by M C Beaton
Hamish shook his head. “His flat was a bit of a shock. It was in a tenement in Springburn, dark and sordid. He said, don’t worry, he had something in mind. We’d soon be out of there. Then things began to fall apart. My father phoned and said money from the farm office was missing and only Hugh could have taken it. Of course, I stood up for Hugh and we had a row and he told me never to come back to the farm again until I had come to my senses. Then one day when Hugh was out, his parents came by. Yes, parents! The father was drunk and the mother was a slattern. Hugh came home and threw them out. I asked him why he had lied to me. He said he was ashamed of his parents and that his father used to beat him.
“Oh, I believed him because I wanted to. Then the police came for him. He had stolen the motorbike. He got a short prison sentence and when he came out, he stopped keeping up any front for me. He would get drunk and beat me. And yet I still loved him and pride stopped me from going back to my parents. But things got worse. All sorts of villains started calling round. Then one day Mother phoned and said my father had died. I went back for the funeral. Hugh asked me if he had left me anything and I said no, truthfully. He had left everything to my mother. Mother sold the farm and moved into a little house in Oban. She was never the same after my father’s death. She got cancer and a year later, she was dead, too. She left everything to me. Hugh hadn’t come up with me. I saw the lawyers and got the money she’d left and said that any other money from the sale of the house was to go into an account in Oban in my name. But I meant to tell Hugh about the money. I was always hoping he would reform.”
A dry sob escaped her. “I went back to Glasgow. He was entertaining his friends. There were bottles everywhere. Hugh had a raddled woman sitting on his knee. I cracked. I said I was leaving him. He turned ugly. He got everyone out and then he beat me with his belt.
I’d brought back some family photos and he threw them on the fire. He said I couldn’t leave him. He’d always find me. Then the police broke in during the night and arrested him for armed robbery. I stayed only as long as the trial, only as long as it took to learn he was going to prison, and then I left for Oban. I stayed until my mother’s house was sold and then came up here. I decided that people were no good. I’d stick to my croft and my sheep. That Mrs. Dunwiddy was friendly while I was negotiating the sale with her, but she asked too many questions so I never saw her again.”
“Mrs. Dunwiddy’s down in an old folks home in Inverness. She had a stroke. I believe her mind’s gone,” said Hamish, not elaborating further because he didn’t want the touchy Mrs. Gallagher to know he had been trying to find out about her.
“Oh, dear,” she said vaguely.
“So now your worries are over, you should get about and meet people.”
“I’m too set in my ways to start socializing, young man. And my worries aren’t over. What about my cat?”
“Still searching,” said Hamish getting to his feet. He looked down at her helplessly. There was nothing that could be done to combat years of isolation and sourness.
∨ A Highland Christmas ∧
4
Hamish put in a request to Strathbane for a list of all petty crimes in the Highland area in the past month. Then he decided to go over to Cnothan and make some more inquiries. The day was cold and still. It never snowed on Christmas day but he found himself hoping that just this year there might be a light fall to delight the children. As he passed Mrs. Gallagher’s croft, he saw her out in the fields. She seemed to be shouting something. He stopped and switched off the engine and rolled down the window.
“Smoky!” she was calling. “Smoky!”
Her voice echoed round the winter landscape, and the twin mountains above Lochdubh sent back the wailing echo of her voice. He drove on slowly, looking right and left, suddenly hoping that he would see a grey-and-white cat. But only a startled deer ran across his path and then with one great leap vanished among some stunted trees at the side of the road.
He drove on until he reached Cnothan. He noticed lights had been strung along the main street and two men were erecting a tree in a large tub at the bottom of the street. He called in at Mr. Sinclair’s shop. “Oh, it’s you,” said Mr. Sinclair.
“I see you’ve got the lights up. Did that mean another collection?”
“No, it did not! I paid for those lights out of my own pocket, so that should shut up those who said I only wanted the lights to make a bit of money.”
“No more thefts in Cnothan?”
“Not that I know of. Isn’t one theft enough for you?”
“Just wondered. Any news of strangers about the place?”
“Look, I’ve been too busy with the customers to notice anything.”
Hamish looked thoughtfully at him. He wondered if by any mad chance Mr. Sinclair had taken the lights himself and then because of the fuss had handed them back, claiming to have supplied new ones.
He went out of the shop and strolled down towards the loch. He stood for a moment watching the men working on the tree and then he went into the bait shop. Mr. McPhee looked up. “You again.”
“Yes, me. I’m still checking around to see if any strangers have been spotted, probably four young men in a four-wheel drive.”
“See nothing like that.”
Hamish looked around. “You can’t do much trade this time of year.”
“It’s better than sitting at home looking at the telly. I hate Christmas, and that’s a fact.”
“What will you be doing for Christmas?”
“Sitting getting drunk and trying not to put my foot through the telly. Do you know they’re going to show The Sound of Music again? It’s enough to drive a man mad.”
“I tell you what, me and the schoolteacher from Lochbudh are going down on Christmas day to a concert at an old folks home to try and brighten the folks up. Why don’t you come with us?”
“I’m not that old. I’m only sixty-eight.”
“I’m not old either. But it would be a bit o‘ fun.”
Mr. McPhee peered at him and then said, “Aye, it might be fun. What time would ye be leaving?”
“I’ll let you know. Wait a bit. I’ll let you know now.” Hamish took out his mobile phone. He phoned the Underwoods’ number. Bella answered. “What time’s the concert to be held, Bella?”
“Three in the afternoon, Hamish. We went to see that Mr. Wilson and he seemed awfully pleased at the idea.”
“I’ll be there myself with some friends.”
“Good. See you then.”
Hamish rang off. “I’ll pick you up at two o’clock.”
Mr. McPhee looked quite animated. “Dearie me,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know when I last had an outing since the wife died.”
“When did she die?”
“Two years ago.” Bleak loneliness stared out of his eyes. For some reason, Hamish found himself thinking again about Mrs. Gallagher. What a miserable lonely life she led!
“That’s fine,” he said to Mr. McPhee. “I’ll see you Christmas day.”
♦
He asked various locals about the village if they had seen any youths about and then drove home to the police station. There was a fax waiting for him from Strathbane. He studied the list of petty thefts. They seemed to be spread all over the place. He studied the list again closely. Any youths who would take lights and a Christmas tree were not experienced thieves. They probably roamed around picking up stuff that was easy to lift. His eyes settled on the thefts in the Lairg area. A crofter had had a toolbox taken from a shed, another, a generator, a third, a supply of cut planks with which he had intended to build a henhouse.
He would take a drive over to Lairg in the morning.
♦
Maisie Pease was on the phone with a friend in Inverness. “I’m telling you, Lucy,” she said with a giggle, “I never thought I would end up with the village policeman. Yes, he’s quite good-looking. We’re going down to some old folks home on Christmas day for a concert, just the two of us, a
nd then I’ll make him Christmas dinner, and then who knows what will happen!”
♦
Hamish went along to the general store to buy some groceries early next morning. As he was paying for them, he asked Mr. Patel, “Do you get many of the schoolchildren pinching stuff?”
“Not so many,” said the Indian shopkeeper, his white teeth gleaming in his brown face. “I’ve got these mirrors up, so I usually catch them. Och, it’s nothing for you to go worrying about, Hamish. I deal with it myself.”
“Know a wee lassie called Morag Anderson?”
“Aye, I ken them all.”
“She ever take anything?”
“Come on, Hamish, that lassie’s a saint. Always polite. Beautiful manners.”
Hamish took his bag of groceries.
“Does the shopping for her parents, does she?”
“No, her mother does that.”
“Just buys sweets?”
“Never. She says she isn’t allowed sweets.”
“No Christmas, no sweets. What a life! What does she buy?”
“Just some cat food.”
Hamish froze. It couldn’t be, could it?
“Hamish,” chided Mr. Patel, “there’s a queue behind ye.”
“Sorry.” Hamish left and stood outside the shop.
“What’s up with you, Constable?” demanded a voice. “Standing there like a great loon. Shouldn’t you be about your duties?”
Hamish found himself confronted by the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, twins and spinsters of the parish. They both wore tightly buttoned tweed coats and woolly hats over rigidly permed hair. “What are you standing there gawking at, gawking at?” said Jessie who had an irritating way of repeating everything.
Hamish suddenly smiled blindingly down at them. “At your beauty, ladies.”
“Get along with you,” said Nessie. “It’s not our beauty you’re after but that new schoolteacher.”
“She should be warned, she should be warned,” said Jessie.
“Have the Andersons a cat?” asked Hamish.
“What? Them at the big villa at the end?” asked Nessie.
“Yes, them.”
“I’ve never seen one, never seen one,” said Jessie. “I shouldn’t think so. Herself is verra houseproud, verra houseproud.”
“Just wondered,” said Hamish, ambling off. He went to the police station and stacked away his groceries.
Now let’s go for a mad leap of the imagination, he thought. The saintly Morag steals Mrs. Gallagher’s cat. How can she hide it from her parents? Well, her mother had bragged about her having her own separate apartment at the top of the house.
So I could just go along and ask Mrs. Anderson if she has a cat. If she says no, ask her why Morag is buying cat food. I suddenly wish I didn’t have to do this. I suddenly wish it was someone else.
He hoped he was wrong. The thought of telling Mrs. Gallagher made him quail. He had no doubt she would press charges. His heart was heavy as he left the police station and walked along the waterfront. He had a weak hope they might not be at home. But the factory at Strathbane would be closed for Christmas and no doubt Mr. Anderson would be at home, just as he had been when Hamish first called.
He rang the bell. Mr. Anderson answered the door. He drew down his brows in a scowl. “If you’ve come here again to lecture us about Christmas, I’ll report you to headquarters.”
“I would like to speak to you and your wife. It’s a case of theft.”
Mr. Anderson looked taken aback. “You’d better come in.”
Hamish walked into the dark sitting room where Mrs. Anderson was knitting. She looked up, startled, and a steel knitting needle fell to the floor.
“This officer is here to talk about a theft,” said Mr. Anderson, “although what it’s got to do with us is beyond me.”
“May I sit down?” Hamish took off his cap and sat down before they could say anything. “It’s like this,” he said. “Mrs. Gallagher who lives out on the Cnothan road, her cat’s disappeared.”
Mrs. Anderson goggled at him. “What on earth has that got to do with us?”
“Have you got a cat?”
“No, we haven’t got a cat!” raged Mr. Anderson. “How dare you come here and imply – ”
“Then why is Morag buying cat food?” said Hamish in a flat voice.
They both stared at him.
Then Mr. Anderson went to the foot of the stairs and shouted up, “Morag! Come down here!”
They waited in silence until Morag came in, small and neat in a crisp white blouse and block-pleated skirt.
“This officer says you have been buying cat food,” said her father.
Morag turned pale. “I was buying it for someone.”
“Who?” asked Hamish gently. “I shall check with the person you say you are buying the cat food for.”
Huge tears filled Morag’s eyes and she began to sob. The atmosphere in the room was electric.
Mrs. Anderson left the room and went upstairs. Morag stood sobbing.
“Will ye no sit down, lassie?” suggested Hamish.
But she continued to cry. Hamish glared at her father. Couldn’t he do something or say something?
Mrs. Anderson came back, a smile on her face. “Och, there’s no cat up there,” she said triumphantly. “All you’ve done is give Morag a fright.”
“It still doesn’t explain the cat food,” said Hamish. “Mind if I have a look?”
“Oh, go on!” shouted Mrs. Anderson. “But a complaint about you goes straight to Strathbane today. Terrorizing children! You’re a monster.”
Hamish went up the thickly carpeted stairs. He went into Morag’s bedroom. It was white and clean; white bedspread, white flounced curtains. He searched around and under the bed. Then he tried the sitting room and the bathroom without success. There was a door on the landing. He pushed it open. It was a box room full of discarded old furniture and old suitcases. Over by the window, he saw a bowl of water and a bowl of catfood.
“Smoky!” he called.
A faint meow came from one of the suitcases. He noticed it had airholes bored in the sides. He lifted the lid and a small grey-and-white cat blinked up at him. “Come here,” he said in a soft voice. He picked up the cat, which snuggled under his chin, and went slowly downstairs.
Mrs. Anderson screamed when she saw him with the cat and Mr. Anderson began to shout and rave at his daughter. She was a limb of Satan. How could she do this after all they had done for her?
“I wanted something to love that would love me back,” said Morag, now past crying.
“Did you go into Mrs. Gallagher’s house and take the cat?” asked Hamish.
“No,” she said, her voice little above a whisper. “I was walking up by her croft after school and I saw the cat. It came up to me. It likes me. Smoky loves me. I thought I would take Smoky home and play with him for a bit. That’s all. Then I was frightened to take him back.”
Hamish turned to the parents. “Look here. No harm done. I’ve got the cat. Why don’t I just tell Mrs. Gallagher I found it wandering by the road? You don’t want charges against Morag.”
“There will be no lying!” thundered Mr. Anderson. “You will take Morag and that animal to Mrs. Gallagher. It is up to her to punish the girl.”
Hamish looked at him in disgust. “Aye, I’ll do that and then I’ll be back to have a word with you. Get your coat, Morag, and put a scarf on. It’s cold out.”
♦
He walked with the now silent Morag along the waterfront to where the police Land Rover was parked outside the station. “I want you to take Smoky and hold him on your lap, tight,” he ordered. “Cats are sometimes scared if they’re not used to motors.”
Morag gently took the cat from him and climbed into the passenger seat. In a bleak little voice, she asked, “Will I go to hell?”
“Och, no,” said Hamish, letting in the clutch. “Don’t you have the telly?”
She shook her head miserably.
A nod.
“I mean the New Testament?”
Nod, again.
“Don’t ye know the bit about there being more rejoicing in heaven over the entrance of one sinner than that of an honest man, or something like that?”
Her wide eyes looked up at him, startled.
“I am the law,” said Hamish grandly, “and I wouldnae lie tae ye.”
When they got to Mrs. Gallagher’s croft, he said, “Give me the cat and wait there. No running away.”
Cradling Smoky against his chest, he knocked at the door. Only one lock clicked and the door was opened.
“Oh, God, it’s Smoky,” said Mrs. Gallagher. Tears of relief coursed down her face. Hamish was beginning to feel like Alice in the pool of tears.
“I want to talk to you about it,” said Hamish, following her in.
She looked at him sharply. “Smoky hasn’t been wandering the fields. He’s well fed and clean.”
“Aye. Let me tell you the story.”
He sat down and told her all about Morag, about her strict parents, about how she seemed to have every material comfort but nothing in the way of love. “She said she only wanted something to love that would love her back. Wait!” He held up his hand, seeing the anger on Mrs. Gallagher’s face. “I was going to lie to you. It’s bad enough you bitching to grown-ups, but I didn’t want you taking your spite out on a wee girl. I wanted to tell you I had just found Smoky wandering about, but those parents from hell made me bring the girl up here, and you can press charges if you want and give the poor bairn a criminal record.”
“She’s outside?”
“Yes.”
“Bring her in.”
“All right,” said Hamish wearily. “What a Christmas!”
He went out to the Land Rover and said to Morag, “You’d best come in and apologize.”
