"Well, I am not grieving, and I think it's all too pat. Did you prescribe sleeping pills for Tommy?"

"No. He registered with me when he moved to Parry's, but that was all. I don't have anything to do with drug addicts, Hamish, but the damn stuff creeps everywhere and I hope it never reaches up here."

"It's a whole world I know nothing about," said Hamish half to himself.

"I did hear from a colleague down in Strathbane, that there's a disco called Lachie's there. It's been raided several times but nothing has been found. Surely, Hamish, if Strathbane have decided it's an accidental death, then it must be."

"Not necessarily. There's almost a sort of unholy glee when a drug addict dies. Silly bugger, he had what was coming to him. That sort of thing. Now, a lot of respectable businessmen, as you know, cause doctors and hospitals no end of expense and trouble with their drinking. But when one of them dies of a stroke or cirrhosis of the liver or pancreatitis, no one ever says he had what was coming to him. And drug deaths are often among the young and there's an awfy prejudice against young people."

"But if you consider," said the doctor, "that there are warnings the whole time against the effects of drugs and no warnings against the effects of alcohol, other than the usual 'don't drink and drive' warnings, people are apt to think, well, they were told what would happen. Like smokers."

"Could be," pointed out Hamish cynically, "because the highest proportion of alcoholics are to be found amongst the medical profession."

"Too true," said Dr. Brodie. "Which reminds me, I got a present of a fine malt whisky. Fancy a dram?"

"Chust a wee one, then," said Hamish, suddenly assailed by an odd nervousness. He knew that he should let Tommy Jarrets death go and not get under the feet of his superior officers. But at the same time, he knew that if he did not investigate it, that boy's death would nag at his conscience. While the doctor went to fetch the whisky, Hamish wondered what to do next.