by M C Beaton
“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 unmelted 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 distinguishing 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 mudd
y and painted blue.
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 w
aterfront 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.”
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!”