A Christmas Tail Read online

  T. F. Muir is the author of Eye for an Eye, Hand for a Hand, Tooth for a Tooth and Life for a Life, a contemporary bestselling crime series set in St Andrews, Scotland. Having spent almost all of his professional life overseas as a civil engineer, Frank returned to Scotland to write full-time. Now a dual US/UK citizen, Frank lives on the outskirts of Glasgow with his wife, Anne, from where he visits St Andrews regularly to carry out some serious research in the auld grey town’s many bars and restaurants.

  You can read more about the real Hamish McHamish in his very own book, Hamish McHamish of St Andrews: Cool Cat About Town by Susan McMullan.

  Also by T. F. Muir

  Eye for an Eye

  Hand for a Hand

  Tooth for a Tooth

  Life for a Life

  A Christmas Tail

  A DCI Gilchrist short story

  T. F. Muir

  Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  This ebook first published in the UK by C&R Crime,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013

  Copyright © T. F. Muir, 2013

  The right of T. F. Muir to be identified as the author of this

  work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-541-6 (ebook)

  Cover copyright © Constable & Robinson

  23rd December. North Street, St Andrews, Scotland

  DCI Andy Gilchrist never noticed the woman as he left the office.

  He pulled his jacket collar tight to his neck to fend off a bitter chill that came in off the Eden Estuary. Snow that had been forecast for that evening was now falling – flakes as light as feathers that seemed to place themselves with care on the pavements. Within a few hours, the town of St Andrews would be blanketed white.

  Even when Gilchrist turned into College Street, thoughts of a meal in the Central Bar – the first food since breakfast – were foremost in his mind, and he did not hear the running patter of footsteps chasing him. Twenty yards farther in, he glanced over his shoulder, but even then he paid the woman no attention.

  Not until he was about to enter the bar by the side door did he notice her.

  ‘Andy?’ she said. ‘Andy Gilchrist?’

  Gilchrist stopped, his mind struggling to place a name to a face he had not seen since he had been a teenager. ‘Isabelle?’ he said.

  ‘You remembered.’ Her breath puffed in the cold air. ‘I wasn’t sure you would.’

  He leaned towards her, pressed his face to her cheek, surprised to hear how hard she was breathing. Her whole body seemed to pulse with a nervous energy that shivered through her heavy winter coat. When he pulled back, her smile was still as attractive as ever, but tainted with a hint of sorrow that seemed to stitch the corners of her lips.

  ‘Can we… can we talk?’ she said. ‘I mean, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

  ‘No, I’m almost done for the day. I was just taking a break, popping in for a bite to eat. Would you like to join me?’

  She glanced at the door, then shook her head. ‘I… I can’t. I’ve got to get back.’

  ‘You wanted to talk?’

  ‘To ask for a favour… for your help, really. I… I hope you don’t mind.’ She gave a nervous laugh, and a quick flash of teeth. ‘It sounds silly. But… but…’ She smiled at him again, but tears welled in her eyes, and he reached out to her, took hold of her hand.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  She sniffed, nodded, then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have come… it was just a thought, that’s all.’

  He turned from the bar’s entrance. ‘We can talk somewhere else, if you want.’

  She hesitated, as if undecided, then said, ‘I’m… we’re staying nearby.’

  ‘I can walk you there, if you’d like,’ he offered.

  ‘Yes… yes… that would be kind of you… thank you.’

  She took hold of his arm and clung to him as he retraced his steps along College Street, both of them silent in their own thoughts until they reached North Street.

  ‘Which way?’ he said.

  She tugged him to turn right, and said, ‘We’re staying in a flat along the road. I’ve rented it for the week. Over Christmas.’

  He held her firmer as they walked along North Street, taking care not to slip in the settling snow. In the dark distance, the cathedral ruins stood silhouetted in a moonlit sky. Cars eased past, the sound of their tyres on the road oddly muted by the bitter cold.

  ‘You haven’t changed,’ she said to him. ‘I’d recognise you anywhere.’

  ‘Older fatter stiffer,’ he said, and lifted a hand to his head. ‘Greyer, too.’

  ‘It suits you.’ She clung closer, tightened her grip.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in, I don’t know how many years,’ he said, ‘since you…’

  ‘Ran away?’

  He felt a nip of regret at bringing up the moment of their break-up all those years ago, but said, ‘I was going to say; since you left this wonderful old grey town of ours.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘How long’s it been?’

  ‘Almost thirty years,’ she said. ‘The year before you married Gail. I take it you’re still married. I would like to think so. That at least it wasn’t all for nothing.’

  He waited a couple of beats. ‘Gail passed away a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Oh, Andy, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  He was about to mention his children, Jack and Maureen, but Isabelle had sought him out to ask for a favour, not to listen to his moaning about the past. So he changed the subject with, ‘And how about you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve been unlucky in love,’ she said. ‘Twice married, twice divorced. But I never really fell for anyone… anyone else…’

  Her body shivered with a nervous pulse again, and he stopped when he realised she was crying. He said nothing, just pulled her to him, and waited for the moment to pass.

  She pulled free, dabbed a gloved hand to her cheeks, then ran it under her nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and sniffed again. ‘I must look a mess.’

  He brushed snowflakes from her hair, tugged a strand behind her ear, surprised by the strangest sense of familiarity in doing so. ‘Well, in that case, you look a lovely mess,’ he said.

  She stared away from him then, as if searching for some memory from the past, and he found himself thinking back to the last time they had kissed, remembering how empty he had felt when she had turned and walked from his life, all those years ago—

  ‘I have a son,’ she said. ‘From my second marriage. To Dan.’ She shook her head, as if to rid herself of the memory. ‘He’d been having an affair. I didn’t know anything about it until he just left one morning without a word of goodbye.’ She faced him, her eyes bright, reflecting the fire and steely resolve that he knew she possessed. ‘We never heard from him again.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It was all he could think to say.

  ‘He did leave me with a child, Thomas, a beautiful boy, who will soon…’ She pressed her hand to her mouth, shook her head. ‘Who will soon be ten.’ Tears spilled down her cheeks, dripped from her chin. ‘I’m sorry…’

  Silent, Gilchrist waited.

  Then she looked up at him, a hint of a tremor on her chin. ‘Which is why I’m here,’ she managed to say. ‘To ask for your help.’

  ‘To help you and Thomas?’

  She nodded.

  Gilchrist was not sure what he could do for her, but said, ‘If I can.’

  ‘I’d like you to meet him.’

  ‘I would like that, too,’ he said, but caught a flicker of concern in her eyes.

  ‘He wants to ask you himself.’

  ‘Ask me what?’

  ‘He’s not well,’ she said, as if that explained everything, then added, ‘This way.’ She pushed a tall metal gate open, and entered a narrow pend that led to the back of the terraced buildings. Staircases to the right and left rose to upper floors, but Isabelle walked into what looked like an alcove, and fumbled with her key. She pushed the door open, and in a hushed voice said, ‘He was sleeping when I left. Which is why I couldn’t stay.’

  She entered what Gilchrist assumed had once been the main lounge, but which had since been converted into a small living and dining area, with a fitted kitchen and breakfast bar off to the side. A small Christmas tree with flickering lights sat on a table in the corner, its base hidden by presents neatly wrapped in Christmas paper. Rows of cards strung along the walls, not all Christmas cards, he noticed, but Get Well cards, too.

  Isabelle scuffed her feet on a hard-bristled doormat, and kicked off her shoes.

  Gilchrist slipped his shoes off, too, intrigued as to why he was here. The
tiled floor felt cold, but he said nothing as he watched Isabelle tiptoe to another door and push it open. From where he stood, he saw that it was a modernised bedroom with a king-size bed that seemed to swamp the space. A blue and pink patterned duvet as thick as pillows covered the bed. Matching curtains were drawn across the windows, the only light in the room coming from two bedside lamps. It took Gilchrist a few seconds to realise the bed was occupied.

  Isabelle leaned forward, pressed her lips to her son’s face, then fiddled with the duvet cover. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you, Thomas,’ she said, then signalled for Gilchrist to come closer. ‘He’s my old friend I told you about. The policeman. He’s going to help.’

  The boy said something which Gilchrist failed to catch, then Isabelle slid her hand under his head, and helped lift him to a more upright position.

  Gilchrist caught his breath.

  Thomas’s tenth birthday might be soon, but the boy who stared back at him must have weighed no more than someone half his age. Blue eyes dominated a too-thin face, and an arm no thicker than Gilchrist’s wrist tried to lift from the cover. Gilchrist was taken by how like his mother Thomas was, and how handsome a young man he would one day become.

  He reached the side of the bed and took hold of Thomas’s hand. It felt cold, and he clasped his other hand over it to warm him. Thomas tried a smile, revealing white teeth too big for his face it seemed, and when he spoke his voice was no more than a dry rasp of a whisper.

  ‘Mum said you’ll help…’

  Gilchrist nodded. ‘Of course I’ll help.’

  ‘Help find Hamish…’

  Gilchrist glanced at Isabelle, but she had her hand pressed hard to her mouth, her gaze locked on her desperately ill son. Gilchrist found himself racking his brain, trying to recall anyone by the name of Hamish. But his memory came up blank. ‘Hamish?’ he said.

  ‘McHamish…’ Thomas said.

  ‘Hamish McHamish,’ Isabelle said to Gilchrist. ‘He’s missing.’

  Now Gilchrist had it. He smiled at Thomas. ‘You want me to find Hamish?’ he said. ‘And bring him to you?’

  Thomas’s eyes widened with hope. ‘When?’ he whispered.

  Gilchrist gave Thomas’s hand a squeeze of reassurance. ‘I’ll find Hamish as soon as I can,’ he said.

  ‘Will you find him tonight?’

  Isabelle said, ‘Mr Gilchrist will do his best, Thomas. I know he will.’ She placed a hand on Gilchrist’s shoulder, and squeezed, and Gilchrist gave Thomas a nod of assurance. He would find the missing cat, and bring him to Thomas. But if the truth be told, he had no idea where to start. Hamish, the beloved local stray, could be anywhere in the town. He gave Thomas’s hand a gentle shake. ‘I’ll find Hamish,’ he said, and Thomas replied by smiling and closing his eyes.

  Isabelle leaned forward and stroked her son’s hair, kissed his cheek.

  Back in the main living area, Isabelle made Gilchrist a cup of tea, and opened a box of chocolate digestives. ‘They’re the only biscuits I’ve got,’ she apologised, holding the plate out to him. ‘It’s all Thomas will eat, and even then it’s only to have no more than a broken off piece or two.’

  Gilchrist took a biscuit to please her, and found his gaze shifting to the bedroom door – open just a touch, so Isabelle could hear Thomas’s slightest call. The silence in the bedroom told him that Thomas was asleep. He took a sip of tea, and said, ‘Are you able to tell me what’s wrong with Thomas?’

  Isabelle gave a nervous glance at the door, then said, ‘He was diagnosed four months ago with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.’ Her voice was so quiet that Gilchrist had trouble hearing her. ‘He was not expected to live this long,’ she said, her eyes welling.

  Gilchrist hid behind a sip of tea.

  ‘He was fine one morning, then later that day I thought he looked tired. He said he wasn’t, but I could tell. Two weeks later I took him to the doctor. It all happened so quickly,’ she said. ‘It’s… it’s… I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Why Hamish?’ Gilchrist asked.

  She gave him a nervous smile, as if embarrassed. ‘We often come to St Andrews,’ she said. ‘We were here last year and stayed for a week.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘The first time I ever brought Thomas to St Andrews, he found Hamish when we went to the East Sands. Well, it was more like Hamish found Thomas. He wouldn’t leave him, and followed us around for an entire afternoon, as if Hamish had found his best friend. Every day after that, no matter where we went in town, Hamish would always find Thomas. And the strange thing is, every time we visited St Andrews, Hamish would be there the very next day, almost as if he was waiting for Thomas.’

  Gilchrist smiled at the image, made all the more amusing because Hamish was no one’s cat. Originally a house cat, over the years he had embarked on longer walks away from home, until one day he never came back, and that was that. At least once a year, his owner made a point of tracking him down and taking him to the vet for his annual check-up, but other than that, Hamish had become the town cat. He was often seen around the streets of St Andrews, sitting at the butcher’s entrance on Market Street, or popping in and out of shops on South Street as if considering a purchase, or taking shelter from the rain in some doorway. From time to time he would move in with a group of students, then just as simply move out again.

  For a young boy on holiday, befriending Hamish must have been irresistible.

  ‘But we haven’t seen Hamish since we arrived two days ago,’ Isabelle said. ‘I asked around, thinking he might have died, but it seems he is still about, but no one knows where.’

  Gilchrist crunched his biscuit, sipped his tea, then said, ‘So you want Thomas to see Hamish for… for…’ He almost said for one last time, but Isabelle saved him.

  ‘The first time they ever met, Thomas had the flu. The next day he was as right as rain. Another time, Thomas had an ear infection, which cleared up within a day of seeing Hamish.’

  Gilchrist said, ‘They have antibiotics for infections.’

  Isabelle nodded. ‘Thomas was nearing the end of his course of antibiotics,’ she said, ‘but he believed that meeting Hamish cured him. And last year he had toothache, which he said disappeared the instant he saw Hamish.’

  Gilchrist smiled. It was almost a proven fact that the power of positive thought and self-belief was as good as any medicine. And what could be more powerful than a young boy’s imagination?

  Isabelle’s gaze shifted to the bedroom door for a moment, then she said, ‘The doctors told me last month that Thomas wouldn’t see Christmas, that he should be transferred to the Marie Curie Centre.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t do that to him. Hospitals and clinics frighten him.’ She pressed her hand to her mouth again, stifled a sob. ‘So I went against the doctors’ advice and brought him home to… to…’

  Gilchrist said, ‘Is he in… any…?’

  ‘He’s on morphine. He’s not in pain. He’s comfortable. Well, as comfortable as I can make him.’ Then she took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Andy. I know it sounds ridiculous, and I wouldn’t blame you if you said you were too busy, but I thought if Thomas could see Hamish for just… for just one last time… that it might…’ She squeezed her eyes. Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she whispered, ‘That it might make his last moments happy.’

  Gilchrist placed his teacup on the table, and removed a couple of business cards from his jacket. He placed one beside the teacup, and gave Isabelle time to recover. He then asked for her mobile number, wrote it down on the other card, and slipped it into his pocket.

  He pulled himself upright and walked to her, helped her to her feet. She looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw the reflection of the girl he once knew, who had told him that she wanted to see more of the world than old stone buildings and a cold Fife Coast, who had then struck out for the deep waters of an uncertain future, only to find herself back in her home town, wounded and desperate and all alone, with the only person in the world she loved on the verge of dying.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ he said to her.

  * * *

  Back in the North Street Office, Gilchrist instructed Jennifer to put out a BOLO – be on the lookout – for Hamish McHamish. Only recently transferred to St Andrews, Jennifer said, ‘Can you give me a description, sir?’

  ‘Orange long-haired cat with a bushy tail, white chest and paws. And it’s cold outside, so he’ll be hanging about somewhere warm. Try the library, the Students’ Union, the Halls of Residence for starters. Ask around. Someone must have seen him. I mean, how many places are there in St Andrews for an orange cat to hide?’ An image of Thomas hit him – blue eyes in hollowed sockets – as if to remind him how close to death the young boy was, how little time they might have. ‘And find a photograph of Hamish, and email it to everybody.’