"No, I didn't. Come on, Hamish. I grilled that bastard, 'member? Couldn't get the name of his suppliers out o' him. Why the hell would he put them in a book?"

"Just a thought," said Hamish huffily.

"He died of an overdose, plain and simple."

"While you're on the line, Jimmy, do you remember a couple of women in Drim reporting the sighting of a monster?"

"Not me. What are they up to in that nasty place? Trying to invent another Loch Ness Monster?"

"I shouldnae think so," said Hamish. "Do you 'member when that minister's wife and that television lassie produced that TV play featuring Drim? At first the tourists came in coachloads and the villagers didnae like it one bit. They even put a sign at the top of the road saying COACHES NOT WELCOME."

"Hamish, between the drunks up in your part of the world and the druggies down here, we get reports of monsters and UFOs every week."

"Just wondered."

"Well, wonder away and go back to your sheep." Hamish said goodbye and then debated what to do.

Then he decided to drive over to Glenanstey and have a word with Parry.

The birch trees around the chalet which Tommy had rented were weeping rainwater. Ferocious midges danced in and out of the raindrops. Hamish marvelled how the little beasts didn't get drowned. He knocked at Parry's door. There was no reply. He approached Tommy's chalet, wondering why there wasn't a policeman on duty. He tried the door and it opened. He went inside. Fingerprint dust was over everything. He stood in the doorway to the living room and looked around. The word processor stood on the table and beside it a small pile of typescript. He walked over and sat down at the table, took out a pair of thin gloves and put them on and began to read. Chapter one, which is all that there was, proved to be a disappointment. Tommy had meant his book to be an autobiography and the first chapter dealt with his school days. It was not very well written, the language being too flowery and loaded with similes.