appearance.
'How do you pass the time up here, Miss Maundy?' asked Hamish.
'What do you mean?' There was now a shrill edge to her voice.
'I mean,' said Hamish patiently, 'it's a wee bit remote here. Don't you find it lonely?'
'Oh, not at all!' She spread her arms in a theatrical gesture. 'The hills and the birds are my companions.'
'Och,' snorted Parry, returning with a box of eggs, 'you should put on some makeup and heels and go down to Strathbane and have some fun.'
'I do not wear makeup,' said Felicity primly.
'Why not?' asked Parry. 'You could do with a wee bit o' colour in your face.'
'If one wears makeup,' declaimed Felicity as if reciting a well-rehearsed line, 'people cannot see the real you.'
'I shouldn't think anyone could see you, real or otherwise, hidden out here,' remarked Hamish.
Felicity ignored him.
'How much do I owe you for the eggs?'
'No charge today.'
'Oh, thank you. You are just too, too kind.'
Felicity whipped up the box and disappeared out of the kitchen door.
'That one's got you for a sucker,' remarked Hamish.
'Aw, she's chust the wee bit o' a thing. Needs building up. Will you check up on Tommy Jarret for me, Hamish?'
'I'll do it now,' said Hamish. 'Won't be a minute. I've got a phone in the car, although thae mobiles can be a pain. The number of places in the Highlands where they won't work!'
He went out to the police Land Rover and picked up his mobile phone and dialled police headquarters in Strathbane and got through to Jenny McSween, nicknamed the Keeper of the Records.
'Wait a minute, Hamish,' said Jenny. 'I'll just feed that name into the computer.'
Hamish leaned against the side of the Land Rover and waited, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. The three holiday chalets were hidden behind screens of birch trees to give the occupants privacy. Through the flickering leaves of birch he could see Felicity's pale face at a window.
Then Jenny's voice came on the phone. 'Thomas Jarret, arrested last year, for possession of ecstasy and cannabis. Got off a pushing charge. Said they were for his own use and since only small amounts were found, he got away with it. Arresting detective, Jimmy Anderson, thinks he was pushing but couldn't make anything stick. Thomas Jarret was or is a heroin addict, you see.'
'I see,' said Hamish bleakly. 'Thanks, Jenny.'
He went back into the croft house and told Parry what he had learned.
'I'll haff that cheil out on his ear,' growled Parry. 'I cannae thole drugs.'
'Let's go and have a word with him,' said Hamish. 'He may be reformed. I'm all for giving folks a break.'
Parry, his face grim, walked ahead of Hamish and towards one of the chalets. He knocked at the door. 'Mr. Jarret, we'll chust be having a wee word wi' ye.'
The door opened and a pleasant-looking young man stood there. He had a mop of curly brown hair and brown eyes in a tanned face. Those blinked rapidly when he saw Hamish's uniform.
'Can we come in?' asked Hamish.
'Y-yes.'
He backed away into the chalet living room. A word processor was on a table by the window, surrounded with piles of manuscript.
'Sit down,' said Tommy nervously.
'I'll get straight to the point,' said Hamish, sitting down and taking off his peaked cap and then twisting it round and round in his hands. 'You were arrested for possession of drugs. The arresting detective was convinced you were pushing.'
'I've been clean for six months. Honest,' pleaded Tommy. 'And I wasn't pushing. I went to a rehab in Strathbane. Ask anyone. In fact, I'm writing a book about my experience with drugs to warn other people what it's like.'
'Why were you found in possession of ecstasy and cannabis when you were a heroin addict?' asked Hamish.
Tommy gave a rueful smile. 'If you can't get your drug of choice, you'll go for anything.' He rolled up his shirtsleeves. 'Look, no track marks, and Mr. McSporran here will tell you he's never seen me other than sober.'
'It iss not the drink I'm worried about,' said Parry.
'It's therapy-speak,' explained Hamish. 'Sober means he hasn't taken any mood-altering chemical. Am I right, Tommy?'
'Yes, I never even drink booze now. Please give me a chance,' said Tommy earnestly. 'You know I haven't been any trouble, Mr. McSporran, and I pay my rent on time.'
'Aye, that's right,' said Parry reluctantly.
Hamish made up his mind. 'I'd let him be for the moment, Parry. I believe what he says.'
Outside in the sunlight, Parry said, 'You seem mighty sure of yourself, Hamish.'
'Like I said, I'm all for giving folks a chance. He seems a nice fellow to me. Come on, Parry. Strathbane s become a sink o' iniquity. I've seen a lot of good young people wrecked. This one seems to have pulled himself together.'
'I s'pose,' said Parry. 'He's no trouble. Let's hope your judgement is right, Hamish Macbeth.'
'Och, I am never wrong,' said Hamish with simple Highland vanity.
But when he had returned to Lochdubh and locked his hens away for the night, Hamish went into the police station office and phoned Detective Jimmy Anderson.
'Tommy Jarret?' said Jimmy in answer to Hamish's query. 'I mind him. Got away with possession and up in front of a lenient sheriff. Got nothing more than a stay in a rehab and a hundred days' community service.'
'Wait a bit,' said Hamish. 'He was a heroin addict?'
'Aye.'
'That's a pretty expensive drug to be taking in the Highlands of Scotland. Where did he get the money?'
'Some aunt of his left him money, seems to be true. Respectable parents. Well off. Father a bank manager. Neat bungalow outside Strathbane, member of the Rotary Club, polishes the car on Sunday, get the picture? So he can afford heroin. I tell you another thing that made me mad. Couldn't get out of him where he got his supply from. I mean, he's lucky to be alive.'
'Why's that?'
'I believe there's a lot of adulterated stuff around and some bastard at the Three Bells pub down at the old docks was pushing talcum powder. The street price of heroin in Aberdeen was a hundred pounds per gram. Why are you asking about Tommy Jarret?'
'The name cropped up,' said Hamish.
'Meaning the wee bastards in your parish. I don't trust any o' thae junkies.'
'Lot of drugs in Strathbane?' asked Hamish.
'Aye, it's a plague. It's the new motorways. We're no longer cut off up here so they zoom up the motorways from Glasgow and Manchester. The drug barons make money and more young people die every year.'
'What would happen, I wonder,' mused Hamish, 'if the stuff were legalised? I mean, there would be controls on the quality of the stuff and all the drug barons and drug cartels would be out of business.'
'Whit! It's statements like that which explain why you're a copper and I'm a detective. That's a load of dangerous rubbish you're talking, Hamish.'
'Just thought I would ask,' said Hamish meekly.
He rang off and then changed into his civilian clothes and went out for a stroll along the waterfront. He didn't mind at all being a mere village copper. Hamish Macbeth had sidestepped promotion to Strathbane several times. The waters of Lochdubh lay placid under a pale sky, with only the ripples from a porpoise to disturb the calm surface. The violent world of cities such as Strathbane seemed pleasingly remote.
'Dreaming, Hamish?'
