Hamish MacBeth 15 (1999) - Death of an Addict

by M C Beaton

  Jessie folded her arms and eyed the tall red-haired policeman nervously. “It must be serious for you to refuse a free cup of tea, free cup of tea.”

  “It is the little matter o’ the Mothers’ Union.”

  Nessie stopped knitting. “What’s up wi’ the Mothers’ Union?”

  “The pair of you are what’s up with it.”

  “What d’ye mean, d’ye mean?” demanded Jessie. “We run it wi’ an iron hand, iron hand.”

  “Well, now, ladies, the iron hand seems to be the trouble. Ye cannae go on like the Gestapo.”

  “Who’s complaining?” demanded Nessie wrathfully.

  “Just about everyone,” said Hamish Macbeth.

  “We’ve done nothing wrong, nothing wrong,” said Jessie. “We’ve made sure the church hall is clean, and that place was a sewer, a sewer.”

  “Yes, and it is the grand job the pair of you are doing at fighting the germs, but is there any need to fight the others?” Hamish reflected it was an odd world when the Mothers’ Union was being run by two childless spinsters. Did anyone ever use the word “spinster” anymore? What was politically correct? “Miz” was irritating and pretentious. Single? And why should women who were not married be considered strange in any way? He was not married himself.

  “I’m speaking to you, Hamish Macbeth,” shouted Nessie, penetrating his thoughts, “and all you can do is sit there like a gormless loon after insulting us.”

  “Insulting us,” chorused Jessie.

  “I was thinking about Margaret Thatcher,” lied Hamish.

  “What about her?” asked Nessie, a look of reverence in her eyes.

  The sisters adored Margaret Thatcher.

  “Well, now, Mrs. Thatcher—”

  “Baroness Thatcher,” corrected the Currie sisters in unison.

  “Lady Thatcher, then. Now, herself would run that Mothers’ Union with a firm hand. But she would delegate responsibility, draw everyone in. You get more out of people if they like you. Diplomacy is the word, ladies.”

  “And what do you know about Lady Thatcher?” jeered Nessie.

  Hamish half closed his eyes. “It was the great day,” he crooned, his Highland accent becoming more sibilant as he worked himself up to telling one massive lie. “I was down in Inverness and there she was, just doing her shopping like you or me.”

  “When was this, when was this?” cried Jessie.

  “Let me see, it would be June last year, a fine day, I ‘member.”

  “What was she buying?” asked Nessie, her eyes shining.

  “It was in Marks and Spencer. She was looking at one of thae tailored blouses she likes to wear. Silk, it was.”

  “And did you speak to her?”

  “I did that,” said Hamish.

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked her to autograph my notebook, which she did. I asked her the secret of success.”

  Both sisters leaned forward. “And she said?”

  “She said the secret was the firm hand.”

  “Ah!”

  “But with kindness, she said. She was as near to me as you are now. She said she never let herself get bogged down wi’ bullying people or bothering about the small stuff. ‘If you work hard,’ she says to me, ‘you do the service for others just because you want to. The minute you start pushing people and bragging about how hard you are working for them, they turn against you. Nobody wants a martyr.’ ”.

  The sisters looked at each other. “Maybe we have been a bit too strong, bit too strong,” said Jessie.

  “Aye, maybe we’ll go a bit easier,” said Nessie. “And then what did she say?”

  “Dennis, her husband, came up at that minute and he says, ‘You’re never going to buy that blouse, Maggie. The colour’s wrong.’ It was the purple silk.”

  “I’ll bet she told him to take a running jump,” said Nessie.

  “Not herself. She just smiled and said, ‘Yes, dear, you’re probably right.’ You see there was the security men all about her and a lady like that wasn’t going to stoop to be petty.”

  “What a woman, what a woman,” breathed Jessie. “We shall never see her like again.”

  Hamish stood up, his red head almost brushing the low ceiling. “I’ll be on my way, ladies.”

  “Can we see that autograph, Hamish?”

  “Och, no, I sent it to my cousin Rory in New Hampshire. He has it framed and hung over his fireplace.”

  Hamish made his way out. In the small hallway was a framed photograph of Margaret Thatcher. He winked at it and let himself out.

  He ambled back towards the police station. As he approached Patel’s, the general store, he recognised the waiflike figure of Felicity Maundy. In the same moment, she saw him and her face turned a muddy colour. She unlocked the door of an old Metro, threw her groceries onto the passenger seat, climbed in and drove off leaving a belch of exhaust hanging in the air.

  “Now, what’s she got on her conscience?” murmured Hamish. “Probably went on some demo when she was a wee lassie at school and thinks the police still have a eye on her.”

  He shrugged and proceeded along to the police station. His rambling roses at the front were still doing well and their blossoms almost hid the blue police lamp.

  Hamish began to plan a relaxed evening, maybe put on a casserole and let it simmer and go to the pub for an hour. The new alcopops had turned out to be a menace, those sweet fizzy alcoholic drinks. They had been designed, in his opinion, to seduce the young, but it was the Highlanders, the fishermen in particular, every man of them having a sweet tooth, who had become hooked on them. So Hamish meant to combine pleasure and duty by keeping a sharp eye on the drivers who were drinking over the limit. Then he would return at closing time and start taking away car keys.

  He opened the kitchen door and went in. The phone in the police station office began to ring shrilly. He went quickly to answer it. He experienced a blank feeling of dread and tried to shrug it off. It would be nothing more than a minor complaint. Or a hoax call.

  He picked up the receiver. “Lochdubh police,” he said.

  “Hamish, this is Parry. It’s yon fellow, Tommy Jarret. He’s dead.”

  “Dead. How? Why?”

  “They think it’s an overdose. They found a syringe.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Cursing, Hamish rapidly changed into his uniform. How could it all have happened so quickly? he thought. The lad had been all right. What had happened to his, Hamish Macbeth’s, famous intuition? He could have sworn Tommy Jarret was not in danger of returning to his drug taking.

  He drove off up the winding road leading out of Lochdubh towards Glenanstey, his heart heavy. Large black clouds were building up behind the mountains. They seemed like black omens, harbingers of trouble to come.

  TWO

  I will a round unvarnished’d tale deliver

  Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,

  What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

  For such proceedings I am charged withal.

  —William Shakespeare.

  There is something particularly tragic about the death of a young person. Only that day, Tommy Jarret’s life had seemed to stretch out in front of him. Now he was a crumpled piece of clay.

  “You didn’t touch anything?” Hamish asked Parry as they surveyed the body in silence.

  “I checked his pulse. I had to make sure he was dead. Och, Hamish, he must have felt he was safe when you gave him that chance and so he decided to go back on the stuff.”

  Hamish pushed back his peaked cap and scratched his fiery hair in bewilderment. “But how did this happen so soon? How could it? Did he drive down to Strathbane?”

  “I didn’t see him go.”

  “What about visitors? Where were you yourself this afternoon, Parry?”

  “Here, now. You are never thinking I did it!”

  “Come on, Parry. I want to know if you were around the croft. You might have seen someone or somet
hing.”

  “I ran over to Dornoch to see about some spare parts for my car. I was away the two hours.”

  Hamish heard the wail of a police siren. “That’ll be Strathbane. I hope it’s not Blair.” Detective Chief Inspector Blair was the bane of Hamish’s normally quiet life.

  But it was Blair’s sidekick, Detective Jimmy Anderson, who came in. Policemen and a forensic team crowded in after him.

  “No Blair?” asked Hamish.

  Jimmy snorted with contempt. “Blair wouldn’t move his arse for a dead junkie.”

  “Could be murder,” suggested Hamish.

  “Oh, aye,” sneered Jimmy. “The great detective has pronounced judgement. A junkie wi’ a record is found dead with a syringe beside him and you ignore the obvious.”

  “I was talking to him earlier today,” said Hamish stubbornly. “And I could have sworn he would never go back on the stuff.”

  “Let me tell you this, Hamish. Drugs is a dirty business. It gets them and it keeps them. Stuck up here in the backwoods wi’ your sheep, you don’t see much of life.”

  The pathologist, Mr. Sinclair, pushed his way past them. “Give me some peace,” he said, “until I have a look at this.”

  Everyone walked outside. “Now,” said Jimmy, turning to the crofter, “you’re Parry McSporran.”

  “Aye.”

  “Who’s in the other chalets?”

  “Only a wee lassie called Felicity Maundy.”

  “Let’s go and see her. May as well pass the time until Sinclair finishes and then the forensic boys will have to dust the place.”

  At that moment Felicity came driving up. Her face turned white when she saw all the police cars.

  She stopped and got out slowly. Hamish thought she looked as if she might faint.

  “What do you know about this?” demanded Jimmy, advancing on her with a truculence worthy of his master, Blair.

  She looked about her in a dazed way. “Wh-what?”

  “Tommy Jarret’s dead.”

  “He…he can’t be.”

  “It looks like an overdose.”

  “But he was clean,” wailed Felicity, and then she began to cry.

  “You’ll get nothing out of her that way,” said Hamish. “I’ll get her a cup of tea. Come along, Miss Maundy. Time to have a word with you. We’ll just go to your chalet and have a cup of tea.”

  She was unresisting as he led her towards her chalet. “Got the key?” he asked.

  “I n-never bothered locking up.”

  He opened the door and led her inside. Her chalet was identical to Tommy’s except that dried herbs hung from hooks in the ceiling, there was a knitting machine in one corner and a sewing machine in the other. “Now sit yourself down,” said Hamish soothingly.

  He went into the small kitchen. There was nothing but herb tea so he made a cup of camomile and took it to her.

  Hamish watched her as she sipped her tea and then said gently, “Why were you so upset when you saw me outside Patel’s today?”

  “I didn’t even see you,” she said, her eyes moving this way and that like a hunted animal.

  “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 the 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,” murmur
ed 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.