Hamish was in luck. Jimmy was not only at police headquarters but just finishing his shift. Soon they were seated in a nearby pub. Hamish had paid for two doubles.

"What brings you to Strathbane?"

"Day off. I thought I'd look at the shops. I've heard there's a good few open on the Sabbath."

"There are that, but mostly the supermarkets and a few clothes shops. Everything else is closed down, just like the old days."

"Someone was telling me something about some sort of religious cult that's started up in Strathbane."

"Oh, them. Call themselves the Church of the Rising Sun."

"Sounds a bit like a Rolling Stones record. What are they like?"

"Harmless bunch of freaks. Bearded men in sandals, dotty women. They'd got a shack of a place out on the north side."

"And what do they do?"

"Bit like the Quakers. They wait until the spirit moves them and then they get to their feet and talk."

"And who runs this place?"

"Chap called Barry Owen. English. No record. Sent a plainclothes along to one of their sessions. Said he was bored out of his mind. Why're you asking, Hamish?"

"Someone mentioned it. Just interested, that's all."

"Anything happening up your way?"

"Nothing much. That fuss about some monster sighted in Loch Drim."

"I told you. There's one daft report after another these days."

Hamish looked at Jimmy's empty glass. "Want another?"

"If you're paying."

Hamish fetched another couple of doubles.

"I hear poor Tommy Jarret took some sort of sleeping drug afore he injected himself."

"Where did you hear that?"

"The parents."

"That poor couple plagued us with conspiracy theories about drug barons bumping their son off."

"You must admit, the sleeping stuff looked funny."

"Not to me. You don't have experience of junkies. They'll take anything."