“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 waterfront 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.”
∨ A Highland Christmas ∧
5
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!”
So it was decided they would all go. Sean would knock at the door and they would hide.
♦
“Who can that be?” asked Mrs. Gallagher as she heard the knock at the door.
“I’ll go if you like,” said Morag.
“No, it’s all right.” Mrs. Gallagher opened the door and looked down at the trembling figure of Sean. “Is Morag here?” he asked.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Gallagher.
♦
“He hasnae come out,” whispered Kirsty. “Maybe she’s putting them both in the pot to boil them for her supper. I’ll creep up and peek in the window.”
The others clutched one another as Kirsty crept up to the window. At lasts he came running back, blonde hair flying, cheeks red in the frosty air. “They’re sitting at the fire eating fruitcake,” she gasped. “Fruitcake with icing on top.”
Mrs. Gallagher opened the door and saw the group of schoolchildren, all professing to be friends of Morag. Mrs. Gallagher knew from Morag that the girl craved friends and was shrewd enough to know why this lot had come round. She knew her local reputation.
“Come in,” she said. “There’s plenty of cake and lemonade. But first, you’ve got to give me your phone numbers and I’ll phone your parents and let them know where you are.” She wrote down the phone numbers and names and went to the phone in her parlour. When she returned to the kitchen, Morag was surrounded by chattering children.
“I’ll give you all some cake,” said Mrs. Gallagher, “and then you can all help me to put up the Christmas decorations. I’m a bit late this year.”
When had she last put up decorations? she wondered, looking back down the years. She cut generous slices of fruitcake while Smoky purred on Morag’s lap.
♦
Hamish phoned Maisie Pease. “I’ll be setting off from the war memorial tomorrow,” he said. “Pick you up at one-thirty.”
“Grand, Hamish, I’ll see you there.”