'We'll leave that one for the moment. When did you last speak to Tommy?'
'Today. He asked me to get him some groceries from Patel's. He was working hard on his book.'
'How well did you know him?'
'Not very well. He was just a neighbour. He wouldn't have taken drugs.' She began to cry again.
Hamish saw a box of tissues on the kitchen counter and handed it to her. She blew her nose noisily. Hamish waited until she had recovered, thinking hard all the while. Why was she so shattered, so distressed, if she and Tommy had been only neighbours?
'And before you left,' he continued, 'did you see any strange people around? Hear a car?'
She shook her head. 'A couple of cars passed me on the road to Lochdubh heading the other way, but I didn't notice them particularly.'
'You must have noticed something about them,' said Hamish sharply. 'Colour? Large, small?'
She shook her head wearily. 'One was small and black, I think, and the other grey, and a bit bigger.'
'Hatchback? Saloon?'
'I don't know,' she wailed. 'And you're harassing me.'
Hamish decided to get back to her later. 'I'll send a policewoman to sit with you.'
He went out again and found a policewoman and directed her to Felicity. He approached Parry. 'What's the latest?'
'I heard thon pathologist say it's an open-and-shut case of an overdose.'
Hamish fretted because he felt he was being kept out of things. But, he reminded himself, it was his own fault for having decided to remain an ordinary copper instead of taking promotion when it had been offered.
After a long wait Jimmy Anderson, who had gone back into the dead man's chalet, emerged.
He came up to Hamish. 'They're taking the body away. They'll know more about what happened after a postmortem. But it all seems very straightforward. No murder for you, Hamish.'
'That book he was writing,' said Hamish. 'He was writing a book about his experience with drugs. Anything there? I mean anything that might have incriminated anyone?'
'We're looking into it,' said Jimmy sharply. 'Why don't you just get back to your beat and let us sort this out.'
'This is my beat,' said Hamish huffily.
'Aye, well, it's not as if you can do anything. Had the wee lassie anything to offer?'
'She said he was all right. She asked Tommy if he wanted any groceries, then she drove to Lochdubh. She said two cars passed her on the road going the other way but when I pressed her for a description, she started on about harassment, so I got out of there and sent in a policewoman.'
'If it was a murder case,' said Jimmy, 'she could howl about harassment until she was black in the face, but this is just an accidental death.'
'But Glenanstey is a dead end. After here the road does nae go anywhere,' protested Hamish.
'Aye, but there's a wee road afore here that goes to Crask,' said Jimmy.
He walked off. Still, Hamish waited until at last the pathologist emerged and headed for his car. Hamish rushed over to him.
'What's the verdict?'
'Oh, it's yourself,' said Sinclair, the pathologist, sourly. 'It looks like an overdose. Anderson said he took heroin.'
'What's a lethal dose?' asked Hamish.
'In a non-tolerant person the estimated lethal dose of heroin may range from two hundred to five hundred milligrams, but addicts have tolerated doses as high as eighteen hundred milligrams without even being sick. But there's an odd thing about heroin addicts.' Dr. Sinclair leaned his cadaverous body against his car and settled down to give a lecture. 'The reason for tolerance to heroin is partially conditioned by the environment where the drug was normally administered. If the drug is administered in a new setting, much of the conditioned tolerance will disappear and the addict will be more likely to overdose. Some pundits in the States believe that most of the OD cases are because of adulterated heroin. But oddly enough, British addicts who get clean heroin have about as high a mortality rate as Americans who shoot street crap. The health problems of addicts come from the use of needles, the presence of adulterants in the drug, the poor nutrition and health care associated with the hard-core 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
