delight the children. As he passed Mrs. Gallagher’s croft, he saw her out in the fields. She seemed to be shouting something. He stopped and switched off the engine and rolled down the window.
“Smoky!” she was calling. “Smoky!”
Her voice echoed round the winter landscape, and the twin mountains above Lochdubh sent back the wailing echo of her voice. He drove on slowly, looking right and left, suddenly hoping that he would see a grey-and-white cat. But only a startled deer ran across his path and then with one great leap vanished among some stunted trees at the side of the road.
He drove on until he reached Cnothan. He noticed lights had been strung along the main street and two men were erecting a tree in a large tub at the bottom of the street. He called in at Mr. Sinclair’s shop. “Oh, it’s you,” said Mr. Sinclair.
“I see you’ve got the lights up. Did that mean another collection?”
“No, it did not! I paid for those lights out of my own pocket, so that should shut up those who said I only wanted the lights to make a bit of money.”
“No more thefts in Cnothan?”
“Not that I know of. Isn’t one theft enough for you?”
“Just wondered. Any news of strangers about the place?”
“Look, I’ve been too busy with the customers to notice anything.”
Hamish looked thoughtfully at him. He wondered if by any mad chance Mr. Sinclair had taken the lights himself and then because of the fuss had handed them back, claiming to have supplied new ones.
He went out of the shop and strolled down towards the loch. He stood for a moment watching the men working on the tree and then he went into the bait shop. Mr. McPhee looked up. “You again.”
“Yes, me. I’m still checking around to see if any strangers have been spotted, probably four young men in a four-wheel drive.”
“See nothing like that.”
Hamish looked around. “You can’t do much trade this time of year.”
“It’s better than sitting at home looking at the telly. I hate Christmas, and that’s a fact.”
“What will you be doing for Christmas?”
“Sitting getting drunk and trying not to put my foot through the telly. Do you know they’re going to show
“I tell you what, me and the schoolteacher from Lochbudh are going down on Christmas day to a concert at an old folks home to try and brighten the folks up. Why don’t you come with us?”
“I’m not that old. I’m only sixty-eight.”
“I’m not old either. But it would be a bit o‘ fun.”
Mr. McPhee peered at him and then said, “Aye, it might be fun. What time would ye be leaving?”
“I’ll let you know. Wait a bit. I’ll let you know now.” Hamish took out his mobile phone. He phoned the Underwoods’ number. Bella answered. “What time’s the concert to be held, Bella?”
“Three in the afternoon, Hamish. We went to see that Mr. Wilson and he seemed awfully pleased at the idea.”
“I’ll be there myself with some friends.”
“Good. See you then.”
Hamish rang off. “I’ll pick you up at two o’clock.”
Mr. McPhee looked quite animated. “Dearie me,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know when I last had an outing since the wife died.”
“When did she die?”
“Two years ago.” Bleak loneliness stared out of his eyes. For some reason, Hamish found himself thinking again about Mrs. Gallagher. What a miserable lonely life she led!
“That’s fine,” he said to Mr. McPhee. “I’ll see you Christmas day.”
¦
He asked various locals about the village if they had seen any youths about and then drove home to the police station. There was a fax waiting for him from Strathbane. He studied the list of petty thefts. They seemed to be spread all over the place. He studied the list again closely. Any youths who would take lights and a Christmas tree were not experienced thieves. They probably roamed around picking up stuff that was easy to lift. His eyes settled on the thefts in the Lairg area. A crofter had had a toolbox taken from a shed, another, a generator, a third, a supply of cut planks with which he had intended to build a henhouse.
He would take a drive over to Lairg in the morning.
¦
Maisie Pease was on the phone with a friend in Inverness. “I’m telling you, Lucy,” she said with a giggle, “I never thought I would end up with the village policeman. Yes, he’s quite good-looking. We’re going down to some old folks home on Christmas day for a concert, just the two of us, and then I’ll make him Christmas dinner, and then who knows what will happen!”
¦
Hamish went along to the general store to buy some groceries early next morning. As he was paying for them, he asked Mr. Patel, “Do you get many of the schoolchildren pinching stuff?”
“Not so many,” said the Indian shopkeeper, his white teeth gleaming in his brown face. “I’ve got these mirrors up, so I usually catch them. Och, it’s nothing for you to go worrying about, Hamish. I deal with it myself.”
“Know a wee lassie called Morag Anderson?”
“Aye, I ken them all.”
“She ever take anything?”
“Come on, Hamish, that lassie’s a saint. Always polite. Beautiful manners.”
Hamish took his bag of groceries.
“Does the shopping for her parents, does she?”
“No, her mother does that.”
“Just buys sweets?”
“Never. She says she isn’t allowed sweets.”
“No Christmas, no sweets. What a life! What does she buy?”
“Just some cat food.”
Hamish froze. It couldn’t be, could it?
“Hamish,” chided Mr. Patel, “there’s a queue behind ye.”
“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
