Hamish said goodbye to the pathologist. There was nothing more he could do. But he took Parry aside.

"Look, Parry, Jimmy Anderson will get mad if I interfere but could you do me a wee favour? If you get a chance to speak to the parents-they'll be getting Tommy's effects-ask them if I could have a look at what he was writing.".

"I'll do that. Are you off then?"

"I'll just stop at the Irishman's cottage at the Crask turn.

He might have seen some cars."

Sean Fitzpatrick was a crusty old man. No one was quite sure when he had arrived from Ireland, only that he was a retired builder. He had bought a ruin of a cottage and had restored it. The locals had tried to be friendly but as they said, "Sean likes to keep himself to himself."

Hamish had only exchanged a few "good days" with the man but any attempt he had made to stop the police Land Rover and get out when he saw the old man working in his garden had resulted in Sean scuttling indoors.

He drove up, parked and got out. The sky was still brightly lit by a full moon. A thin thread of smoke was rising from the cottage chimney up to a black velvet sky where only a few faint stars glimmered. The black clouds he had seen earlier had retreated. The evening was cool and the air was sweet.

A deer, magnificently antlered, stood silhouetted on the crest of a hill above the little cottage with the moon behind it, as if posing for a photograph, and then disappeared with one long bound.

The peace of the evening entered Hamish's soul. He felt sure now that Tommy had indeed taken an overdose. It was his own vanity, he thought ruefully, that had made him want to find out it was murder, because he had instinctively liked and trusted Tommy.

He opened the green-painted gate and walked up the short path and knocked at the door.