Hamish heard the wail of a police siren. "That'll be Strathbane. I hope it's not Blair." Detective Chief Inspector Blair was the bane of Hamish's normally quiet life.

But it was Blair's sidekick, Detective Jimmy Anderson, who came in. Policemen and a forensic team crowded in after him.

"No Blair?" asked Hamish.

Jimmy snorted with contempt. "Blair wouldn't move his arse for a dead junkie."

"Could be murder," suggested Hamish.

"Oh, aye," sneered Jimmy. "The great detective has pronounced judgement. A junkie wi' a record is found dead with a syringe beside him and you ignore the obvious."

"I was talking to him earlier today," said Hamish stubbornly. "And I could have sworn he would never go back on the stuff."

"Let me tell you this, Hamish. Drugs is a dirty business. It gets them and it keeps them. Stuck up here in the backwoods wi' your sheep, you don't see much of life."

The pathologist, Mr. Sinclair, pushed his way past them. "Give me some peace," he said, "until I have a look at this."

Everyone walked outside. "Now," said Jimmy, turning to the crofter, "you're Parry McSporran."

"Aye."

"Who's in the other chalets?"

"Only a wee lassie called Felicity Maundy."

"Let's go and see her. May as well pass the time until Sinclair finishes and then the forensic boys will have to dust the place."

At that moment Felicity came driving up. Her face turned white when she saw all the police cars.

She stopped and got out slowly. Hamish thought she looked as if she might faint.

"What do you know about this?" demanded Jimmy, advancing on her with a truculence worthy of his master, Blair.

She looked about her in a dazed way. "Wh-what?"

"Tommy Jarret's dead."

"He… he can't be."

"It looks like an overdose."

"But he was clean," wailed Felicity, and then she began to cry.