"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 respectable 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?"

"Chust 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."