Hamish MacBeth 15 (1999) - Death of an Addict

by M C Beaton

  “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.”

  “And what about his girlfriend?”

  “Girlfriend?” Mr. and Mrs. Jarret looked puzzled.

  “Felicity Maundy.”

  Mrs. Jarret’s face cleared. “Oh, that odd little girl who lives in the other chalet. He said she was just a neighbour, nothing romantic. She wrote us a very nice letter of sympathy.”

  And yet, thought Hamish, the bright and intelligent Miss Black had said they seemed in love.

  “About this book,” said Hamish instead. “I had a look. It seemed to be a sort of autobiography. There was only chapter one.”

  “But that’s the problem!” cried Mr. Jarret. “The last time we saw him, he said he was halfway through the book and there was a pile of pages on the table in the chalet the last time we visited him.”

  “So what you think,” said Hamish, “is that someone was frightened by what he was writing and they staged it so that it would look like an accidental overdose. Have you told the police this?”

  “Yes, but they assured us we were wrong. That detective, Anderson, he said we were suffering from a reaction to the shock of Tommy’s death but that there was no mystery at all.”

  “What about the sleeping pills? Did he take sleeping pills? What did his doctor say?”

  “His doctor in Strathbane checked him into the rehab clinic but said he hadn’t seen him since.”

  Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed them thoughtfully. Then he said, “It’s a wee bit difficult. I do not have the resources of Strathbane, but I’ll see what I can do.” He pushed over his notebook. “Write down your address and phone numbers at which you can be reached.”

  Mr. Jarret wrote down their phone number, his business number and his mobile phone number. He raised weary eyes to Hamish. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Hamish. “Is there anything else you can think of?”

  “He wouldn’t have done anything to harm himself,” said Mrs. Jarret. “He believed in God.” Hamish looked at her enquiringly. “He even bought a Bible. He said God would stop him from taking drugs again. I would have liked that Bible.”

  “You mean the police have still got it?”

  “No, they said they had let us have all his effects.”

  “Did he go to church? And if so, which denomination?”

  “We’re Church of Scotland. But I don’t know which church he was going to.”

  After the Jarrets had left, Hamish walked along to Dr. Brodie’s cottage.

  “Come in,” said Angela with a smile of welcome. “Did you say something to the Currie sisters?”

  “Something.”

  “Whatever it was, it seems to have worked. They’re almost mild, for them.”

  “I came to see your husband.”

  “He’s in the living room. Go through.”

  The doctor was sitting in front of a messy smouldering fire. “If you clean the ashpan out, it might burn better,” said Hamish.

  “Oh, it’s you, Hamish. Well, if you feel like cleaning it out, do it yourself.”

  Hamish went back into the kitchen and collected the ash bucket. The doctor watched for a moment, amused, and then picked up the newspaper he had been reading. Hamish cleaned out the ash into the metal bucket and added several logs to the fire, which immediately sprang into life. He carried the bucket of smoking ashes out through the kitchen and placed them outside the kitchen door, then returned to the living room and sat down in an armchair opposite the doctor.

  Dr. Brodie put down the newspaper and looked at Hamish over the tops of his spectacles.

  “I’m sure you didn’t call just to light the fire.”

  “No, I’ve a bit of a problem,” said Hamish. “It’s that business about young Tommy Jarret.”

  “Oh, sad business. Heroin overdose.”

  “Aye, there may be a bit more to it than that.” Hamish told him about the visit from the Jarrets and their suspicions.

  Dr. Brodie listened carefully. Then he said, “I see their point, but it’s all a bit far-fetched for the Highlands of Scotland. It’s natural in their grief that they should think up all sorts of conspiracy theories.”

  “Well, I am not grieving, and I think it’s all too pat. Did you prescribe sleeping pills for Tommy?”

  “No. He registered with me when he moved to Parry’s, but that was all. I don’t have anything to do with drug addicts, Hamish, but the damn stuff creeps everywhere and I hope it never reaches up here.”

  “It’s a whole world I know nothing about,” said Hamish half to himself.

  “I did hear from a colleague down in Strathbane, that there’s a disco called Lachie’s there. It’s been raided several times but nothing has been found. Surely, Hamish, if Strathbane have decided it’s an accidental death, then it must be.”

  “Not necessarily. There’s almost a sort of unholy glee when a drug addict dies. Silly bugger, he had what was coming to him. That sort of thing. Now, a lot of respectabl
e businessmen, as you know, cause doctors and hospitals no end of expense and trouble with their drinking. But when one of them dies of a stroke or cirrhosis of the liver or pancreatitis, no one ever says he had what was coming to him. And drug deaths are often among the young and there’s an awfy prejudice against young people.”

  “But if you consider,” said the doctor, “that there are warnings the whole time against the effects of drugs and no warnings against the effects of alcohol, other than the usual ‘don’t drink and drive’ warnings, people are apt to think, well, they were told what would happen. Like smokers.”

  “Could be,” pointed out Hamish cynically, “because the highest proportion of alcoholics are to be found amongst the medical profession.”

  “Too true,” said Dr. Brodie. “Which reminds me, I got a present of a fine malt whisky. Fancy a dram?”

  “Just a wee one, then,” said Hamish, suddenly assailed by an odd nervousness. He knew that he should let Tommy Jarrets death go and not get under the feet of his superior officers. But at the same time, he knew that if he did not investigate it, that boy’s death would nag at his conscience. While the doctor went to fetch the whisky, Hamish wondered what to do next.

  Felicity Maundy obviously knew something. Perhaps he would try her again. The following day was Sunday, his day off. He would put on plain clothes and see if that made him any less intimidating to her.

  As he approached Sean’s cottage, the following day, he saw the old man working in his garden and so drew to a halt outside the front gate and climbed down from the Land Rover.

  “Morning, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” said Hamish.

  Sean straightened up from weeding and surveyed Hamish silently.

  “It seems the monster in Loch Drim might be nothing more than seals.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” Sean threw weeds into a bucket at his feet.

  “I took a walk along the path that leads to the sea from Drim. There’s a colony of seals on the rocks at the end.”

  “That’s odd,” said Sean. “I thought there had been several sightings of something strange.”

  “Oh, you know how it is here,” said Hamish easily. “We pick up a good story and then we all embroider it.”

  Sean shrugged and bent over his weeding again.

  Hamish leaned on the garden fence and watched him. The day was milky grey and mild. It was very still, the sort of day where sounds carried from a long distance. It would be grand, he reflected, not to have to worry about the Jarrets, just let everything slide. Sean straightened up and surveyed Hamish with some impatience. “Was there anything else, Officer?”

  “You seem to hear a lot of gossip, although you keep yourself to yourself. Hear any more about the Jarret boy?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Anything at all?”

  “Only that he’d turned religious.”

  “I heard a bit about that. Any idea if he went to church and if so which church?”

  “Somebody said in my hearing it was some sort of odd religion that had started up in Lochdubh.”

  “The Moonies?”

  “No, it wasn’t them.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “So you think it was murder, Officer?”

  “Just curious, that’s all.”

  Sean resumed his weeding and Hamish reluctantly got into the Land Rover again, reluctant because he was beginning to think that he would get no further with finding out what had happened to Tommy.

  He drove on to Parry’s croft and found the crofter at home. “Felicity Maundy in her chalet?” asked Hamish.

  “I don’t think so. I think herself went out for a walk. Tea? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  Parry picked up a battered enamel jug from the stove and poured two cups. Both men sat down at the table.

  Hamish told Parry about Mr. and Mrs. Jarret’s request. “Do you really think there’s anything mysterious about his death?” asked Parry.

  “On a calm, still day like this, it all seems fantastic. But I won’t be easy in my conscience until I’ve asked around a bit more. Now, this Felicity. She told me she was not that close to Tommy, they were just neighbours. But Miss Black, the woman who runs the village tea shop, she got the impression they were an item.”

  “I can tell you, they weren’t that casual, but I thought, both being young people stuck up here in the wilds, that they were just friends, Hamish. Went for long walks together, things like that. He could have been in her chalet at night, or her in his, and I wouldn’t know. I’m dead to the world after ten o’clock at night.”

  “So she lied, and what else has she been lying about? And then there’s the book he was writing. His parents say he was half finished and yet all I could find was chapter one. Then there’s the sleeping drug he had taken.”

  “I didnae hear about that!”

  “Aye, they found traces of some sort of sleeping drug. So, far-fetched as it may seem, someone might have laced his coffee and then injected him with heroin.”

  “Okay, let’s go for the far-fetched,” said Parry. “In order to let someone into his chalet and, say, offer him coffee, it must have been someone he knew. Say someone he knew was a drug dealer and had mentioned in his book arrived on his doorstep, he’d have been frightened to death.”

  “So what about Felicity?”

  “Why her? She’s just a bit of a lass.” Parry’s accent, like that of Hamish, grew more sibilant when he became excited or upset.

  “I don’t know,” sighed Hamish. “I’m clutching at straws. Then there’s this thing about him turning religious. Know anything about that, Parry?”

  “We didn’t talk much. No, I can’t call to mind any sort of religious talk.”

  “I’ll try to find out from Jimmy Anderson if some weird cult has started up in Strathbane. He won’t need to know I’m still investigating. I’ll make it sound like idle curiosity.”

  Parry glanced up at the window. “There is herself coming back after her walk.”

  “Right,” said Hamish, getting to his feet. “I’ll have another wee word with her but I doubt I’ll get very far.”

  He walked next door to Felicity’s chalet. The door was open and she was reaching up to take a cup down from a shelf in the kitchen. She turned and saw Hamish in the doorway. The cup fell from her fingers and smashed on the stone floor.

  “I’m sorry I startled you,” said Hamish gently. He walked into the kitchen, saw a dustpan and brush by the rubbish bin and, crouching down, neatly swept up the broken shards and put them in the bin.

  “What do you want?” demanded Felicity shrilly.

  “Now, then.” Hamish leaned against the kitchen counter. “This is on my beat and I dropped by to see how you were.”

  “I’m all right,” said Felicity defensively. “If that’s all, I have chores to do.”

  “There’s just one thing I must ask you again,” said Hamish. “Why did you tell me you and Tommy were only neighbours when from all reports you were closer than that?”

  She was wearing a long gown of shimmery silk material of many colours. It made her look more waiflike than ever.

  “Well, we were friends, yes, that was all. I thought you meant, were we having an affair?”

  “Och, no,” said Hamish soothingly. “Don’t you find it lonely here?”

  “No, I enjoy the peace of the countryside.”

  “Do your parents support you?”

  “I haven’t seen my parents for a year. They’re in Somerset.”

  “So what do you do for money?”

  “I’m on the dole.”

  “I thought these days you had to get a job.”

  “I’m a poet. There are no jobs for poets.”

  “Never were, never will be,” said Hamish comfortably. “Even Chaucer had a job.”

  “There are not many jobs to be had in Strathbane that are suitable. I report every fortnight to the dole office to tell them I am still looking for work. What’s it t
o you?”

  “Curious, that’s all. Was Tommy religious?”

  “Like me, he led a spiritual life.”

  “Whateffer that means. Did he go to church?”

  “I really don’t know,” she said, half turning away.

  “You mean he didn’t say anything on Sunday like, I'm off to the kirk’?”

  “We didn’t live in each other’s pockets. We respected each other’s space. Now, if that is all…”

  “Did he show you any of the book he was writing?”

  She began to take carrots out of the vegetable basket and, turning on the cold tap, washed them.

  “He said he would show it to me when he was finished.”

  “And how much had he written?”

  “How should I know?” she suddenly shouted. “Am I under suspicion of anything?”

  Hamish decided it was strategic to beat a hasty retreat before she threatened to report him to his superiors.

  “I really just called by to see that you were okay,” he said.

  “I am. So goodbye.”

  Hamish walked outside, looked around and wondered what to do next.

  Then he decided to drive to Strathbane. He could take Jimmy Anderson out for a drink, if he wasn’t out on some job. It was easy to get information out of Jimmy over a glass of whisky—provided Jimmy wasn’t paying.

  Hamish was in luck. Jimmy was not only at police headquarters but just finishing his shift. Soon they were seated in a nearby pub. Hamish had paid for two doubles.

  “What brings you to Strathbane?”

  “Day off. I thought I’d look at the shops. I’ve heard there’s a good few open on the Sabbath.”

  “There are that, but mostly the supermarkets and a few clothes shops. Everything else is closed down, just like the old days.”

  “Someone was telling me something about some sort of religious cult that’s started up in Strathbane.”

  “Oh, them. Call themselves the Church of the Rising Sun.”

  “Sounds a bit like a Rolling Stones record. What are they like?”

  “Harmless bunch of freaks. Bearded men in sandals, dotty women. They’d got a shack of a place out on the north side.”

  “And what do they do?”