Hamish MacBeth 15 (1999) - Death of an Addict

by M C Beaton

  “Now here we come to the real mystery,” said Sanders. “From the bedroom through to outside, the floor had been wiped clean and there was a mop propped outside the chalet without a fingerprint on it.”

  “Then they can’t say the case is closed!” cried Hamish.

  “They have and it is. So what’s your interest?”

  Hamish decided to trust him. He told Sanders all about the visit from Tommy’s parents, about Felicity and the dress and what he suspected about the mushrooms.

  “But if she was messing with magic mushrooms,” finished Hamish, “they would have found something when they searched her chalet.”

  Sanders remained silent, looking down into his mug of coffee.

  “Never say they didnae search her chalet!” exclaimed Hamish.

  Sanders raised his eyes. “No, they didn’t. But acting on your information, I can organise a raid and let you know if we find anything. We’ll check her bank account as well, see if she’s been banking any unusual sums of money.”

  “There’s one thing I didnae tell ye,” said Hamish. He described his visit to the Church of the Rising Sun and how he had taken leave to work there because it looked like Tommy had been a member.

  Sanders began to laugh again. “Now I know why Blair calls you the worst headache in the police force. Man, what if you’re recognised?”

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  “I’ll get news to you somehow. I’ve always thought there was something wrong about that church. Now, I’d better go and get some sleep before I raid Felicity’s place tomorrow.”

  “And I’d better go and borrow an old car from someone,” said Hamish. “I’m supposed to have been sleeping in my car because I’m one of the homeless.”

  “You know that recluse Sean Fitzpatrick, who lives out on the Crask turn?”

  “Aye.”

  “He bought a new car last year. His old one is round the back. It may still be working. He’s like a crofter. They never throw an old car away, just keep it in the garden for spares.”

  “I’ll try him now.”

  “It’s nearly midnight.”

  “He’s old. He’s probably still awake.”

  ♦

  Sure enough, when Hamish parked outside Sean Fitzpatrick’s, he saw the lights were still on. He knocked at the cottage door and after a few moments, Sean answered it.

  He sighed when he saw Hamish. “The reason I get the reputation of being a recluse,” he growled, “is because I am one. So leave me alone.”

  “I just wanted to know if I could rent your old car out the back.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ve got two weeks’ break and them in Strathbane don’t like me driving around the police Land Rover.”

  ♦

  “It’s not insured.”.

  “I’ll get it insured,” lied Hamish.

  “I’ve a feeling the only way I’m going to get rid of you is to let you have it. Wait and I’ll get the keys and we’ll see if it starts.”

  He reappeared with the keys and they walked round the back of the house, Sean carrying a torch. “That’s it,” he said.

  It was an old Volvo, one of those large ones built like an undertaker’s hearse. It was rusted and dirty.

  Sean got into the driving seat and turned the key. The old car roared into life. He backed it out onto a heathery track that ran down the side of the cottage.

  “I’ll charge you twenty-five pounds a week and I want it back with a full tank of petrol,” said Sean, getting out.

  “Thanks,” said Hamish.

  “And I’ll be having the first twenty-five now.”

  Hamish fished out his wallet in the lights of the car. A solitary five-pound note stared up at him.

  “I haven’t the money on me.”

  “A cheque will do.”

  Hamish got out his chequebook and wrote a cheque out, leaning on the bonnet.

  “There you are,” he said, handing it over.

  “Fine. I’ll just write the number of your bank card on the back.”

  “I’m a policeman,” said Hamish huffily. “You ought to trust me.”

  “From what I’ve heard, you’re a permanently broke policeman. Card, please.”

  Hamish handed it over. “Hold the torch for me,” said Sean.

  Hamish shone the torch while Sean carefully copied out the bank card number on the back of the cheque.

  “Fine,” said Sean. “Take care of it. It’s a good car.”

  Hamish looked moodily at the dirty, rusty car. “You’ll get it back in the same grand condition you’re letting me have it,” he said bitterly.

  He drove back to Lochdubh and before he went to bed, he packed up the back of the Volvo with a bag of clothes and then spread out an old quilt and a pillow to make it look as if he had been sleeping in it.

  He then set the alarm before he went to bed. In the morning, he would start his new job. And before that, he’d better stop off at the doctor’s and beg Angela to look after his sheep and hens while he was away.

  ♦

  Joe Sanders had hoped to raid Felicity’s chalet as early as possible the morning but he found he had to cut through a lot of resistance and red tape before he got the necessary search warrant.

  It was nearly midday when, flanked by a policewoman and a policeman, he arrived at Felicity’s chalet.

  To his relief, she was at home. When he held up the search warrant, she looked as if she might faint. He began the search. Neither kitchen, living room nor bedroom yielded anything. Another dead end, he thought, and wondered briefly how Hamish was getting along.

  Hamish had been doing very well. The old Volvo was very convincing, he thought. He started the painting job. He was up a ladder, whistling to himself and reflecting that painting walls was a relief after police work, when he felt himself observed.

  He looked down. Barry Owen was standing there and beside him was a hard-faced woman with flaming-red hair which owed all to art and nothing to nature. She had a stocky, muscular figure encased in a pink track suit which clashed horribly with the colour of her hair.

  Barry called up. “The wife and I are stepping out for a moment. I’ll introduce you when I get back.”

  Hamish swore under his breath as his eyes met the hard suspicious eyes of Mrs. Owen.

  ♦

  Parry appeared in the doorway of Felicity’s chalet. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “I have a search warrant,” said Sanders. Parry could see behind him the small figure of Felicity slumped at the kitchen table.

  “Find anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing in the kitchen, bedroom or living room. There’s nowhere else. We’re just finishing up.”

  “Nothing in the upstairs room?” asked Parry.

  Felicity began to cry. Sanders ignored her.

  “What upstairs room?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Parry led the way into the bedroom and pointed to the celling which had been covered with an Indian curtain. “Up there is a trapdoor. I made a spare room upstairs.”

  “Where’s the ladder?”

  “It’s in this cupboard.”

  Parry opened a cupboard and brought out a folding steel ladder. Sanders opened it up, mounted it and then tore the curtain away from the ceiling and dropped it on the floor. He raised the trapdoor and looked around and then smiled. The whole of the floor of the room was covered in mushrooms, drying out, piles and piles of liberty caps—magic mushrooms.

  He climbed back down, grinning in triumph. “She’s got enough magic mushrooms up there to send the whole of Strathbane on a trip!”

  ♦

  Barry Owen and his wife, Dominica, walked a little away from the church. “Where did you find him?” Dominica jerked her thumb back at the church.

  “He turned up yesterday at the service,” said Barry. “I had a word with him. He was sleeping in his car. I offered him the job of painting and caretaking.”

  “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 is 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 was 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.”

&
nbsp; 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.

  He was looking up towards the ceiling and admiring the start of his paintwork when he became aware his name was being called.

  “Hamish!”

  Hamish started and looked at Barry Owen. “Come forward, brother,” commanded Barry.

  Feeling every bit the idiot Mrs. Owen believed him to be, Hamish went forward. He stood with his shoulders hunched and a vacant smile on his face. Then he saw that Mrs. Owen was not in the congregation and decided it would not be politic to act the empty-headed fool too much, as he had not pulled that act on Barry.

  “Now, brother,” said Barry, “tell us your troubles.”

  “I suffer from depression,” mumbled Hamish, seeing a mocking grin on Sanders’s face.

  “Louder. The Lord must hear you!”

  “I suffer from depression,” shouted Hamish, thoroughly embarrassed. “Och, I cannae talk about it in front of all these people.”

  “You will, when the spirit of the Lord enters you.” Barry reached up and laid his hands on Hamish’s head. Hamish felt a shock like an electric current running through his body.

  The superstitious Highland part of his mind wondered if Barry really did have healing powers. The police side wondered what electrical device Barry had hidden in the palm of his hand.

  “Go and join your brothers and sisters and listen to their help,” said Barry.

  Hamish thankfully hurried back to his place next to Sanders.

  One by one, various members began to talk about how depressed they had been until they had joined the church.

  Then to Hamish’s amazement, Sanders leapt to his feet. “I had been a sufferer from chronic depression for years,” he said, “until the light entered my soul.”

  “Hallelujah,” shouted a thin woman, clutching a shopping bag on her lap.