As a few weeks of rare fine weather continued, Hamish was almost able to put the murders out of his mind. He had dutifully called on Miss Whittaker and the accountant, Gerald Wither, to give an account of the closing of the case—an account he could not quite believe in.
He had a niggling worry to plague him which had nothing to do with the murders. He was walking his pets accompanied by Charlie when a pretty hitchhiker approached him and cried, “A wild cat! I never thought to be so close to one.”
“It iss not the wild cat,” said Hamish, his accent becoming stronger as it did when he was distressed or worried. “It is chust the large tabby.”
The girl was small, carrying a huge pack on her back. She had curly fair hair dyed with streaks of shocking pink and a cheeky face.
“Suit yourself,” she said. “But that’s a wild cat and it should be with its own kind. Unnatural to keep it as a pet.”
She waved to him and walked on, leaving Hamish worried. He looked down at Sonsie. Would the cat really be better in the wild? And what would become of Lugs without his friend?
“What do you think?” he asked Charlie.
“Maybe she’s right,” said Charlie awkwardly. “I’m always afraid that one day someone’s going to take you to court and get the beast. We could take her ower to Ardnamurchan and let her loose. If she doesnae run away, well, that’s that. We’ll take her home. But maybe give her a chance o’ freedom.”
“Oh, leave her be,” said Hamish.
But the next day, something happened to change his mind. He had forgotten about Blair’s long campaign against him. The detective chief inspector’s wife, Mary, had been reading about the extension of the Ardnamurchan sanctuary. She showed Blair the article, saying, “Doesn’t that wild cat look like Hamish’s pet?”
Blair studied the article and his bloodshot eyes gleamed with malice. When his wife had left to meet friends, he found the e-mail address of the trust and informed them that one local policeman in Lochdubh was keeping a wild cat as a pet.
Fortunately for Hamish, a scientist and his assistant called at the hotel first for lunch and told the waiter that they were going to the local police station because there had been a report of a wild cat. The waiter told the manager, who phoned Hamish. Charlie took Sonsie off. Hamish ran to the vet and borrowed a large domestic tabby and sat down to wait.
The scientist and his assistant when they called were plainly disappointed. When they left, Hamish had a sudden intuition that Blair was behind it. He managed to get Mary on the phone when Blair was out and asked her if her husband had shown any interest in wild cats.
“Funny you should say that,” said Mary. “I was looking in the papers about the wild cat sanctuary and there was a photo and I said to him that it looked like your cat. He grabbed the paper and shot out the door.”
When he had rung off, Hamish put his head in his hands. He knew Blair would never give up. Somehow, the wretched man would get a photo of Sonsie and then the game would be up. When Charlie returned, he told him what had happened.
“Well, now,” said Charlie. “We’ll drive to Ardnamurchan and let her out. If we’re stopped, we can say we’re going to visit the lighthouse. If she comes back, we’ll take her home and find some way to get Blair to shut up.”
Ardnamurchan is wild and very beautiful with only a sparse population. The tip of the peninsula—Britain’s westernmost point—extends between the islands of Mull to its south and Eigg, Rum, and the more distant Skye to its north.
They had left Lugs at the hotel in the care of the chef. A magnificent sunset was blazing across the sky as they followed a one-track road, looking nervously to right and left in case any scientists leapt out of the heather.
“Here’ll do,” said Hamish, pulling onto the side of the road. “We’ll settle down and light the stove as if we’re having a picnic and see how Sonsie reacts.”
“Cats are very territorial,” said Charlie. “What if she gets mauled?”
“Then her attacker is going to be one stun-gunned cat.”
Hamish got out and lifted out the stove. “I brought sausages,” said Charlie, producing a pack. “Sonsie is right fond of sausages.”
“Grand,” said Hamish, feeling suddenly cheerful. He felt sure Sonsie would not leave him.
Soon the sausages were frying and Charlie was pouring cups of coffee from a thermos. “Let the cat out, Hamish,” said Charlie. “We’ll need to try sometime.”
Suddenly uneasy, Hamish let the cat out. Sonsie’s great head turned this way and that and then she bounded off across the heather.
“She’ll be back,” said Hamish. “I’ll put a couple of sausages on a dish for her.”
They waited and waited. Then Hamish whistled, that whistle that had always brought Sonsie running back, but there was nothing but the sound of the breeze soughing through the weather.
The stars blazed overhead. “I’d better go and look for her,” said Hamish.
Charlie put a hand on his arm. “Something’s there. Sit right quiet.”