"God, you're naive," sneered Dominica. "I go away for a few days and you risk taking on someone we know nothing about."

"I am a good judge of character," said Barry huffily, unconsciously echoing Hamish Macbeth.

"I tell you what we are going to do," said Dominica. "We're going back in there and you will get him down from that ladder and I will speak to him… alone."

Barry shrugged. "I've got to go down into the town anyway. You'll find he's harmless."

"Hey, you up there!"

Hamish looked down. Dominica Owen was standing there, her hands on her hips, glaring up at him.

"What iss it?" he asked, his accent made sibilant by nerves.

"I want a word with you."

Hamish reluctantly placed the paintbrush on top of the pot of paint, which was balanced on a cross beam, and slowly made his way down the steps. He followed her through to the kitchen.

"Sit down," she commanded.

He sat down at the kitchen table and looked at her meekly.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Hamish George."

"And you are unemployed?"

"Yes."

"But you must have worked at some time?"

"Crofting. I wass a shepherd."

"So what happened?"

"I got a bit funny and low in my head. I couldnae get out o' bed in the morning."

"Who were you a shepherd for?"

Hamish suddenly clutched her hand between his own. "You must help me," he wailed.

"What with?" she demanded in an exasperated voice, and tried to drag her hand away, but he had it in a strong grip.

"With the black devils that come into my brain," said Hamish. "You must exercise them."

She succeeded in snatching her hand away. "Exorcise, you village idiot," she corrected.

Dominica looked at Hamish in distaste. A thin trail of spittle was running from a corner of his mouth down his chin.

"You're drooling," she said sharply, and Hamish muttered, "Sorry," and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

"You will need to speak to my husband about your devils," she said, getting to her feet. "Get back to work."

Hamish gave her a vacant look and shambled off.

"Trust you to employ the village idiot," she said to her husband later. "There must be a lot of inbreeding in the Highlands and Islands. Oh, well, he seems harmless enough."

Sanders was determined to get something out of Felicity Maundy. A charge for possession of the mushrooms, he knew, would probably get her a suspended sentence.

She had screamed and cried and protested and called him "fascist pig," but now she was silent and mulish.

He wondered briefly if she had an eating disorder. Her wrists and ankles looked thin and fragile. Or, he then wondered cynically, did she go out of her way to cultivate a waiflike image as a shell of protection?

He returned to the attack. "You told PC Macbeth that your income was from the dole."

Silence.

"Answer me!" Sanders thumped the table between them in exasperation.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Louder. For the tape."

"Yes!" she shouted.

"And yet according to your bank, a regular monthly sum of eight hundred pounds is paid into your account. The cheque comes from a Mr. James Maundy. Your father?"

"You have no right to poke your nose into my affairs," she hissed.

Sanders sighed. "Don't you see? You are a very silly girl. You wear expensive clothes. Where did you get the money? If we had not found out your father was sending you a generous allowance, we would have assumed that you had got the money pushing drugs, hard drugs, for you won't get much for your bloody, stupid mushrooms. Still, I may as well ask. Have you been pushing drugs?"

"No!"

"Very well, then. Let's discuss the death of Tommy Jarret."

He noticed the sudden stillness, the rigidity of her body. He suddenly decided to take a chance, although he cursed the running tape and the presence of the policewoman behind him. What he was about to do could get him into serious trouble. He could only be glad about one small thing. She had not asked for a lawyer.

He leaned forward and stared straight into her eyes. "We know you killed Tommy Jarret," he said.

He fully expected her to shout another no, and then to threaten to call down the wrath of the authorities on his head.

But she began to shake and tremble. "I didn't mean to," she said, and then she began to weep, great tears coursing down her face.

He handed her a box of tissues and waited, suppressing a rising feeling of excitement. When she had calmed down slightly, he said soothingly, "You'll feel better if you let it all out. What happened?"

She continued to gulp and sob for what seemed to Sanders a long, long time. Then she dried her eyes and said in a dry whisper, "I didn't mean to."

"Tell me about it."

"Tommy told me he had been going to this church in Strathbane."

"The Church of the Rising Sun?"

"Yes. He said Barry Owen, the preacher, was very spiritual. Tommy said he still often had a terrible craving for heroin, but that Barry had told him that if he got in touch with God, then he would be able to fight the craving. He… he told me, he felt so earthbound, that although he believed in God, he could not get a sense of God. I… told him, I told him about the mushrooms, and about how they made things of the spirit so tangible."

She hung her head.

"So you encouraged him to go on a mushroom trip. When was that?"

"The day before he died." She raised pleading eyes. "Don't you see? I started him on the road back to drugs. I didn't mean to. I really didn't mean to. I didn't think I had done any damage. He told me he should never have taken the mushrooms. He said he never wanted to take any form of drug again, and I heard that pathologist say that one drug leads to another…"

For the first time, Sanders realised he was listening to the truth. And all she had said only went to confirm the idea that Tommy had gone back on heroin and overdosed. He had known reformed alcoholics hit the bottle again because they had taken a liqueur chocolate or some of Auntie's sherry trifle.

And it seemed as if the Church of the Rising Sun might be nothing more sinister than some sort of minor scam to dupe money out of the gullible.

Hamish Macbeth may as well chuck in his job and save the rest of his holidays for something better.

Hamish, meanwhile, had discovered that there were services every weekday evening between six and seven. Barry urged him to attend.

"I'll be there, but I don't have sexual problems," said Hamish.

"But you see," said Barry eagerly, "although sex, I believe, is at the root of our problems, we share our other troubles. People take the subject from the person who speaks first. So you must speak of your depression and others will follow your lead."

Hamish was sitting on the floor at the back of the hall that evening, waiting for the service, if it could be called that, to begin. There were fewer people than on Sunday, only about twenty-five. Just as Barry made his entrance from the kitchen to stand in front of them, Hamish sensed someone sitting down next to him and glanced sideways. Sanders!

"Now," began Barry, raising his arms in a sort of benediction, "before we begin, I must thank you all for your generosity. But"-he held up the collection box-"I am sad to say that some of you are not giving freely. To get in touch with God, you must cast aside material things. We will pray together and then the collection box will be passed among you for further contributions.

"Dear God, soften the hearts of your people so that they may give generously. You, dear Lord, know the paucity of the collection and you frown and your wrath is terrible."

Hamish switched his mind away from the prayer and wondered instead what Sanders had found out to bring him to the church. Then there were those two supposed students Tommy had lodged with. He had their names and address in his notebook. Maybe go into town after the service and after he had heard what Sanders had to say. His thoughts ran busily on until the prayer was finished and the collection box came round again. He noticed a woman putting a twenty-pound note into it. When it came to him, he put in a pound. Barry would not expect him to afford any more. He was not paid until the end of the week.