by M C Beaton
“She done nothing. She thinks someone’s pinched her cat.”
“Gone wild probably or the fox got it.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“So what d’ye want to know about her for?”
“Curious. That’s all. I think she’s a verra frightened woman.”
“Listen, Hamish, if I lived up there and never spoke to a body except to do a deal for sheep at the sales at Lairg, I’d get frightened as well.”
“I think there’s more to it than that. Oh, and if you hear of someone selling Christmas lights, let me know. Cnothan’s had theirs stolen.”
“There’s a lot o‘ Free Presbyterians o’er there.”
The great essayist Bernard Levin once described the Free Presbyterian as the sort of people who thought that if they did not keep the blankets tight over their feet at night, the pope would nip down the chimney and bite their toes.
“Maybe,” said Hamish. “But I doubt it. The lights were taken along with a tree out of that shed at the community hall. The padlock was smashed. Any loose elements roaming the countryside?”
“Haven’t heard. Don’t get them in the winter.”
“If you hear anything, let me know.”
♦
Hamish returned to the police station to collect the Land Rover and drive to Cnothan.
He was once more examining the shed when Mr. Sinclair came up to him. “You’re not wearing gloves,” he accused.
“Why should I?”
“You’ll be destroying fingerprints.”
Hamish sighed. He knew Strathbane would not send out a team of forensic experts to help solve the mere theft of a Christmas tree and lights.
Ignoring Mr. Sinclair, he set out, stooped over the ground, following the trail of pine needles. He went through the gate into the common grazing ground. No more needles. There must have been more than one. He could imagine them getting it over the gate and then lifting it onto their shoulders. He set off up the hill, doubled over, studying the ground. He guessed they would go fast and in a straight line.
Mr. Sinclair stood watching him until the tall figure had disappeared over the crest of the hill. “That man’s a useless fool,” he said to the frosty air. “It’s a pity Sergeant Macgregor is off ill.” He quite forgot that Sergeant Macgregor would have considered such a trivial theft not worth bothering about. Mr. Sinclair was feeling particularly righteous. He had supplied a new set of lights, which were being put up on the main street at that moment, and he had not charged for them.
Hamish spent the rest of the day searching over the common grazing ground until he came upon the peat stacks on the other side of the hill. There, in muddy, watery ground, he came across tire tracks. They could have been made by one of the locals, but as he studied them, he saw a little cluster of pine needles and some marks made by, he thought, running shoes. He counted the different footprints. Four sets of them. They’d probably come to thieve peats and then thought they might stroll over towards the village to see if there was anything they could lift. He stood studying the prints, trying to build up a mental picture of the robbers. There had been a lot of petty theft over towards Lairg, tools lifted from garden sheds, things like that. He decided to put a full report into headquarters and ask for a printout of areas of recent petty theft in Sutherland. That way he might find the area they were operating from. Because of the pettiness of the other thefts, not much police work had gone into finding the culprits. They would possibly be unemployed, hard drinkers, the sort who preyed on farmhouses and cottages during agricultural shows when they knew people would be away from home.
♦
As Hamish prepared a meal for himself that evening, he thought about the schoolteacher. It would be pleasant to talk to someone new. He stopped, about to drain the potatoes into the colander. There had been something wrong in that classroom. He had picked up at one point a little atmosphere of fear. Then he shrugged. He would ask Maisie Pease about it.
♦
The following morning, he decided to run down to Inverness and do some last–minute Christmas shopping. The presents he had already bought for his family were waiting at the police station, but he needed to buy a few little presents for his friends in the village. He would phone in regularly to his answering machine just in case anything cropped up.
It was ten o’clock when he set off and the sun was just struggling up over the horizon. It was one of those unexpectedly mild winter days when a west wind blows in over the Gulf Stream.
As all the main stores in Inverness are crammed into the centre of the town, he found the main street as full of shoppers as ever. Inverness was always busy. Finally, when he had accumulated a supply of various presents, he returned to the police Land Rover. He phoned his answering machine but there were no messages. It was then he remembered Mrs. Gallagher’s friend, Mrs. Dunwiddy.
He went to the central police station and asked if he could use the phone. Hamish had his mobile phone with him, but he wanted to phone around to old folks homes in the area and so he wanted a warm desk, a phone book and a police phone where the cost would not appear on his own phone bill.
On the sixth try, he landed lucky. Yes, they had a Mrs. Dunwiddy, but she was very frail and rambled most of the time. Nonetheless, he said he would call and see her.
He found the old folks home out on old Beauly Road. What was it like, he wondered as he parked in the gravelled drive, to end up in one of these places when you were old? He walked inside. There was a lounge to the right where several elderly people sat staring at a television set. The lounge was decorated with glittering colored chains of tinsel. An overdecorated Christmas tree stood beside the television set, dripping with glass balls and tinsel. Somehow, the festive decorations made the television watchers seem older, more frail and forgotten.
He went to the reception desk, produced his identification and asked for Mrs. Dunwiddy. “She has a few good days still,” said a brisk woman, “but I don’t think this is one of them. She’s in her room. I’ll take you along.”
“Do any of her family visit her?” asked Hamish as he followed her along a thickly carpeted corridor.
“She’s got a son and a daughter. They don’t come often. You know how it is. This place is expensive and these days, people feel they’ve done their duty by paying out. Sad. Here we are. Visitor for you, dear.”
Mrs. Dunwiddy sat in a wheelchair by the window. She was staring out with blank eyes at a bleak winter lawn at the back of the building.
“I won’t be long,” said Hamish. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Mrs. Dunwiddy. The woman who had ushered him in said, “There’s a bell on the wall if you need anything, Officer.” Then she left.
“Mrs. Dunwiddy,” began Hamish. Her old eyes did not flicker.
“I don’t know if you remember,” said Hamish, “but you sold your croft and house to a Mrs. Gallagher.”
Silence.
“I’m worried about Mrs. Gallagher,” said Hamish. “She lives up there by herself, been on her own since she moved in. She’s got the place bolted and barred. What is she frightened of?”
Silence.
“I thought you might know something, that she might have said something.”
She could have been carved out of rock.
Hamish gave a little sigh. He must ask if there was any pattern to her good days and try again. On the other hand, it was a lot of trouble to go to for a nasty woman. He decided there was nothing he could get out of her that day. He rose to leave.
“Cat,” she said suddenly.
Hamish turned. One frail trembling hand had risen and was pointing at the window. He looked out. A black cat was sliding slowly on its belly towards a starling which was tugging at a worm. Hamish banged on the window and the cat fled.
Hamish sat down again. “Mrs. Gallagher?” he said gently. “Remember her?”
“Alice,” she said, her voice like dry autumn leaves blowing across a tarmac road.
“Alice Gallagher?�
��
“Bastard.”
“Who?”
“Said he beat her. Said she ran away.”
“Her husband?”
“Have you washed your face, Johnny? You’re going to be late for school.”
Hamish tried to get more out of her but her brain had retreated to the past. He quietly left.
As he crossed the hall, he once more looked in the lounge. There they sat with the television set blaring. What a Christmas!
He had a sudden idea. He went back to the desk. “Miss – ?”
“Mrs. Kirk,” she said.
“Well, Mrs. Kirk, is anything ever done to brighten up those folks in the lounge?”
“They have the television.”
“I just thought of something. Could I arrange a wee concert for them, for Christmas day?”
“I don’t see why not. Could you wait and I’ll get our director.”
After a few moments, Hamish was ushered into an office where a small, bespectacled man was sitting behind a desk.
He rose and held out his hand. “I am John Wilson. You were saying something to Mrs. Kirk here about a concert?”
“Aye, just an idea. For Christmas.”
“What sort of concert?”
“I know a retired couple, used to be on the halls. They can still play and sing all the old songs. Old people like that.”
“I’ll need to look into our budget,” he began fussily.
“No charge.”
“Well, in that case, it does seem a good idea. In fact, we have other homes like this. If they’re any good, we might employ them to do the rounds.”
“Oh, they’re good,” said Hamish. “I’ll arrange it for the afternoon of Christmas day.”
“That’s very kind of you, Officer. May I ask why you are doing this?”
Hamish smiled. “Because it’s Christmas.”
♦
He then drove to a housing estate at the north of the town, home of Charlie and Bella Underwood.
Bella answered the door. She was in her seventies, but her hair was dyed a flaming red and she was heavily made up. “Hamish!” she cried. “God, it’s been ages. Come in, darling! Charlie, it’s Hamish!”
A dapper little man came out to meet them. “What brings you, Hamish?”
“It should be a friendly call,” said Hamish when they were all seated over a fat teapot in the Underwoods’ kitchen. “But I’m afraid it’s because I’ve got a business proposition for you.”
“Business?” asked Bella. “We’ve been out of the business for a while.”
Hamish explained about the old folks home. “You see,” he said, “you know all the old sing-along songs. Can you still perform?”
“Course we can,” said Bella. “You’re a gem, Hamish.”
“I’ll be paying you for this myself, but if that Mr. Wilson likes you, you could get more work.”
“Keep your money, Hamish,” said Charlie. “We’ll do it for nothing.”
♦
Pleased with his outing, Hamish returned to Lochdubh. He would tackle Mrs. Gallagher in the morning. In the meantime, there was his dinner with Maisie to look forward to. He washed and dressed carefully in his one good suit, brushed his flaming red hair until it shone, and then strolled along the waterfront towards the Italian restaurant. Great stars burned in the Sutherland sky overhead and their reflections twinkled in the black sea loch like the missing Christmas decorations.
He pushed open the door of the restaurant and went in. He was greeted by the waiter, Willie Lamont. Willie, in the heady days when Hamish had been elevated to police sergeant before being demoted again, had been Hamish’s sidekick, but he had married the beautiful daughter of the restaurant owner and left the police force.
Willie conducted him to a table at the window. “I’m waiting for a lady,” said Hamish. “I’ll order when she arrives.”
Willie whipped out a bottle of cleaner and began scrubbing at the table. “The table was clean already,” protested Hamish, remembering how Willie, a fanatical cleaner, had scrubbed out the police station instead of paying attention to his duties.
“It’s a real grand cleaner,” said Willie. “It’s called ”SCCRUBB.“ I sent away for it.”
“Willie, Willie, it’s taking the polish off the table.”
“Oh, michty-me, so it iss. I’ll just get some polish.”
“No,” said Hamish firmly. “Leave it until we’ve eaten.”
Willie’s face twisted in anguish. “Just a wee scoosh o‘ wax,” he pleaded.
“Not even one.” Hamish rose to his feet. “Here’s my lady.”
Maisie Pease joined him. “This is very nice,” she said, looking around.
She sat down in a chair and then shrank back as Willie darted up to the table and shot a spray of liquid wax from a canister and then began polishing fiercely.
“Go away, Willie!” shouted Hamish. “And bring the menus.” Muttering, Willie went off.
“What a strange waiter,” said Maisie.
“Oh, he’s all right. Just a bit keen on cleaning.”
They were the only customers in the restaurant. They ordered food and wine, but the hovering presence of Willie unnerved Maisie. She knocked over a glass of wine, she dropped spaghetti on the table and dropped her bread roll on the floor, and there was Willie each time, mopping and polishing and complaining. Hamish at last stood up and marched Willie into the kitchen and threatened to punch his head if he came near the table again unless they called for him.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Hamish. “He’ll leave us alone now.”
“Tell me all about Lochdubh,” said Maisie. “I’m just getting to know it and the people.”
So Hamish told her about the people in the village, and she watched his thin attractive face and wondered if he was the philanderer that Mrs. Wellington had said he was.
Then Hamish said, “I had a feeling when I was giving that talk that someone was frightened. Just a feeling. Any bullying going on?”
“Not that I know of. But it’s early days for me. It could just be that maybe some of the children were lying.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know if it’s true, but some of them come from very strict religious homes. So when you asked them what Santa Claus was bringing them, they all replied, but in some of the homes, there won’t be any Christmas presents.”
“That’s sad. I know some of them are against Christmas but I didnae think they would take it out on their children.”
“I’ll ask about.”
They talked of other things and then Hamish walked her back to her cottage, which was attached to the schoolhouse. She smiled and thanked him for dinner. He smiled back and then turned and walked away.
Maisie went slowly indoors. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her. He hadn’t suggested a second date. Philanderer indeed!
∨ A Highland Christmas ∧
3
Hamish did not want to visit Mrs. Gallagher. But the idea that someone had been living in solitude and fear on his beat nagged at him. The wind had come back and as he drove off, a ragged cloud of crows rose up from the field behind the police station and scattered out over the loch. Low clouds scurried over the mountaintops. Hamish wondered if the Romans had held their Saturnalia at just this time as a sort of drunken wake to the death of the year. On such a day it seemed as if the grass would never grow again or the sun shine.
Mrs. Gallagher was out in the fields. As he approached, he could see her striding back towards the house. She had seen his arrival and waited at the door for him.
“Well?” she demanded.
“No news.”
“Then I have no time for you.”
“I would like to speak to you for a little bit.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you about your husband.”
She ducked her head suddenly to hide her face. She stood like that for a long moment and then took a ring of keys out of the pocket of her old tweed
coat and began to unlock the door.
“Come in,” she said curtly.
Hamish removed his cap and followed her in.
She turned to face him. “What about my husband?”
“Can we sit down?”
She nodded. She took off her coat and hung it on a peg by the door.
“It’s like this,” said Hamish when he was seated. “I have reason to believe that you are still afraid of your husband.”
“What’s that got to do with my missing cat?”
Hamish studied her and then with a sudden flash of Highland intuition, he said, “For some reason, you live in fear of him, and when Smoky disappeared, you were frightened he had come back to take your cat away. That’s the sort of thing he would do – destroy something you loved.”
Her face was now a muddy color. “You know him,” she whispered. “You’ve met him.”
“No. But did you never think of appealing to me for help? You could have taken out an injunction against him. Was he ever in prison?”
There was a long silence. The wind howled around the low croft house like a banshee.
Then she said, “He was arrested for armed robbery. We were living in Glasgow at the time. I saw my chance to get free and took it. My mother had died and left me money. I managed to keep that fact from him. I drew out all the money and came up here.”
“Look, what’s his full name?”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Hamish patiently, “I can check up on him. I can find out where he is and what he’s doing. He could be dead. Think of that. The man could be dead and here are you, talking to no one and living scared.”
“Hugh,” she said. “Hugh Gallagher.”
“Last address?”
“Springburn Road, number five-A.”
Hamish scribbled rapidly in his notebook. “And when was he arrested?”
“In nineteen seventy-eight. In March. It was the eighteenth when they came for him.”
“Right, I’ll get onto that right away.”
