by M C Beaton
“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.
“Well, it was on the news. Hell’s been abolished. Fact. Trust me. You read your Bible, don’t you?”
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 th
e 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 grownups, 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.”
Morag climbed down and then stood looking up at him, her eyes wide with fright. “She’s a witch. Everyone says so.”
“She’s only something that rhymes with it. Witches were abolished in the eighteenth century. I am the law and that is the fact, so stop having these stupid ideas.”
They went into the croft house, Hamish gently nudging Morag in front of him.
Morag stood before Mrs. Gallagher. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered.
Mrs. Gallagher looked at Hamish. “Get out of here, Officer, and let me have a word with the girl.” Hamish hesitated. “Go on. I’m not going to eat her.”
Hamish reluctantly went outside and got into the Land Rover. He had given up smoking some years ago and now he was glad there were no shops nearby. He had a sudden sharp craving for a cigarette. He waited and waited. At last he could bear it no longer. He went back to the croft house and walked in.
Mrs. Gallagher and Morag were sitting in front of the television set. Morag had Smoky on her lap. Mrs. Gallagher stood up and said to Hamish, “A word with you outside.”
Hamish walked out with her, and Mrs. Gallagher turned to him. “You can go back to her parents and tell her that Morag’s punishment is that she’s to come up here every afternoon during the school holidays. Tell them it’s a community service.”
Hamish grinned and bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll pick her up at five o’clock,” he said. He marched off to the Land Rover.
Hamish drove off whistling. Now for those parents.
• • •
When he followed Mr. Anderson into the sitting room, the angry words he had rehearsed died on his lips. Mrs. Anderson had been crying. Her eyes were red and swollen. More tears, thought Hamish. What a day for tears!
“It has turned out all right,” he said evenly, “but no thanks to you. Mrs. Gallagher wants Morag to go to her every afternoon during the holidays as a sort of community service. Morag is with her at the moment and will be home at five. Now, she was wrong to take the cat, but it seems to be that a lassie with no friends and grim parents needed something to love.”
“But we do love her. We give her everything!” cried Mrs. Anderson.
“Aye, she’s got her own wee flat where nobody ever comes. She sees the other children getting excited about Santa Claus and knows there is no Christmas for her, no fun. Now I know your minister and he’s a good man, and I don’t think he would like you to be torturing a wee girl by forbidding Christmas. She does well at school and I bet you take it for granted. I bet you think that because she’s got her own flat, she owes you. There’s more to life than material things. To try to get your child sentenced in a criminal court over a damn cat is beyond my comprehension. You could have ruined her life. You had her when you were both on in years, so she doesn’t have young parents to take her on picnics or to the movies.”
“The movies are the work of the devil,” said Mr. Anderson heavily. “Naked lewd women—”
“Aw, shut your face, you dirty auld man!” Hamish shouted, losing his temper completely. “Haff you neffer heard o’ Walt Disney? You go on banning everything in her life that’s fun and she’ll run away from ye as soon as she’s old enough. I’ve seen it happen time and again. And parents like you sit there and wonder why and neffer look at their own behavior. If you’re thinking of reporting me to Strathbane, forget it. I’ll deny everything about that cat and so, if I’m not mistaken, will Mrs. Gallagher. Oh, for God’s sake, lighten up. This place is like a morgue. I’m going now, but I’ll be checking on ye. And if you persecute Morag over this, I’ll have the Royal Society for the Protection of Children on your doorstep. Good day to you.”
He marched off. As he drove to the police station, he said, “Movies the work o’ the devil! Havers!”
• • •
“Have you ever seen Star Wars?” Mrs. Gallagher asked Morag.
“No, Mrs. Gallagher.”
“Call me Alice. It so happens I have a video here.”
Mrs. Gallagher put the tape in the video machine and sat back with a sigh of pleasure. It was nice to have someone to watch things with. She didn’t need to worry about Morag gossiping or being cruel. She was just a little girl. Not like a grownup. But grand company for all that.
Hamish went back at five o’clock to pick up Morag. She waved goodbye to Mrs. Gallagher and shouted, “See you tomorrow, Alice!”
“So it’s Alice, is it?” asked Hamish.
“I had a grand time,” said Morag.
“Well, she needs the company.”
The happy look left her face. “My parents are going to be mad at me.”
“It sometimes doesn’t do to let people know the whole truth,” said Hamish cautiously. “What did you do this afternoon?”
“We watched Star Wars.”
“Aye, well, I would keep quiet about that. Just say you’re keeping the old lady company, helping about the croft.”
“Dad doesn’t approve of the movies.”
“No, he doesn’t. So go easy. You’ve got off lightly.”
He went into the house with her. “Afore I go,” he said sternly to Morag’s parents. “We could get round this Christmas business and ye could be helping with a bit o’ Christian work. There’s a concert for the old folks down in Inverness on Christmas day. I’m taking Miss Pease, the schoolteacher, and Mrs. Gallagher and Morag, I am sure, would like to come. It would cheer the old folks up to see a girl like Morag. She seems to have a way with old people. And she would be doing her Christian duty.”
He waited for a rant of protest, but Mr. Anderson said wearily, “I can see nothing against that.”
“Right, I’ll drive you all down. And I think Morag’s been punished enough. Mrs. Gallagher willbe down to pick her up at noon tomorrow.”
Hamish made his escape. He’d better rent that bus from the garage. They’d never all fit into the police Land Rover.
• • •
Maisie was studying a cherry red dress. It looked nice and festive and would do for Christmas day. She dreamily pictured the long drive down to Inverness with Hamish. In her mind, he put his hand on her knee and said, “I’ve been thinking of settling down.” Ah, well, when you got a man on his own, there was no saying what could happen.
• • •
The next day Hamish, realizing all the business about Morag had delayed his visit to Lairg, drove over there to see if he could find out anything. The day was even colder than the one before, with a steel-blue sky above and un-melted frost sparkling on the trees and grass.
He dropped into various shops on the main street until in the butcher’s, a woman heard him questioning the butcher and turned round and said, “There were a couple of lads trying to flog boxes of Christmas lights.”
Hamish took out his notebook. “Can you give me a description?”
“One o’ them had dyed blonde hair and one o’ thae rings through his nose. T’other was squat and dark. The fair one was wearing a red anorak and jeans and the dark one, an old tweed coat and jeans as well.”
“What were they wearing on their feet?”
“We used to call them ‘sandshoes,’ then they were called ‘sneakers,’ now they’re called ‘running shoes.’ Them white things.”
“Thanks. Any other distingu
ishing marks? Tattoos? Funny haircuts?”
“They were wrapped up so I don’t know about tattoos. What d’you mean, funny haircuts?”
“Spikes or shaved all over or something like that?”
“The dark one was going a bit bald. That’s all.”
Hamish went out of the shop and worked his way down the street, stopping to talk to the locals, asking questions, until one man volunteered that he had seen two men answering the description Hamish had given, getting into a small truck. No, he hadn’t noticed the registration, but it was old and muddy and painted blue.
