Sanders raised his eyes. "No, they didn't. But acting on your information, I can organise a raid and let you know if we find anything. We'll check her bank account as well, see if she's been banking any unusual sums of money."
"There's one thing I didnae tell ye," said Hamish. He described his visit to the Church of the Rising Sun and how he had taken leave to work there because it looked like Tommy had been a member.
Sanders began to laugh again. "Now I know why Blair calls you the worst headache in the police force. Man, what if you're recognised?"
"I'll take that risk."
"I'll get news to you somehow. I've always thought there was something wrong about that church. Now, I'd better go and get some sleep before I raid Felicity's place tomorrow."
"And I'd better go and borrow an old car from someone," said Hamish. "I'm supposed to have been sleeping in my car because I'm one of the homeless."
"You know that recluse Sean Fitzpatrick, who lives out on the Crask turn?"
"Aye."
"He bought a new car last year. His old one is round the back. It may still be working. He's like a crofter. They never throw an old car away, just keep it in the garden for spares."
"I'll try him now."
"It's nearly midnight."
"He's old. He's probably still awake."
Sure enough, when Hamish parked outside Sean Fitzpatrick's, he saw the lights were still on. He knocked at the cottage door and after a few moments, Sean answered it.
He sighed when he saw Hamish. "The reason I get the reputation of being a recluse," he growled, "is because I am one. So leave me alone."
"I chust wanted to know if I could rent your old car out the back."
"What for?"
"I've got two weeks' break and them in Strathbane don't like me driving around the police Land Rover."
"Its not insured.".
"I'll get it insured," lied Hamish.
"I've a feeling the only way I'm going to get rid of you is to let you have it. Wait and I'll get the keys and we'll see if it starts."
He reappeared with the keys and they walked round the back of the house, Sean carrying a torch. "That's it," he said.
It was an old Volvo, one of those large ones built like an undertaker's hearse. It was rusted and dirty.
Sean got into the driving seat and turned the key. The old car roared into life. He backed it out onto a heathery track that ran down the side of the cottage.
"I'll charge you twenty-five pounds a week and I want it back with a full tank of petrol," said Sean, getting out.
"Thanks," said Hamish.
"And I'll be having the first twenty-five now."
Hamish fished out his wallet in the lights of the car. A solitary five-pound note stared up at him.
"I haven't the money on me."
"A cheque will do."
Hamish got out his chequebook and wrote a cheque out, leaning on the bonnet.
"There you are," he said, handing it over.
"Fine. I'll just write the number of your bank card on the back."
"I'm a policeman," said Hamish huffily. "You ought to trust me."
"From what I've heard, you're a permanently broke policeman. Card, please."
Hamish handed it over. "Hold the torch for me," said Sean.
Hamish shone the torch while Sean carefully copied out the bank card number on the back of the cheque.
"Fine," said Sean. "Take care of it. It's a good car."
Hamish looked moodily at the dirty, rusty car. "You'll get it back in the same grand condition you're letting me have it," he said bitterly.
He drove back to Lochdubh and before he went to bed, he packed up the back of the Volvo with a bag of clothes and then spread out an old quilt and a pillow to make it look as if he had been sleeping in it.
He then set the alarm before he went to bed. In the morning, he would start his new job. And before that, he'd better stop off at the doctor's and beg Angela to look after his sheep and hens while he was away.
Joe Sanders had hoped to raid Felicity's chalet as early as possible the morning but he found he had to cut through a lot of resistance and red tape before he got the necessary search warrant.
It was nearly midday when, flanked by a policewoman and a policeman, he arrived at Felicity's chalet.
To his relief, she was at home. When he held up the search warrant, she looked as if she might faint. He began the search. Neither kitchen, living room nor bedroom yielded anything. Another dead end, he thought, and wondered briefly how Hamish was getting along.
Hamish had been doing very well. The old Volvo was very convincing, he thought. He started the painting job. He was up a ladder, whistling to himself and reflecting that painting walls was a relief after police work, when he felt himself observed.
He looked down. Barry Owen was standing there and beside him was a hard-faced woman with flaming-red hair which owed all to art and nothing to nature. She had a stocky, muscular figure encased in a pink track suit which clashed horribly with the colour of her hair.
Barry called up. "The wife and I are stepping out for a moment. I'll introduce you when I get back."
Hamish swore under his breath as his eyes met the hard suspicious eyes of Mrs. Owen.
Parry appeared in the doorway of Felicity's chalet. "What's going on here?" he asked.
"I have a search warrant," said Sanders. Parry could see behind him the small figure of Felicity slumped at the kitchen table.
"Find anything?" he asked.
"Nothing in the kitchen, bedroom or living room. There's nowhere else. We're just finishing up."
"Nothing in the upstairs room?" asked Parry.
Felicity began to cry. Sanders ignored her.
"What upstairs room?"
"I'll show you."
Parry led the way into the bedroom and pointed to the celling which had been covered with an Indian curtain. "Up there is a trapdoor. I made a spare room upstairs."
"Where's the ladder?"
"It's in this cupboard."
Parry opened a cupboard and brought out a folding steel ladder. Sanders opened it up, mounted it and then tore the curtain away from the ceiling and dropped it on the floor. He raised the trapdoor and looked around and then smiled. The whole of the floor of the room was covered in mushrooms, drying out, piles and piles of liberty caps-magic mushrooms.
He climbed back down, grinning in triumph. "She's got enough magic mushrooms up there to send the whole of Strathbane on a trip!"
Barry Owen and his wife, Dominica, walked a little away from the church. "Where did you find him?" Dominica jerked her thumb back at the church.
"He turned up yesterday at the service," said Barry. "I had a word with him. He was sleeping in his car. I offered him the job of painting and caretaking."
"God, you're naive," sneered Dominica. "I go away for a few days and you risk taking on someone we know nothing about."
"I am a good judge of character," said Barry huffily, unconsciously echoing Hamish Macbeth.
"I tell you what we are going to do," said Dominica. "We're going back in there and you will get him down from that ladder and I will speak to him… alone."
Barry shrugged. "I've got to go down into the town anyway. You'll find he's harmless."
"Hey, you up there!"
Hamish looked down. Dominica Owen was standing there, her hands on her hips, glaring up at him.
"What iss it?" he asked, his accent made sibilant by nerves.
"I want a word with you."
Hamish reluctantly placed the paintbrush on top of the pot of paint, which was balanced on a cross beam, and slowly made his way down the steps. He followed her through to the kitchen.
"Sit down," she commanded.
He sat down at the kitchen table and looked at her meekly.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Hamish George."
"And you are unemployed?"
"Yes."
"But you must have worked at some time?"
"Crofting. I wass a shepherd."
"So what happened?"
"I got a bit funny and low in my head. I couldnae get out o' bed in the morning."