Death of an Addict (6 page)

‘I’m all right,’ said Felicity defensively. ‘If that’s all, I have chores to do.’

‘There’s chust one thing I must ask you again,’ said Hamish. ‘Why did you tell me you and Tommy were only neighbours when from all reports you were closer than
that?’

She was wearing a long gown of shimmery silk material of many colours. It made her look more waiflike than ever.

‘Well, we were friends, yes, that was all. I thought you meant, were we having an affair?’

‘Och, no,’ said Hamish soothingly. ‘Don’t you find it lonely here?’

‘No, I enjoy the peace of the countryside.’

‘Do your parents support you?’

‘I haven’t seen my parents for a year. They’re in Somerset.’

‘So what do you do for money?’

‘I’m on the dole.’

‘I thought these days you had to get a job.’

‘I’m a poet. There are no jobs for poets.’

‘Neffer were, neffer will be,’ said Hamish comfortably. ‘Even Chaucer had a job.’

‘There are not many jobs to be had in Strathbane that are suitable. I report every fortnight to the dole office to tell them I am still looking for work. What’s it to you?’

‘Curious, that’s all. Was Tommy religious?’

‘Like me, he led a spiritual life.’

‘Whateffer that means. Did he go to church?’

‘I really don’t know,’ she said, half turning away.

‘You mean he didn’t say anything on Sunday like, “I’m off to the kirk”?’

‘We didn’t live in each other’s pockets. We respected each other’s space. Now, if that is all ...’

‘Did he show you any of the book he was writing?’

She began to take carrots out of the vegetable basket and, turning on the cold tap, washed them.

‘He said he would show it to me when he was finished.’

‘And how much had he written?’

‘How should I know?’ she suddenly shouted. ‘Am I under suspicion of anything?’

Hamish decided it was strategic to beat a hasty retreat before she threatened to report him to his superiors.

‘I really chust called by to see that you were okay,’ he said.

‘I am. So goodbye.’

Hamish walked outside, looked around and wondered what to do next.

Then he decided to drive to Strathbane. He could take Jimmy Anderson out for a drink, if he wasn’t out on some job. It was easy to get information out of Jimmy over a glass of whisky
– provided Jimmy wasn’t paying.

Hamish was in luck. Jimmy was not only at police headquarters but just finishing his shift. Soon they were seated in a nearby pub. Hamish had paid for two doubles.

‘What brings you to Strathbane?’

‘Day off. I thought I’d look at the shops. I’ve heard there’s a good few open on the Sabbath.’

‘There are that, but mostly the supermarkets and a few clothes shops. Everything else is closed down, just like the old days.’

‘Someone was telling me something about some sort of religious cult that’s started up in Strathbane.’

‘Oh, them. Call themselves the Church of the Rising Sun.’

‘Sounds a bit like a Rolling Stones record. What are they like?’

‘Harmless bunch of freaks. Bearded men in sandals, dotty women. They’d got a shack of a place out on the north side.’

‘And what do they do?’

‘Bit like the Quakers. They wait until the spirit moves them and then they get to their feet and talk.’

‘And who runs this place?’

‘Chap called Barry Owen. English. No record. Sent a plainclothes along to one of their sessions. Said he was bored out of his mind. Why’re you asking, Hamish?’

‘Someone mentioned it. Just interested, that’s all.’

‘Anything happening up your way?’

‘Nothing much. That fuss about some monster sighted in Loch Drim.’

‘I told you. There’s one daft report after another these days.’

Hamish looked at Jimmy’s empty glass. ‘Want another?’

‘If you’re paying.’

Hamish fetched another couple of doubles.

‘I hear poor Tommy Jarret took some sort of sleeping drug afore he injected himself.’

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘The parents.’

‘That poor couple plagued us with conspiracy theories about drug barons bumping their son off.’

‘You must admit, the sleeping stuff looked funny.’

‘Not to me. You don’t have experience of junkies. They’ll take anything.’

‘So that’s that.’

Jimmy looked at him narrowly, his foxy face suddenly alert. ‘I should have known it wasnae just the pleasure of my company you wanted.’

‘What gave you that idea? Just struck me as odd.’

‘Junkies
are
odd, Hamish.’

They talked of general things and then Hamish took his leave. He drove out to the north side of Strathbane and stopped and asked several pedestrians until he had directions to the Church of the
Rising Sun.

As Jimmy said, it was a shack, a wooden hut with a tin roof. A board outside in Gothic lettering proclaimed it to be the Church of the Rising Sun.

Hamish swung the police Land Rover around and parked it some distance away and then made his way back on foot.

As he approached the door of the building, there was such a silence that he thought there might be nobody inside. He tried the door and it opened. He blinked a little at the sight that met his
eyes. About fifty men and women were sitting on the bare floorboards, facing a bearded man whom Hamish decided must be Barry Owen, the leader. Many of the congregation were in the lotus position.
All were silent. Hamish sat down at the back of the group and waited.

Then one woman began to speak. She said she felt less than a woman because she could not achieve an orgasm. Then she fell silent. Another man began to speak. He spoke of his lusts, of his
unfaithfulness to his wife. Hamish listened in amazement. It was more like a sex therapy group. Joss sticks were burning in old wine bottles at the corners of the room and the air was heavy with
their smell.

After an hour of lurid revelations, Barry Owen got to his feet. He was wearing a denim shirt, jeans and trainers, no robes. He raised his arms. ‘You have left all your troubles with me so
they no longer exist. God be with you.’

And that was that. They all rose to their feet and made their way to the exit. One woman passed Hamish and he noticed that the pupils of her eyes looked unnaturally dilated. He had planned to
interview Barry Owen when the ‘service’ was over, but he wondered rapidly whether he should pose as a new member of the congregation. From time to time his photo had been in the
newspapers, but always just a small picture and in uniform.

He was still wondering what to do as he rose to his feet when Barry approached him.

‘Welcome, brother.’ He had a deep, sonorous voice.

‘Welcome,’ echoed Hamish.

‘How did you hear of us?’ asked Barry.

‘Och, you know how it is,’ said Hamish. ‘I overheard someone talking about it.’

‘And what troubles you, brother?’

‘Maybe another time. I see folks are leaving.’

Barry put a hand on Hamish’s shoulder and stared up into Hamish’s hazel eyes. ‘I am on call night and day. Speak, brother.’

‘I don’t think you can help me,’ said Hamish. ‘My troubles are not sexual.’

‘We talk of other things,’ said Barry. ‘But most people are plagued with sins of the flesh.’

‘I’ve often wondered why when anyone thinks of sin, they think of sex,’ said Hamish, his treacherous Highland curiosity aroused. ‘What about malicious gossip, ill will,
unkindness?’

‘You will find, brother, that all bad feelings stem from repressed sexuality.’

‘But I’m not sexually repressed.’

‘Ah, you think you are not, but excess of sex can in its way be a repression.’

Hamish was about to complain that he was hardly suffering from that either, but decided on the spot to become a member and see if there was even a smell of drugs about the place.

‘I suffer from deep depression,’ he lied. ‘Sometimes I just don’t want to get out o’ bed in the mornings.’

‘Ah, well, we must explore the root core of your depression. What is your job?’

‘Nothing at the moment. I’m looking for one.’

Barry reached up and put an arm around Hamish’s shoulders. ‘There is a quality of innocence in you that I like. I tell you what, I could do with a helper here. I cannot afford to pay
you much.’

‘What would my duties be?’ asked Hamish.

‘Cleaning up the place, helping to repair the fabric of the building. I would like the inside here painted green for a start. Green is a restful colour.’

Hamish’s mind worked at great speed. He was due two weeks’ leave. He could demand it immediately for family reasons. Sergeant McGregor at Cnothan could take over his beat.

‘When would you like me to start?’

Barry beamed. ‘Tomorrow is as good a time as any. Are you collecting the dole?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, well, go on collecting it and I’ll pay you seventy pounds a week.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Hamish, privately thinking it was an encouraging sign of villainy that Barry should be prepared to cheat the government, forgetting that
cheating the government out of its dues was considered in the Highlands as a legitimate occupation. ‘Could you tell me when you started this . . . what is it, church or order or
what?’

‘I started a year ago. There’s a wee room at the back. Come along and have a dram and I’ll tell you about it.’

Hamish followed him through a door at the far end of the hall. It was a lean-to kitchen with a table and four hard chairs. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink. Barry saw Hamish looking around
and said, ‘You can see why I need help. The place is a mess.’

‘I thought some of your ladies might help.’

‘Women, brother, women – these days we do not talk about ladies. They’re all women and they are apt to get a crush on me.’

Poor souls, thought Hamish. He accepted a glass of whisky.

‘I notice you did not take up a collection,’ he said.

‘We do that as they come in the door at the beginning. I teach them to have minds above material things and urge them to give generously. Money given to the church is never
wasted.’

‘So how did you get the idea?’ asked Hamish, sipping his whisky and noticing it was a very expensive malt.

‘God came to me,’ said Barry, ‘and He said to me, Barry, He said, there are folks out there with deep secret personal problems which are blocking the light of the spirit. Get
them to come to you, urge them to talk so that their souls may be cleansed and let in the light of the spirit. I advertised in the local paper, people came along and I am building up a nice
congregation.’

And probably a nice little moneymaker, thought Hamish cynically. It was amazing how people who claimed to have direct instructions from God always seemed to be justifying some selfish
purpose.

‘What time would you like me to start tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘About nine o’clock. You will find I am not very strict. Have you anywhere to live?’

‘I’ve been sleeping in my car,’ said Hamish.

‘And yet you have kept yourself neat and clean. That says a lot for you. What is your name?’

‘Hamish George.’

‘Well, Hamish, there is a cot bed in the cupboard over there. I’ll bring a pillow and a duvet. You can stay here for a bit. There’s a stove there and coal and wood out the
back.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ said Hamish. ‘Maybe my depression got worse because I had nowhere to live and no useful work.’

‘Now you will be working for the Lord,’ said Barry. Hamish’s quick ear caught an almost mocking lilt in Barry’s voice. Hamish had been bending his head in what he hoped
was an attitude of grateful humility, but he looked up quickly. Barry looked back with an unctuous smile.

‘Here’s the key,’ said Barry. ‘It’s a spare. I have things to do. I’ll be on my way and leave you to lock up and fetch your things.’

Hamish waited until he had left and then he began to search the cupboards in the kitchen, under the sink, every nook and cranny, in the hope of finding a trace of drugs, but there was nothing.
So here I am, he thought ruefully, wasting two good weeks’ holiday working for a crackpot organization. Well, he could give it a few days and if nothing came of it, he could always go back on
duty.

As a sign of his goodwill, he washed up all the dirty dishes and cleaned the stove before locking up and walking to his Land Rover.

He drove back to police headquarters and spun them a tale about an urgent family crisis. Then he headed out back through the town. There were several shops still open for business although it
was Sunday. He stopped at a red traffic light and glanced idly out of the window. An expensive-looking boutique was open for business and in the window was a dress Hamish recognized. It was a twin
of the one Felicity had been wearing when he had last seen her. The light turned to green. He drove round the corner and found a parking place and walked back to the boutique, which was called
Lucille Modes.

He opened the door and went in. ‘How much is thon dress in the window?’ he asked. ‘The silky one with the different colours.’

‘One hundred and ninety pounds.’

Hamish blinked. ‘That’s a fair bit.’

The assistant said severely, ‘It is pure silk and designed by Lucille herself. There is one on the rack over there.’ She pointed. Hamish walked over and examined the dress. ‘Do
you make many of these?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘Lucille made only three. People around here don’t like to pay that much and then run into a lot of other people wearing the same dress,’ said the assistant.

‘It’s a bit too much,’ said Hamish, backing towards the doorway.

‘Thought it would be,’ said the assistant pertly.

Hamish drove thoughtfully back to Lochdubh. On his arrival, he mechanically went about his chores on the croft, made himself a simple meal, ate it and then sat down in the living room in his
favourite armchair, clasped his hands behind his head and thought about Felicity.

How could she afford a dress like that? He went over every scrap of conversation he had had with her, how on the day of Tommy’s death she had looked so frightened when she had seen him
outside Patel’s, then about how she had snapped at him that first time when he had looked at the vegetables on the draining board in the chalet kitchen.