Macgregor would have considered such a trivial theft not worth bothering about. Mr. Sinclair was feeling particularly righteous. He had supplied a new set of lights, which were being put up on the main street at that moment, and he had not charged for them.
Hamish spent the rest of the day searching over the common grazing ground until he came upon the peat stacks on the other side of the hill. There, in muddy, watery ground, he came across tire tracks. They could have been made by one of the locals, but as he studied them, he saw a little cluster of pine needles and some marks made by, he thought, running shoes. He counted the different footprints. Four sets of them. They’d probably come to thieve peats and then thought they might stroll over towards the village to see if there was anything they could lift. He stood studying the prints, trying to build up a mental picture of the robbers. There had been a lot of petty theft over towards Lairg, tools lifted from garden sheds, things like that. He decided to put a full report into headquarters and ask for a printout of areas of recent petty theft in Sutherland. That way he might find the area they were operating from. Because of the pettiness of the other thefts, not much police work had gone into finding the culprits. They would possibly be unemployed, hard drinkers, the sort who preyed on farmhouses and cottages during agricultural shows when they knew people would be away from home.
¦
As Hamish prepared a meal for himself that evening, he thought about the schoolteacher. It would be pleasant to talk to someone new. He stopped, about to drain the potatoes into the colander. There had been something wrong in that classroom. He had picked up at one point a little atmosphere of fear. Then he shrugged. He would ask Maisie Pease about it.
¦
The following morning, he decided to run down to Inverness and do some last–minute Christmas shopping. The presents he had already bought for his family were waiting at the police station, but he needed to buy a few little presents for his friends in the village. He would phone in regularly to his answering machine just in case anything cropped up.
It was ten o’clock when he set off and the sun was just struggling up over the horizon. It was one of those unexpectedly mild winter days when a west wind blows in over the Gulf Stream.
As all the main stores in Inverness are crammed into the centre of the town, he found the main street as full of shoppers as ever. Inverness was always busy. Finally, when he had accumulated a supply of various presents, he returned to the police Land Rover. He phoned his answering machine but there were no messages. It was then he remembered Mrs. Gallagher’s friend, Mrs. Dunwiddy.
He went to the central police station and asked if he could use the phone. Hamish had his mobile phone with him, but he wanted to phone around to old folks homes in the area and so he wanted a warm desk, a phone book and a police phone where the cost would not appear on his own phone bill.
On the sixth try, he landed lucky. Yes, they had a Mrs. Dunwiddy, but she was very frail and rambled most of the time. Nonetheless, he said he would call and see her.
He found the old folks home out on old Beauly Road. What was it like, he wondered as he parked in the gravelled drive, to end up in one of these places when you were old? He walked inside. There was a lounge to the right where several elderly people sat staring at a television set. The lounge was decorated with glittering colored chains of tinsel. An overdecorated Christmas tree stood beside the television set, dripping with glass balls and tinsel. Somehow, the festive decorations made the television watchers seem older, more frail and forgotten.
He went to the reception desk, produced his identification and asked for Mrs. Dunwiddy. “She has a few good days still,” said a brisk woman, “but I don’t think this is one of them. She’s in her room. I’ll take you along.”
“Do any of her family visit her?” asked Hamish as he followed her along a thickly carpeted corridor.
“She’s got a son and a daughter. They don’t come often. You know how it is. This place is expensive and these days, people feel they’ve done their duty by paying out. Sad. Here we are. Visitor for you, dear.”
Mrs. Dunwiddy sat in a wheelchair by the window. She was staring out with blank eyes at a bleak winter lawn at the back of the building.
“I won’t be long,” said Hamish. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Mrs. Dunwiddy. The woman who had ushered him in said, “There’s a bell on the wall if you need anything, Officer.” Then she left.
“Mrs. Dunwiddy,” began Hamish. Her old eyes did not flicker.
“I don’t know if you remember,” said Hamish, “but you sold your croft and house to a Mrs. Gallagher.”
Silence.
“I’m worried about Mrs. Gallagher,” said Hamish. “She lives up there by herself, been on her own since she moved in. She’s got the place bolted and barred. What is she frightened of?”
Silence.
“I thought you might know something, that she might have said something.”
She could have been carved out of rock.
Hamish gave a little sigh. He must ask if there was any pattern to her good days and try again. On the other hand, it was a lot of trouble to go to for a nasty woman. He decided there was nothing he could get out of her that day. He rose to leave.
“Cat,” she said suddenly.
Hamish turned. One frail trembling hand had risen and was pointing at the window. He looked out. A black cat was sliding slowly on its belly towards a starling which was tugging at a worm. Hamish banged on the window and the cat fled.
Hamish sat down again. “Mrs. Gallagher?” he said gently. “Remember her?”
“Alice,” she said, her voice like dry autumn leaves blowing across a tarmac road.
“Alice Gallagher?”
“Bastard.”
“Who?”
“Said he beat her. Said she ran away.”
“Her husband?”
“Have you washed your face, Johnny? You’re going to be late for school.”
Hamish tried to get more out of her but her brain had retreated to the past. He quietly left.
As he crossed the hall, he once more looked in the lounge. There they sat with the television set blaring. What a Christmas!
He had a sudden idea. He went back to the desk. “Miss – ?”
“Mrs. Kirk,” she said.
“Well, Mrs. Kirk, is anything ever done to brighten up those folks in the lounge?”
“They have the television.”
“I just thought of something. Could I arrange a wee concert for them, for Christmas day?”
“I don’t see why not. Could you wait and I’ll get our director.”
After a few moments, Hamish was ushered into an office where a small, bespectacled man was sitting behind a desk.
He rose and held out his hand. “I am John Wilson. You were saying something to Mrs. Kirk here about a concert?”
“Aye, just an idea. For Christmas.”
“What sort of concert?”
“I know a retired couple, used to be on the halls. They can still play and sing all the old songs. Old people like that.”
“I’ll need to look into our budget,” he began fussily.
“No charge.”
“Well, in that case, it does seem a good idea. In fact, we have other homes like this. If they’re any good, we might employ them to do the rounds.”
“Oh, they’re good,” said Hamish. “I’ll arrange it for the afternoon of Christmas day.”
“That’s very kind of you, Officer. May I ask why you are doing this?”
Hamish smiled. “Because it’s Christmas.”
¦
He then drove to a housing estate at the north of the town, home of Charlie and Bella Underwood.
Bella answered the door. She was in her seventies, but her hair was dyed a flaming red and she was heavily
