Death of an Addict

The Hamish Macbeth series

Death of a Gossip

Death of a Cad

Death of an Outsider

Death of a Perfect Wife

Death of a Hussy

Death of a Snob

Death of a Prankster

Death of a Glutton

Death of a Travelling Man

Death of a Charming Man

Death of a Nag

Death of a Macho Man

Death of a Dentist

Death of a Scriptwriter

Death of an Addict

A Highland Christmas

Death of a Dustman

Death of a Celebrity

Death of a Village

Death of a Poison Pen

Death of a Bore

Death of a Dreamer

Death of a Maid

Death of a Gentle Lady

Death of a Witch

A Hamish Macbeth Murder Mystery

ROBINSON

London

Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the USA by Grand Central Publishing,
a division of Hachette Book Group USA, Inc.

This edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009

Copyright © M. C. Beaton 1999, 2009

The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library

UK ISBN: 978-1-84529-952-1

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Hamish Macbeth fans share their reviews . . .

‘Treat yourself to an adventure in the Highlands; remember your coffee and scones – for you’ll want to stay a while!’

‘I do believe I am in love with Hamish.’

‘M. C. Beaton’s stories are absolutely excellent . . . Hamish is a pure delight!’

‘A highly entertaining read that will have me hunting out the others in the series.’

‘A new Hamish Macbeth novel is always a treat.’

‘Once I read the first mystery I was hooked . . . I love her characters.’

Share your own reviews and comments at www.constablerobinson.com

Hamish Macbeth drove along a rutted single-track road on a fine September day. The mountains of Sutherland soared up to a pale blue sky. There had been weeks of heavy rain and
everything seemed scrubbed clean and the air was heavy with the smell of pine and wild thyme.

It was a good day to be alive. In fact, for one lanky red-haired Highland policeman who had just discovered he was heart-whole again, it was heaven.

The once love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, had been home to the Highlands on a brief visit. They had gone out for dinner together and his mind had probed his treacherous heart but
had found nothing stronger lurking in there but simple liking.

The sun was shining and somewhere out there were charming girls, beautiful girls, girls who would be only too happy to give their love and their lives to one Hamish Macbeth.

The vast heathery area of his beat which lay outside the village of Lochdubh had been crime-free, and so he had little to do but look after his small croft at the back of the police station,
feed his sheep and hens, mooch around in his lazy way and dream of nothing in particular.

His beat had of late merely been a series of social calls – a cup of tea at some farm, a cup of coffee in some whitewashed little croft house. He was on his way to visit a crofter called
Parry McSporran, who lived up in the wilderness of moorland near the source of the River Anstey, just outside the village of Glenanstey.

There are two types of Highlander, the entrepreneur and the cowboy. The entrepreneurs are hardworking, and set up schemes to earn money from tourists, and the cowboys are usually drunken louts,
jealous of the entrepreneurs, and set out to sabotage their efforts. A taxi driver, for instance, who started to build up a successful business would suddenly find he was getting calls to pick up
people in remote places and when he got there, he would find the call had been a hoax. One who had started a trout farm found the water had been poisoned.

Parry McSporran had built three small holiday chalets on his land. During the building of them, he had experienced some trouble. Building materials had mysteriously gone missing; rude
spray-painted graffiti desecrated his house walls.

Hamish had tracked down the youths who had done the damage and had threatened them with prison. After that Parry had been left in peace. He had recently started to take in long lets. He said
this way he saved himself the bother of changing linen every week and cleaning the chalets. It was a good move, for the tourist season in Sutherland, that county which is as far north in mainland
Britain as you can go, was very short.

Parry was moving his sheep from one field to the other when Hamish arrived. He waved. Hamish waved back and leaned against the fence to watch Parry’s sheepdogs at work. There was nothing
better, he reflected lazily, than watching a couple of excellent sheepdogs at work on this perfect day. All it would take to complete the bliss would be a cigarette. Stop that, he told his brain
severely. He had given up smoking some time ago, but occasionally the craving for one would come unbidden, out of nowhere.

The transfer of the sheep being completed, Parry waved Hamish towards the croft house. ‘Come ben,’ he said. ‘You are chust in time for the cup of tea.’

‘Grand,’ said Hamish, following him into the stone-flagged kitchen. Parry was not married. According to all reports, he had never wanted to get married. He was a small, wiry man with
sandy hair and an elfin face with those light grey eyes which give little away, as if their bright intelligence masked any feeling lurking behind them in the same way that a man walking into a dim
room after bright sunlight will not be able to distinguish the objects lying around.

‘Got anyone for your chalets?’ asked Hamish, sitting down at the kitchen table.

‘I haff the two long lets,’ said Parry, ‘and the other one is booked up by families for the summer.’

‘Who are your long lets?’ asked Hamish as Parry lifted the kettle off the black top of the Raeburn stove which he kept burning, winter and summer.

‘In number one is Felicity Maundy, English, Green.’

‘You mean she’s a virgin?’

‘Come on, Hamish. Don’t be daft. I mean one o’ thae save-the-world Greens. She is worried about the global warmings.’

‘In the Highlands!’ exclaimed Hamish. ‘A wee bit o’ the global warming up here would chust be grand.’

‘Aye, but she chust shakes her heid and says it’s coming one day.’

He put a mug of tea in front of Hamish. ‘Pretty?’ asked Hamish.

‘If you like that sort of thing.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Wispy hair, wispy clothes, big boots, no make-up.’

‘And what is she doing up here in Glenanstey?’ asked Hamish curiously.

‘Herself is finding the quality of life.’

‘Oh, one of those.’

‘Aye, but she’s been here three months now and seems happy enough. Writes poems.’

Hamish lost interest in Felicity. ‘What about the other one?’

‘Nice young man. Tommy Jarret. Early twenties. Writing a book.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Hamish cynically. The ones who locked themselves away from civilization to write a book were usually the ones who couldn’t write anywhere. ‘Jarret,’
he mused. ‘That rings a bell.’

’Meaning he has a criminal record?’

‘Probably not, Parry. I’ll check into it if you like.’

‘Aye, do that. I’d be grateful to ye, Hamish.’

‘Mr McSporran,’ called a soft voice from the open doorway. ‘I wondered if I could buy some eggs from you.’

Hamish swung round. This, then, must be Felicity Maundy. The sunlight streaming in through the kitchen door shone through her thin Indian-style dress of fine patterned cotton and turned the
wisps of her no-colour hair into an aureole. She moved forward into the shadow revealing herself to be a thin, young girl with a pale anxious face and nervous pale blue eyes which slid this way and
that.

She was wearing a heavy string of amber beads which made her neck look fragile. Under the long skirts of her dress, she was wearing a pair of what looked like army boots.

‘I’ll get some for ye,’ said Parry. ‘Sit down. This here is Hamish Macbeth.’

Felicity nervously eyed Hamish’s uniform. ‘I’ll just stand.’ Her voice was as soft and insubstantial as her appearance.

‘How do you pass the time up here, Miss Maundy?’ asked Hamish.

‘What do you mean?’ There was now a shrill edge to her voice.

‘I mean,’ said Hamish patiently, ‘it’s a wee bit remote here. Don’t you find it lonely?’

‘Oh, not at all!’ She spread her arms in a theatrical gesture. ‘The hills and the birds are my companions.’

‘Och,’ snorted Parry, returning with a box of eggs, ‘you should put on some make-up and heels and go down to Strathbane and have some fun.’

‘I do not wear make-up,’ said Felicity primly.

‘Why not?’ asked Parry. ‘You could do with a wee bit o’ colour in your face.’

‘If one wears make-up,’ declaimed Felicity as if reciting a well-rehearsed line, ‘people cannot see the real you.’

‘I shouldn’t think anyone could see you, real or otherwise, hidden out here,’ remarked Hamish.

Felicity ignored him.

‘How much do I owe you for the eggs?’

‘No charge today.’

‘Oh, thank you. You are just too, too kind.’

Felicity whipped up the box and disappeared out of the kitchen door.

‘That one’s got you for a sucker,’ remarked Hamish.

‘Aw, she’s chust the wee bit o’ a thing. Needs building up. Will you check up on Tommy Jarret for me, Hamish?’

‘I’ll do it now,’ said Hamish. ‘Won’t be a minute. I’ve got a phone in the car, although thae mobiles can be a pain. The number of places in the Highlands
where they won’t work!’

He went out to the police Land Rover and picked up his mobile phone and dialled police headquarters in Strathbane and got through to Jenny McSween, nicknamed the Keeper of the Records.

‘Wait a minute, Hamish,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ll just feed that name into the computer.’

Hamish leaned against the side of the Land Rover and waited, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. The three holiday chalets were hidden behind screens of birch trees to give the occupants
privacy. Through the flickering leaves of birch he could see Felicity’s pale face at a window.

Then Jenny’s voice came on the phone. ‘Thomas Jarret, arrested last year, for possession of ecstasy and cannabis. Got off a pushing charge. Said they were for his own use and since
only small amounts were found, he got away with it. Arresting detective, Jimmy Anderson, thinks he was pushing but couldn’t make anything stick. Thomas Jarret was or is a heroin addict, you
see.’

‘I see,’ said Hamish bleakly. ‘Thanks, Jenny.’

He went back into the croft house and told Parry what he had learned.

‘I’ll haff that cheil out on his ear,’ growled Parry. ‘I cannae thole drugs.’

‘Let’s go and have a word with him,’ said Hamish. ‘He may be reformed. I’m all for giving folks a break.’

Parry, his face grim, walked ahead of Hamish and towards one of the chalets. He knocked at the door. ‘Mr Jarret, we’ll chust be having a wee word wi’ ye.’

The door opened and a pleasant-looking young man stood there. He had a mop of curly brown hair and brown eyes in a tanned face. Those blinked rapidly when he saw Hamish’s uniform.

‘Can we come in?’ asked Hamish.

‘Y-yes.’

He backed away into the chalet living room. A word processor was on a table by the window, surrounded with piles of manuscript.

‘Sit down,’ said Tommy nervously.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Hamish, sitting down and taking off his peaked cap and then twisting it round and round in his hands. ‘You were arrested for
possession of drugs. The arresting detective was convinced you were pushing.’