legs, showing the embarrassed Hamish support hose ending in long pink knickers, those old–fashioned kind with elastic at the bottoms. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” she added sententiously.
Hamish was about to point out that the Lord did not break padlocks but did not want to offend her. “You look like a verra intelligent woman tae me,” he said. Mrs. Ward preened and a coquettish look appeared in her eyes as she surveyed the tall policeman with the hazel eyes and flaming red hair. “Have there be any strangers around here?”
“There’s some come and go for the forestry. It’s all the fault of that awful man, Sinclair. You know the reason he forced through the collection for the lights? Because he sold them.”
“But if there was enough in the collection for the lights,” said Hamish, “it follows that some of the people here want them.”
“I blame the incomers,” she snapped. “Godless lot.”
Hamish did not bother asking who the incomers were. She probably meant people who had settled in Cnothan during the last twenty years. Once a newcomer, always a newcomer. That’s the way things were in Cnothan. And you never really got to know anyone in Cnothan. In other villages, he called in at houses on his beat for a chat. He had never dared make an unofficial call on anyone in Cnothan. He surmised that such a respectable house-proud matron would not have anything to do with a theft. He was suddenly anxious to take his leave. But Mrs. Ward pressed him to stay for tea and he weakly agreed.
After he left, he took in great gulps of fresh air outside. He felt he had been trapped in that glittering living room forever. He decided to go back to Lochdubh.
In friendly Lochdubh where everyone gossiped freely, he would have more chance of picking up news of any strangers in the area. He was sure it was the work of strangers. Surely even the most rabid Calvinist would not stoop to crime.
Back in Lochdubh, he parked the Land Rover and walked along to the doctor’s cottage. Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, answered the door to him. “Come in, Hamish,” she said, putting a wisp of hair back from her thin face. “I’m just decorating the Christmas tree.”
“I’m glad someone in Lochdubh has a Christmas tree,” remarked Hamish.
“Come on, Hamish, you know a lot of us have them behind closed doors.” She led the way into the cluttered sitting room. The tree was half decorated and Angela’s cats were having a great game swiping at the brightly colored glass balls with their paws. Angela gave a cluck of annoyance and scooped up the cats and carried them out to the kitchen.
“So what have you been up to?” she asked when she returned.
Hamish told her about the theft of the Cnothan lights.
“There was a lot of feeling against having the lights by some of the older residents,” said Angela. “Might not one of them have taken them?”
“No, I don’t think so. You see a large Christmas tree was taken as well. If someone wanted to stop the lights and tree being put up for religious reasons, then they’d probably have smashed the lights and chopped up the tree. Someone’s probably down in the streets of Inverness or somewhere like that trying to sell them. In fact, when I get back to the police station, I’ll phone the police in Inverness and Strathbane and ask them to keep a lookout for the missing lights.”
Hamish passed a pleasant hour helping Angela with the decorations and then went back to the police station. He went into the office and played back the messages on the answering machine. There was a curt one from the bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, asking him to phone immediately on his return.
Hamish rang police headquarters and was put through to Blair.
“Listen, pillock,” said Blair with all his usual truculence, “there’s some auld biddie in your neck o‘ the woods, a Mrs. Gallagher.”
“What about her? She’s only missing a cat.”
“Well, find the damn animal. She’s complained about you, right to Superintendent Daviot. Says you’re lazy and neglecting your duties. Says you’re a disgrace to community policing.”
Hamish sighed. Community policing were the current buzzwords at Strathbane.
“So you get out there and find that cat, dead or alive.”
“Yes.”
“Yes,
“Yes, sir.”
Hamish rang off. He decided to eat first and then tackle the horrible Mrs. Gallagher again.
¦
An hour and a half later, he knocked once more at Mrs. Gallagher’s cottage. Frost was glittering on the grass round about and his breath came out in white puffs.
He waited patiently while the locks were unlocked and the bolts were drawn back.
She let him in. He was about to give her a row for having made trouble for him at headquarters, but he noticed she had been crying and his face softened.
“Look, Mrs. Gallagher,” he said gently, “I was not neglecting my duties. But you must know what it’s like. The cat could be anywhere. And why would anyone break in and steal a cat? And how could anyone break in with all the locks and bolts you have? You even have bolts on the windows.”
“Someone did,” she said stubbornly.
“Have you ever been burgled afore?”
“No, never.”
“So why all the locks and bolts?”
“There’s a lot of evil people around. And unintelligent ones, too. If you had any intelligence, you wouldn’t still be a policeman.”
“I choose to stay a policeman,” said Hamish, “and if you expected that remark to hurt, it didn’t.” It was amazing how little anyone knew of Mrs. Gallagher, he reflected, even though she had been in Lochdubh longer than himself. But then she was damned as a nasty old woman and that was that. It must be a lonely life and she had been crying over the loss of her cat.
“Let’s start again, Mrs. Gallagher,” he said firmly, “and stop the insults or we won’t get anywhere. The mystery here, and it iss where I would like to start, is why you bar and bolt yourself in and why you should immediately think that someone had broken in.”
She sat very still, her red work-worn hands folded on her aproned lap. “Can’t you just find Smoky?” she pleaded at last.
“I’m giving a talk at the school tomorrow and I’ll ask the children if they’ll help me to look for Smoky. School’s nearly finished. But you have not yet answered my question.” He looked at her shrewdly. “Who iss it you are afraid of, Mrs. Gallagher?”
She studied him for a long moment with those odd silvereyes of hers. Then she said abruptly, “Will you be taking a dram with me?”
“Aye, that would be grand.”
A flash of humor lit her eyes. “I thought you didn’t drink on duty.”
“Only on a cold winter’s night,” said Hamish.
She went to a handsome dresser against the wall and took out two glasses and a bottle of malt whisky. She poured two generous measures, gave him one and then sat back down in her chair, cradling her glass.
“Slainte!” said Hamish, raising his glass with the Gallic toast.
“Slainte,” she echoed.
The peat fire sent out a puff of aromatic smoke and an old clock on the mantel gave an asthmatic wheeze before chiming out the hour.
“So,” said Hamish curiously, “what brought you up here?”
“My father was a farmer. I was brought up on a farm.”
“Where?”
“Over near Oban. I knew I could make a go of it myself.”
“You must know country people and country ways. Why all the security?”
A little sigh escaped her. “I always thought one day he would come back.”
“He?”
