide. Sean Fitzpatrick was stooped and old but his eyes were bright and intelligent in his tanned and seamed face.

"What is it about?" he asked cautiously. He had a light pleasant Irish accent. Probably west coast, thought Hamish.

"It's about one of Parry McSporran's tenants. He's been found dead of a drug overdose."

"And what has that to do with me?"

"Can I come in?"

"All right," said Sean reluctantly. "Just for a minute."

Hamish tucked his cap under his arm, ducked his head under the low doorway and followed Sean inside, curious to see how this recluse lived.

Well, the answer is all here, thought Hamish, looking round the living room. Crammed bookshelves took up three walls, and beside the fireplace on the fourth was a CD player and neat stacks of CDs.

"Are these your company?" he asked, waving a hand to the bookshelves.

"Sure," said Sean, settling into a battered armchair and indicating its twin opposite. "But you didn't come here to talk about books."

"Two cars going in the direction of Glenanstey were sighted this afternoon. Did you maybe happen to notice them?"

"At what time?"

Hamish thought hard. Felicity had arrived back at what time? Six o'clock. And he had seen her down at Patel's just before that. "Say about five," he said.

"I was in here listening to music," said Sean. "Didn't hear a thing. You know when I saw you, I thought for a moment you'd come about the monster."

"Monster? The Loch Ness Monster?"

"No, there's a lot of fuss over at Loch Drim. Two of the women saw a monster. They phoned the police in Strathbane, but whoever they spoke to told them to go and have a cup of black coffee."

"Why didn't they phone me?" asked Hamish crossly. "Drim is on my beat."

"Said it was too important for a local bobby to deal with."

"And how do you know this? Folks say you never see anyone or go anywhere."

"I go around to get my bit of shopping. Folks have a way of talking in front of me as if I'm deaf and invisible."

"That's your own fault. You never talk to anyone."

"I didn't retire to the Highlands of Scotland to talk to anybody."

"Why did you come here? Where in Ireland are you from?"

"Mind your own business, Officer."

"Well, if you can't help me," said Hamish, rising and walking to the door, "I'd better call over at Drim and take a look into this other business."

Sean's eyes twinkled up at him.

"I think you'll find Jock Kennedy, who runs the general store, has thought up a way of drumming up business."

"It would amaze me," said Hamish bitterly, "seeing how much they hate outsiders in Drim."

Hamish was always puzzled that two such contrasting villages as Lochdubh and Drim could be situated on his beat. Lochdubh always seemed light and friendly. Drim was all that on the surface, but underneath there were black passions among the villagers, easily stirred up.

He thought that perhaps it had a lot to do with the location. It lay at the end of a black sea loch surrounded by towering mountains. It was almost as if the geography had made the people turn inwards upon themselves, suspicious of strangers, and anyone from outside was a stranger.

He drove down the twisting road to the village and parked outside Jock Kennedy's general store.

The shop was closed up for the night so he knocked loudly at the side door which led to the Kennedys' flat over the store.

The burly figure of Jock Kennedy answered the door.

"What's all this about a monster?" asked Hamish.

Jock came out and closed the door behind him. "Walk a bit with me, Hamish. I don't want Ailsa getting any more daft ideas." Ailsa was his wife.

They walked down to the water's edge. Little waves rippled at their feet. A seagull called mournfully; in one of the cottages behind them, a woman admonished her child. Then there was silence, the silence of Sutherland, sometimes so complete it hurts modern ears.

Jock heaved a sigh, and then said, "I don't want Ailsa or her friend Holly to be encouraged in this nonsense."

"You'd best tell me what the nonsense is all about, Jock."

"They were out walking along towards the sea."

Hamish looked down at the black loch and then at the steep mountainsides which sloped straight down into the water.

"I've never been along there. I didn't know there was a path."

"You cannae see it from here. It's little more than a rabbit track. Ailsa and Holly went out the other evening. They are both on some exercise regime. They say just up almost at the head of the loch, they saw two great glaring green eyes staring at them out of some huge bulk in the water. It began to move silently towards them and they screamed and ran. Then they worked up all the other women in the village and reported it tae Strathbane police and were told to drink lots of black coffee. The police thought they'd been drinking hooch."

"There's been a lot of Highland drunks recently reporting sightings of UFOs," said Hamish. "It was the bad time to call."

"Anyway, I don't want them encouraged. There's a lot of phosphorescence in that loch and it produces queer effects."