M. Beaton: Death Of An Addict

He finished, rose, nodded to Miss Black and went out again. A high wind had risen, and as he left the village and walked the short distance to Parry's, he saw that above the rain clouds were rolling back, like a curtain drawn back by a giant hand. By the time he turned in at the gate of Parry's croft, sunlight was glittering on rain-washed grass and shining in puddles.

He waved to Peter, the policeman, and went straight to Felicity's chalet. The minute she opened the door to him and saw him, she began to cry. But Hamish felt there was something wrong, something stagy, about that crying. "Just a few more questions," he said.

She turned away and he followed her inside. She sat down, sniffling dismally into a tissue.

"Now, Miss Maundy," said Hamish, removing his peaked cap and setting it on the table and taking off his wet oilskin, folding it and laying it on a bare bit of floor next to the fireplace, "you told me that you and Tommy were just neighbours, nothing more, but I've been hearing reports that you were very close indeed."

She took another tissue from the box and scrubbed her eyes and then stared at him defiantly. "What if we were?"

"Nothing, but why did you lie?"

"Because you pigs always think the worst of everyone," she spat out with sudden venom.

"Been in trouble with the police before?"

She stared at him mulishly.

He leaned forward. "Look, Miss Maundy, all I'm trying to do is find out if Tommy just took an overdose. If you were fond of him, surely you'll want to help me find out about it."

"I've been asked questions and questions," said Felicity, "and that detective told me it was a simple case of accidental death."

The door opened and Peter, the policeman, walked in. "A word wi' ye outside," he said to Hamish.

Hamish followed him outside. "I phoned Strathbane on my mobile to report in and said you was here asking questions. I've been told to tell you to go about your own duties. No point in having the two of us here."

Hamish was almost glad that his mind had been made up for him. Forget about Tommy. Go back to a lazy, contented life.

'Til just get my coat and hat," he said.

"I didn't mean to get you into trouble," said Peter.

"That's all right." Hamish went back into Felicity's chalet. She was still sitting where he had left her. He picked up his oilskin and put on his cap. "Good day to you, Miss Maundy." He made his way out through the small kitchen. There was a selection of vegetables on the draining board, lettuce, carrots, mushrooms.

His Highland curiosity wouldn't even let the smallest thing go by.

"You a vegetarian?" he called.

The reaction was amazing. Felicity darted into the kitchen, her face flaming. "Get out!" she screamed. "Stop poking and nosing around.'"

He shrugged. "I'm going."

Now what was that all about? he wondered as he walked to his Land Rover.

By a great effort of will, he convinced himself in the following days that poor Tommy's death had indeed been an accident. He went out on his rounds, a burglary over in Braikie took up some time, as did his chores about the croft. The days had stayed sunny, days to relax and breathe in some of the cleanest, balmiest air in the world.

A week after the death of Tommy, he drove back to the police station with the windows of the Land Rover open, whistling "The Road to the Isles" and waving to people he knew.

And then a bright image of Tommy's young face rose in his mind. He whistled louder to banish it.

As he approached the police station, he could see two figures standing outside. As he drew nearer, with a sinking heart, he recognised Tommy Jarret's parents.

He parked the Land Rover and got out.

"We want to speak to you," said Mr. Jarret.

"Come into the station," said Hamish. He opened the kitchen door. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," said Mr. Jarret. "What we have to say is very important."

They both sat down at the kitchen table, the picture of middle-aged respectability.

Hamish sat down as well and said easily, "How can I be of help?"

Mr. Jarret took a deep breath.

"Our son was murdered and we want you to find out who did it."

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."