Death of an Addict (7 page)

He suddenly sat up straight. Mushrooms. What had he heard about mushrooms?

Angela Brodie was on the Internet and seemed able to conjure up reams of information.

He hurried out and along to the doctor’s cottage. Angela answered the door.

‘This a social call, Hamish?’

‘No, I’m after some information about mushrooms.’

‘What kind?’

‘The druggie kind.’

‘Come in. I think they’re called shrooms. I’ll see what I can get for you. Go in and take a seat and wait.’

Hamish went into the living room. There was no sign of the doctor. Must be out on a call.

He sat down and picked up the day’s papers, which he had not read.

After half an hour, Angela came in and handed him a printed sheet. ‘That’s what I got, Hamish.’

The page was headed ‘Liberty Cap/Magic Mushroom, Psilocybe semilanceata’. There was an illustration of some spindly mushrooms. The liberty cap’s habitat appeared to be in
grass, fields, heaths and meadows. Season was given as late August to mid-January. Colour: buff when dry, brown with bluey tinge when wet. Thin black lines can also be seen through the lower margin
when wet.

Then came the comments. ‘Psilocybe semilanceata has been used for thousands of years and is probably the most well known and most used psychedelic mushroom in the UK. The usual number of
mushrooms ingested is between 25 and 50. Effects are similar to many of the psychedelics but often without the harshness and intensity that is associated with LSD. The effects come on between 10
and 40 minutes after ingestion and last approximately 3 to 4 hours. Eating fresh magic mushrooms is legal in the UK.’

Hamish put down the printed sheet and said half to himself, ‘If it’s legal, why was she so afraid of me?’

‘What’s this about?’ asked Angela.

‘These magic mushrooms. I think that wee lassie Felicity Maundy may have been peddling them.’

‘They grow pretty much everywhere, Hamish. She wouldn’t get much for them. She’d get more from growing cannabis.’

‘I tell you, Angela, she was wearing a dress and I saw the twin o’ that dress in Strathbane and it cost a hundred and ninety pounds and yet herself said she was on the
dole.’

Angela looked at him thoughtfully. Then she said, ‘Well, maybe sweet little Felicity was peddling something else.’

Hamish thanked her and went back to the police station. How could a mushroom which caused a psychedelic effect lasting up to four hours be legal?

He phoned Strathbane. Jimmy Anderson was at home but when Hamish volunteered that he wanted to ask someone about drugs he was told that Detective Constable Sanders had just come in and was their
expert.

Hamish introduced himself and then asked why shrooms, or magic mushrooms, were legal.

‘Ah, but they’re not really,’ said Sanders. ‘You pick them, that’s legal. You prepare them, dry them, make tea from them, then it’s illegal. It’s
illegal to change them in any way so I suppose you can say that someone picking them was actually changing them.’

Hamish thought about the mushrooms he had seen on Felicity’s draining board. They certainly had been small-capped and with thin stems.

‘Would anyone get much for selling them?’ he asked.

‘Not that I’ve heard. People mostly pick them for their own use. Mind you, we raided a house last year after a tip-off and the attic floor was covered in those mushrooms.’

‘I wondered if you ever heard of anything against a young English lassie called Felicity Maundy.’

Sanders’s voice sharpened. ‘You mean the one that lives next door to Tommy Jarret?’

‘Don’t be telling anyone I asked,’ said Hamish, alarmed. ‘I’m told the case is closed.’

‘Look, I’m going off duty. Do you mind if I pop over to Lochdubh for a wee word?’

‘Not at all,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

Detective Constable Sanders had sounded brisk and intelligent on the phone. Hamish imagined him as being tall, dark and with severe features.

He was surprised when he opened the door some time later to what at first in the darkness looked like little more than a schoolboy.

‘Sanders,’ announced the detective.

‘Come in,’ said Hamish.

In the bright light of the kitchen, Sanders turned out to be a fairly small man with a thatch of thick blond hair, a boyish fair face with a snub nose covered in freckles and bright blue
eyes.

‘You look too healthy to be a drug expert,’ said Hamish.

‘Well, I don’t take the stuff myself.’ Sanders sounded amused. ‘So you’re the infamous Hamish Macbeth.’

‘Take off your coat and sit down,’ said Hamish. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘Coffee would be grand. Dash of milk, no sugar.’

When they were seated over their coffee mugs, Sanders said, ‘We meet at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Joe.’

Hamish shook it.

‘So, Joe, what brings you all this way?’

‘It’s the Tommy Jarret business. I wasn’t satisfied.’

‘I wasn’t either and I still am not,’ said Hamish.

‘Tell me why.’

‘I think you had better tell me your reasons first. I don’t want to get into trouble.’

Sanders laughed. ‘Meaning you want to know if you can trust me? Here goes. I think the case was closed quickly on Tommy because he had a record, because he took drugs. There was a general
feeling that he was asking for it, that one less junkie in Strathbane can only be good. It was the pathology report that bothered me first. Do you know there were traces of a sleeping drug in the
body?’

Hamish nodded.

‘Then there was that book he was writing. It all seemed too neat and easy that only chapter one detailing his early life should be found. Then there was the matter of
fingerprints.’

‘You mean there were no fingerprints!’

‘I’m not saying that. There were Tommy’s, Parry McSporran’s and Felicity’s. But the door handle was wiped clean.’

‘The outside door?’

‘Yes.’

‘But Parry found the body. Surely his prints would have been on the handle?’

‘Parry said the door was wide open and he walked in. He said the bedroom door was open as well.’

‘Why did Parry go in? I forgot to ask him.’

‘He said he saw the front door wide open and walked across to make sure Tommy was at home. Parry said that although nobody locks their doors up there, he thought if Tommy had gone out and
left the door open, it was tempting someone to steal his word processor.’

Hamish leaned forward eagerly. ‘But footprints!’

‘Now here we come to the real mystery,’ said Sanders. ‘From the bedroom through to the 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.

‘Neffer say they didnae search her chalet!’ exclaimed Hamish.

Sanders raised his eyes. ‘No, they didn’t. But acting on your information, I can organize 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 recognized?’

‘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 chust 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 to 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 on to 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 in 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 ceiling 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.