A Highland Christmas

by M C Beaton

  Hamish decided to search outside Lairg. He dropped in at the croft houses at Rhianbrech outside Lairg but no one there had seen anything, then past the station, always looking right and left. Then he went back through Lairg and out on the Lochinver road, cursing the rapidly failing light.

  His eyes were getting weary with straining into the surrounding wilderness and he was tired of driving along at ten miles an hour. He decided to put his foot down and go on into Lochinver for a cup of tea. Then he saw a glimmer of white across the moorland. He stopped abruptly and climbed out of the Land Rover. In the gloaming, he could just make out a white trailer. He set out across the moorland. The sun had gone down and great stars were beginning to twinkle against a greenish sky.

  As he approached, he saw the blue-painted tailgate of a truck parked beside the trailer. There was a dim light shining through the curtained windows. Hamish did not feel like tackling two, possibly four, young men on his own. If I were in a film, he thought, I would render them all helpless with a few well-placed karate chops. But this wasn’t a film, yet he was reluctant to phone for backup unless he had some proof.

  He silently crept up. The back of the truck was covered with a tarpaulin. He looked underneath it and in the fading light saw boxes and boxes of Christmas lights. On the other side of the truck, he found a Christmas tree lying on its side.

  He quickly and quietly sprinted back to the Land Rover and phoned headquarters at Strathbane. “I’ll go on into Lochinver,” he said after he had given his report. “I don’t want one of them looking out of the window and seeing a police vehicle.”

  He set off for Lochinver and parked by the waterfront and waited, cursing the long distances in the Highlands. He hoped the police contingent wouldn’t come racing along the Lochinver road with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

  At last four police cars arrived and Hamish’s heart sank when Detective Chief Inspector Blair heaved his bulk out of the leading car.

  “I would have thought this would have been too small a case for you, sir,” said Hamish.

  “I think these are the lads responsible for a chain o’ thefts across Sutherland,” said Blair. “Just tell us where they are, laddie, and get back to yer sheep.”

  Hamish stood his ground. “It’s dark and you won’t find them without me.”

  “Oh, all right. Lead the way.”

  Hamish drove off and the police cars fell in behind him. Curtains twitched in cottage windows. He found himself hoping that none of them had a girlfriend in Lochinver. In these days of mobile phones, villains could be communicated with just when you didn’t want them to be.

  He pulled up down the road and peered across the moorland. The trailer was still there. He hoped they were all inside. He got out and set off without waiting for Blair and the others. But he knew they would be quickly behind him. Blair was not going to let Hamish Macbeth take any credit for this.

  When he reached the trailer, Blair’s truculent voice whispered in the darkness. “All right, Macbeth, knock on the door and then leave the rest tae us.”

  Hamish knocked on the door. “Who is it?” called a voice from inside.

  “Police!”

  Then loud and clear he heard a dog give a warning bark. He knew that bark. It was his dead dog, Towser. He threw himself on the ground to the side of the door just as a shotgun blast shattered the door and would have shattered one Highland policeman had he been standing in front of it.

  “You’re surrounded!” he yelled, getting to his feet. “And we’re armed. Throw out that gun and come out with your hands in the air.”

  There was silence from the trailer. Hamish cursed. He had never thought for a moment that they would be armed.

  The door was kicked open and the men emerged, one by one, their hands on their heads. Blair took over and ordered them to lie on the ground, where they were handcuffed. The charges were announced: theft and attempted murder of a police officer. The men were led off to a police car.

  “You’re a fool,” Blair snapped at Hamish. “Putting our lives at risk by failing to tell us they were armed.”

  “I didn’t know and you didn’t know,” protested Hamish. “And it was me that was nearly killed.”

  “But you knew that shot was coming. How?”

  Hamish grinned. “Highland intuition.”

  “Crap,” muttered Blair.

  After they had gone, Hamish found his hands were trembling. He drove back into Lochinver and went into a hotel bar and ordered a double whisky. Then he ordered a pot of coffee. The germ of an idea was forming in his brain. He waited for a couple of hours and then set out for the trailer again. A forensic team was just packing up.

  “That truck with all the lights in it shouldn’t be left there,” said Hamish. “Someone might pinch them. Are the keys to the truck around?”

  “They were in the ignition.”

  “Right, maybe it would be a good idea if one of you could drive the truck to the police station where I can take care of them.”

  “I suppose we could do that.” One of them said, “You two, go with this officer and take that truck and leave it at Lochdubh police station. It is Macbeth, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ve heard of you.”

  “Wait a bit. Could you take the tree as well?”

  “Come on. Who’s going to take a big tree like that?”

  “You never know.”

  “Okay. Boys, put that tree on the back of the truck.”

  • • •

  After the lights had been stacked in the police office and the tree stacked at the back of the police station, Hamish said goodbye to the two forensic men. He then made himself a meal and went to bed. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and he had just had an outrageous idea. But he would need help.

  • • •

  In the morning Hamish went along to the local garage to see the owner, Ian Chisholm. “I want to hire that Volkswagen minibus of yours,” he said. “I’m taking some folks down to Inverness on Christmas day. Is it still working?”

  “Good as new. Come and see.”

  He led the way through to the yard at the back. The old minibus stood in all its horrible red-and-yellow glory, Ian having run out of red paint and gone on to yellow. His wife had made chintz covers for the passenger seats and it looked, as Hamish thought, as daft a conveyance as ever.

  “I’ll take it,” he said.

  He made his way back to the police station and saw the small figure of Morag running towards him. “Glad to see you,” said Hamish. “Tell your parents and Mrs. Gallagher that we’ll be leaving at one-thirty from the war memorial on the waterfront. What’s up? You look a wee bit strained. Parents been giving you a hard time?”

  “No, they say Mrs. Gallagher’s punishment enough. It’s not that.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Mrs. Gallagher’s a Roman Catholic.”

  Hamish privately cursed all religious bigotry everywhere. If the Andersons knew that Mrs. Gallagher was a Catholic, their precious child would not be allowed anywhere near her.

  He forced his voice to sound casual and not reflect the rage and frustration he felt.

  “I would not be bothering them with such a thing at Christmas. Sometimes it is better not to trouble people with facts that would distress them.”

  “So it’s all right not to tell?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  And God forgive me for encouraging a wee lassie to lie to her parents, thought Hamish as Morag scampered off. Then he quietened his conscience by reflecting that he hadn’t exactly told her to lie, he had just advised her not to say anything.

  He walked on. As he passed Patel’s, none other than Mrs. Gallagher emerged. She had two carrier bags and Hamish could see they were full of Christmas decorations. “That’s nice,” he said, indicating the bags. “Getting ready for Christmas?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?” demanded Mrs. Gallagher. “Haven’t you got any work to do?”

  “I’
ve told Morag I’m picking you up at the waterfront at one-thirty tomorrow. Chust make sure you don’t die o’ spleen afore then,” snapped Hamish.

  She glared at him and then the anger died out of her face and she let out a surprisingly girlish giggle. She was still giggling as she walked to her car.

  “Whit’s up wi’ that old crone?” asked a voice at his elbow. Hamish looked down and saw Archie Maclean. “I havenae seen that woman laugh afore,” remarked Archie. “Whit happened? Did she see someone slip on a banana skin and break a leg?”

  “Never mind her. I need some help, Archie. Come into the police station and have a dram.”

  Archie’s face brightened. “Grand. But don’t be telling the wife.”

  In the police station, Hamish poured two glasses of whisky. “Listen to me, Archie, I need you and some of the more liberal-minded fisherman to help me.”

  Chapter Five

  That afternoon, a group of children met outside Patel’s to share sweets and talk about what they hoped to get from Santa Claus. A red-haired little boy called Sean Morrison said, “Folks say Morag has been visiting Mrs. Gallagher.”

  There was an amazed chorus, “That old witch! Maybe she’ll put a spell on her.”

  Then Kirsty Taylor, a blonde who already had a flirtatious eye heralding trouble to come, said, “I bet you, Sean, you wouldn’t have the guts to go out there and ask for Morag.”

  “Bet you I could.”

  “Bet you can’t.”

  “I’ll go if you all come wi’ me,” said Sean.

  Kirsty danced around him, singing, “Cowardy, cowardy custard.”

  “If you don’t come,” shouted Sean, “you won’t know I’ve been there!”

  So it was decided they would all go. Sean would knock at the door and they would hide.

  • • •

  “Who can that be?” asked Mrs. Gallagher as she heard the knock at the door.

  “I’ll go if you like,” said Morag.

  “No, it’s all right.” Mrs. Gallagher opened the door and looked down at the trembling figure of Sean. “Is Morag here?” he asked.

  “Come in,” said Mrs. Gallagher.

  • • •

  “He hasnae come out,” whispered Kirsty. “Maybe she’s putting them both in the pot to boil them for her supper. I’ll creep up and peek in the window.”

  The others clutched one another as Kirsty crept up to the window. At lasts he came running back, blonde hair flying, cheeks red in the frosty air. “They’re sitting at the fire eating fruitcake,” she gasped. “Fruitcake with icing on top.”

  Mrs. Gallagher opened the door and saw the group of schoolchildren, all professing to be friends of Morag. Mrs. Gallagher knew from Morag that the girl craved friends and was shrewd enough to know why this lot had come round. She knew her local reputation.

  “Come in,” she said. “There’s plenty of cake and lemonade. But first, you’ve got to give me your phone numbers and I’ll phone your parents and let them know where you are.” She wrote down the phone numbers and names and went to the phone in her parlour. When she returned to the kitchen, Morag was surrounded by chattering children.

  “I’ll give you all some cake,” said Mrs. Gallagher, “and then you can all help me to put up the Christmas decorations. I’m a bit late this year.”

  When had she last put up decorations? she wondered, looking back down the years. She cut generous slices of fruitcake while Smoky purred on Morag’s lap.

  • • •

  Hamish phoned Maisie Pease. “I’ll be setting off from the war memorial tomorrow,” he said. “Pick you up at one-thirty.”

  “Grand, Hamish, I’ll see you there.”

  She rang off and then stared at the phone. How odd? Why wasn’t he picking her up at the schoolhouse? She looked through to her neat kitchen where a large turkey lay waiting to be roasted. She had bought a large one to make it look really Christmassy in a Dickensian way. It was too large, she thought. She would be eating turkey for a month.

  • • •

  Jessie and Nessie Currie set out arm in arm for their usual tour of the village. They liked to keep an eye on everything that was going on. As they passed Chisholm’s garage, Ian was hosing down the minibus.

  “It’ll freeze in this weather,” said Nessie.

  “Freeze in this weather,” echoed the Greek chorus that was her twin sister.

  “Just getting it ready for Macbeth,” said Ian.

  “And why would he want a bus?” asked Nessie.

  “Don’t know. But he’s booked it for Christmas day.”

  The sisters headed for the police station, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Then Nessie grabbed her sister’s arm. “Look at that!”

  Angela Brodie was pushing a pram along the waterfront. “Herself is past having the babies,” exclaimed Nessie.

  “Herself has never been able to have the babies, the babies,” said Jessie.

  They crossed the road and stood in front of Angela. “Who does the little one belong to?” asked Nessie.

  “Me!” said Angela with a smile, and pushing the pram around them, headed for home.

  “It is the fertility treatment,” said Nessie.

  They went to the kitchen door of the police station. Jessie peered round Hamish’s tall figure. The kitchen seemed to be full of fishermen.

  “What’s going on, what’s going on?” asked Jessie.

  “Crime prevention meeting,” said Hamish curtly. “What can I do for you?”

  “You hired a bus for the morrow,” said Nessie. “Why?”

  “I’m taking some people down to an old folks home in Inverness for a Christmas Day concert.”

  The sisters looked at each other. Then they said in unison. “We’ll come.”

  Hamish wanted to be rid of them. “All right,” he said. “The bus leaves the war memorial at one-thirty.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  I don’t want them, thought Hamish, but if that pair is determined to come, there’ll be no stopping them.

  • • •

  At two in the morning on Christmas day, there was a wickedly hard frost, which turned the whole landscape white. Silently and quickly Hamish and the fishermen set to work. Archie paused in his labours to whisper to Hamish, “What will you say if Strathbane finds you out?”

  “I’ll say I’m testing them,” Hamish whispered back. “To see if they work. It’s the one day only.”

  • • •

  Christmas day. Morag struggled awake and switched on her bedside light. She knew she should not hope that Santa had brought her anything, but she wistfully thought it would be wonderful if just this year he had decided to stop at her home.

  She climbed out of bed and drew back the curtains. Then she let out a gasp. It was snowing, large feathery flakes falling down from a black sky.

  But not only that. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The Anderson house was at an angle so that the windows faced down the waterfront. Fairy lights were winking and sparkling through the snow, and by the memorial was a large Christmas tree, also bedecked in lights.

  She hurriedly washed and dressed and was about to rush from her room when she saw a bulging stocking hanging on the end of her bed. Wondering, she tipped out the contents. There was a giant bar of chocolate, a small racing car, nuts and oranges. Santa must have come. Her parents would never have allowed her chocolate.

  She went into the sitting room. Four packages wrapped in Christmas paper stood on the coffee table. Eagerly, she opened them up. Three labels said TO MORAG FROM HER MOTHER AND FATHER. In one package was a smoky blue Shetland scarf, in another, a bright red sweater, and in the third, a doll with blonde hair and blue eyes. The fourth package was from Mrs. Gallagher and contained a handsome wooden box of tubes of watercolors and brushes, and along with it came a large drawing book.

  She was about to run and find her parents, when she distinctly heard sleigh bells outside and a great voice crying, “Ho, ho, ho!”

  “Santa!” Mora
g ran to the front door and jerked it open. The snow fell gently and the lights of a transformed Lochdubh glittered and sent their reflections across the black loch. She looked up at the sky but there was no fleeing sleigh. Then she saw the parcel lying on the doorstep. The label said TO MORAG FROM SANTA WITH LOVE.

  She carried it into the sitting room and squatted down on the floor with the parcel on her lap and opened it up. It was a large stuffed grey-and-white cat, like Smoky, with green glass eyes.