Hamish blushed. “I didn’t come here to ask that. But I thought she would come home to see her parents.”
“She’s working for some big computer firm and they’ve sent her to New York.”
So far away, thought Hamish. So very far away.
“So how’s business?” he asked with well-manufactured cheeriness.
“Business is booming. We’re fully booked for the Christmas period.”
“No news about the old Lochdubh Hotel down by the harbour?”
“Some Japanese put in a bid but then the Japanese recession hit. Then other folks seem to think there isn’t room up here for more than one hotel.”
“It’s a grand building. Could do for a school.”
“So how’s policing?”
“Nice and quiet.”
“No juicy murders for Christmas?”
“God forbid. I’ve got the case of the missing cat and the case of the missing Christmas lights at Cnothan.”
“Ach, Cnothan! That’s such a sour wee place they probably took away the lights themselves, them that thinks Christmas is sinful.”
“I think it was youths. Petty theft. Anyway, Cnothan may be a sour place but at least they wanted to put up some decorations. Look at Lochdubh, as black as the loch.”
“Well, Mr. Wellington the minister was all for putting up a tree this year on the waterfront but he came up against Josiah Anderson.”
“What! Him that lives in that big Victorian house?”
“The same. A real Bible basher. I’m sorry for that wee daughter o‘ his.”
“He’s got a wee daughter?”
“So you don’t know everything. Josiah and his wife were trying for years to have children.”
“Probably didn’t know how to go about it,” said Hamish maliciously. “They should have asked me and I’d have given them a map.”
“Anyway, the wife went down to Inverness for the fertility treatment and she had a girl. Josiah was fifty when the bairn was born and the wife, Mary, forty-five. The wee girl, Morag, she must be about nine now. What a life for her, they’re that strict. No presents for her.”
“She goes to the village school?”
“Aye.”
“I gave a talk to the kids there and asked them what Santa was bringing them and they were all expecting something.”
“What child wants to be different from the others?” asked Mr. Johnston.
“What does Morag Anderson look like?”
“Like a waif. All eyes. And clean. Oh, so clean. I think they scrub her every morning.”
Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Sounds like cruelty to me. I’ll have a talk to the schoolteacher.”
“I’ve heard you’ve been romancing her – dinner at the Italian place.”
“Have I no private life?” mourned Hamish.
“Aye, well, if you’d wanted a private life you wouldn’t have chosen to live in Lochdubh. But I’m in a generous mood. If you want to take her for lunch, I’ll let you have it on the house.”
♦
Hamish drank his coffee, then headed for the schoolhouse. He looked at his watch. School would be breaking up any minute for the Christmas holidays. The children were singing carols, their voices carried towards him on the wind. He waited in the Land Rover until he saw them streaming out. Then he got out and went into the schoolhouse.
Maisie Pease was clearing up papers on her desk. She looked up and blushed when she saw him. “Why, Hamish! What brings you?”
Ask me out again, a voice inside her was urging. But Hamish perched on the side of her desk and said, “You’ve got a pupil here, Morag Anderson.”
“Yes, and I won’t believe for a moment she’s in trouble. She’s my star pupil.”
“No, she’s not in any police trouble. I heard an unsettling piece of gossip about her parents, that’s all. Seems they’re a bit too strict. No Christmas for Morag.”
“I can’t really do anything about that, Hamish. I would be interfering with their religious beliefs.”
“Nonetheless, I would like to talk to them.”
So you’re not going to ask me out, thought Maisie huffily. “I can’t stop you,” she said curtly. “Go ahead. Have a word with them if you want.”
“I thought maybe since it’s just noon you would like to come with me and then we could have a bite of lunch.”
“At the Italian place?”
“No, I’ll take you to the Tommel Castle Hotel.”
“Oh, Hamish. That’s so expensive.”
“Think nothing of it. My treat.”
Maisie’s face was now flushed with pleasure. “I’ll get my coat.”
♦
Most of the houses in Lochdubh were eighteenth century when the then Duke of Sutherland had hoped to expand the fishing industry. But there were a few large Victorian villas built in the last century when the lesser orders copied their queen by having holiday homes in Scotland. But now that people who could afford it usually preferred their holiday homes to be in Spain or some other sunny country, the villas were no longer holiday homes but residences of the middle class. Josiah Anderson owned a clothing factory in Strathbane. Hamish opened the double iron garden gate and ushered Maisie inside.
“What are the parents like?” he asked in a low voice.
“A wee bit severe. I’ve met them on parents day. Morag always has top marks so I’ve never had any reason to talk much to them.”
Hamish rang the brass bell set into the wall beside the door. When he found himself looking down at Mrs. Anderson when she opened the door, he was surprised. He realized he had seen her about the village, had exchanged a few words with her in the general store, knew she was Mrs. Anderson. But he had forgotten, and had conjured up a picture of a grim matron.
Mrs. Anderson was small and neat with permed hair and a rosy face. She looked startled at the sight of Hamish. “Nothing wrong?” she cried.
“Just a friendly call,” said Hamish.
“Come in. My husband’s in the sitting room.”
They followed her into the sitting room which was large and dark, high-ceilinged, full of heavy furniture and impeccably clean.
“Josiah,” said Mrs. Anderson, “here’s our policeman and Miss Pease, Morag’s schoolteacher.”
He rose to greet them. He was wearing a charcoal grey three–piece suit with a white shirt and striped tie. His black shoes were highly polished. He had thinning grey hair, thick lips, small watchful eyes and tufts of hair sprouting from the nostrils of a large nose.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Just a friendly call,” said Hamish again.
“Sit down, sit down, Officer. Mary, get tea.”
“It’s all right,” said Hamish. “We won’t be long. We’re on our way for lunch.”
They all sat down. Hamish looked at Maisie as a signal for her to begin.
“Christmas is very important for little children,” said Maisie.
“That is because each year they are brain-washed into a state of greed,” said Mr. Anderson.
“I don’t think that’s true,” said Hamish. “There’s an innocent magic about it. I hope Morag isn’t going to be left out.”
Mrs. Anderson opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Anderson held up his hand. “Our Morag is a sensible girl. She knows such things as Santa Claus and presents are pagan flummery.”
“It’s a bit of a burden to put on a wee girl,” protested Hamish. “All her friends at school will be excited about it.”
“I see you will need to talk to Morag herself. Get her, Mary.”
Mrs. Anderson went out to the foot of the stairs and called, “Morag, come down here a minute.”
They waited until Morag came into the room. She looked at Hamish and her face turned white and her eyes dilated.
“Now, then, Morag,” said her mother quickly, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. Constable Macbeth and Miss Pease have called because they are worried you might be feeling left out of the Christmas celebrations.”