by M C Beaton
And then the phone rang from the police office. He came awake and sat up. The dog was sitting on the end of the bed looking at him with those odd eyes. He was tempted to let the phone ring and let the answering machine pick up the call, but he remembered the weather and was frightened it might be a report of someone stranded up on the moors.
He went into the police office and picked up the phone. It was Detective Jimmy Anderson from Strathbane. “Is that you, Hamish?” he said. “Well, you’d better move your arse and get thae lights down.”
“Why?” asked Hamish, too sleepy to deny anything about the lights.
“There’s a man called Sinclair over in Cnothan. Someone told him that Lochdubh was all lit up and he’s fuming that they’re his lights that the forensic boys said you took to the station. Blair heard about it and he’s planning to get over there first thing in the morning.”
“He won’t manage it,” said Hamish. “The roads’ll be blocked.”
“Hamish, he thinks he’s got you this time. He was talking about taking the helicopter. He was drinking all day and I tried to tell him the super would be furious at him for getting a helicopter out, all that expense for some Christmas lights, but he’s determined.”
“I’ll see to it.” Hamish dressed hurriedly and then began to phone round the village.
• • •
Hamish and his army of fishermen worked all night, taking down the lights, carefully packing them back into the boxes, taking down the Christmas tree and propping it back up against the wall of the police station. Other villagers came out to help. Word flew from house to house that Hamish Macbeth was in trouble and that his superior officer was about to descend from the skies like the wrath of God.
Even Mr. Patel set to work, making sure the lights were all correctly packed so there would be no sign they had ever been taken out of their boxes.
At last the work was finished and everyone crowded into the police station for a celebration party. Mr. Patel presented Hamish with tins of dog food, for Hamish had told him about the dog.
“What are ye going to call him?” asked Archie.
Hamish longed to say that he didn’t want another dog, but the dog looked at him and he looked back at the dog and said instead, “I don’t know. Where did you find him?”
“I found the poor wee soul wandering up on the moors,” said Archie, “and I thought, that’s the very dog for Hamish.”
“But Archie, someone may be looking for it.”
“Don’t think so. It was running up and down the road as if it had been dumped out of a car. Why not call it Frank?”
“Why Frank?”
“You know. Ol’ Blue Eyes.”
“Frank,” said Hamish to the dog.
He turned to Archie. “He doesn’t like it.”
Another of the fishermen laughed and said, “Look at the lugs on it,” referring to the dog’s floppy ears.
“What about it?” said Hamish to the dog. “Like the name Lugs?”
The dog wagged its tail and put a paw on Hamish’s trouser leg.
They all raised their glasses. “To Lugs!”
“Shh!” said Hamish, holding up a hand for silence. He opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. The sky was turning pale grey. He could hear the sound of an approaching helicopter.
“He’s coming, boys!” shouted Hamish.
They scattered out of the police station while Hamish changed into his uniform.
• • •
Blair crouched forward in the helicopter. “Can ye see any lights?” he roared at the pilot.
“Nothing but a few house lights!” the pilot shouted back.
Blair was sobering up rapidly and a little worm of fear began to gnaw his stomach.
“Set down on the front!” he yelled.
The pilot landed next to the Chisholms’ bus. Blair climbed down and ducked under the still rotating blades. He glared up and down the waterfront. Not one single Christmas light winked back at him.
He marched to the police station and walked right in. Hamish, neat in his uniform, was sitting at the desk in the police station typing something on the computer.
“Where are those lights?” demanded Blair.
“The Cnothan lights?” said Hamish innocently. “Look about ye, sir. Boxes and boxes of them.”
Blair ripped open one of the boxes and glared down at the neatly packed lights. “I’ll need to put in a report about that box,” said Hamish. “You’re destroying the evidence.”
“Look, here, Macbeth, I had a report you had thae lights strung up all over the village.”
Hamish looked suitably amazed. “Now who would go saying a thing like that?”
Blair stamped out. He went from house to house, demanding to know if anyone had seen any lights, but all shook their heads.
Beside himself with worry and rage, he went back to the police station. Hamish held out the phone. “You’re just in time. Superintendent Daviot on the line.”
“What the hell are you about taking out the helicopter?” roared Daviot. Blair opened his mouth to lie, to say he had heard of a crack house in Lochdubh, anything, but Daviot was going on. “It’s all round Strathbane that you heard Macbeth had put up Christmas lights from that robbery all over his village. Well, did he?”
“There’s nothing here, sir. But you see—”
“Listen to this. The pilot will be charging double because it’s Christmas and I think the cost should come out of your wages. Return here immediately!”
Blair put down the phone. He walked to the door of the police office. “I’ll have you yet, Macbeth,” he threatened. Then he looked down with a comical look of pure outrage. Lugs was peeing into his shoe.
He raised his foot to kick the dog but it scampered under Hamish’s desk and lay on his boots.
Blair squelched out.
“Come out of there,” said Hamish to the dog. “Do you know something, Lugs? I’m going to keep you after all.
“Merry Christmas, you lovely wee dog. It’s turned out the best Christmas yet!”
