"That's all right." Hamish went back into Felicity's chalet. She was still sitting where he had left her. He picked up his oilskin and put on his cap. "Good day to you, Miss Maundy." He made his way out through the small kitchen. There was a selection of vegetables on the draining board, lettuce, carrots, mushrooms.

His Highland curiosity wouldn't even let the smallest thing go by.

"You a vegetarian?" he called.

The reaction was amazing. Felicity darted into the kitchen, her face flaming. "Get out!" she screamed. "Stop poking and nosing around.'"

He shrugged. "I'm going."

Now what was that all about? he wondered as he walked to his Land Rover.

By a great effort of will, he convinced himself in the following days that poor Tommy's death had indeed been an accident. He went out on his rounds, a burglary over in Braikie took up some time, as did his chores about the croft. The days had stayed sunny, days to relax and breathe in some of the cleanest, balmiest air in the world.

A week after the death of Tommy, he drove back to the police station with the windows of the Land Rover open, whistling "The Road to the Isles" and waving to people he knew.

And then a bright image of Tommy's young face rose in his mind. He whistled louder to banish it.

As he approached the police station, he could see two figures standing outside. As he drew nearer, with a sinking heart, he recognised Tommy Jarret's parents.

He parked the Land Rover and got out.

"We want to speak to you," said Mr. Jarret.

"Come into the station," said Hamish. He opened the kitchen door. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," said Mr. Jarret. "What we have to say is very important."

They both sat down at the kitchen table, the picture of middle-aged respectability.

Hamish sat down as well and said easily, "How can I be of help?"

Mr. Jarret took a deep breath.