Death of a Scriptwriter hm-14

by M C Beaton

  “I thought niceness wasn’t your forte,” said the major, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve heard some of your remarks about Sunday night viewers.”

  “I’ve changed,” said Fiona. “I want a success. Besides, there’s something about it up here. The quality of life.”

  “It’s a sunny day,” said the major cautiously, “and even Drim seems like a nice place. But there are a lot of passions and rivalries here. It can be a difficult place to live in, particularly during the long dark winter.”

  Fiona shuddered. “Don’t remind me of the winter. I thought we were all going to die. Pity Jamie recovered from hypothermia. He’d been drinking a lot, and that put him in a worse state than Sheila or myself.”

  “Have you heard any more from Miss Martyn-Broyd?”

  “No, thank God. Writers are tiresome creatures.”

  “I thought you’d been fired.”

  Fiona sighed. “This is supposed to be my last day.”

  Harry Frame’s large bulk darkened the doorway. “We really need to find out where Jamie’s gone and get him back,” he said. “I’ve put Sheila on to it.”

  ♦

  The manager of the Tommel Castle Hotel was, at that moment, unlocking Jamie’s door for Sheila. “I just want to make sure he’s packed up and gone,” said Sheila.

  He swung open the door. “Help yourself.”

  Sheila walked in, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale cigarette smoke and whisky. “The maids haven’t got to this one yet,” said Mr. Johnson. “I know it’s late, but we’re short staffed. I’ll leave you to it. Leave the key at reception when you’re finished.”

  Sheila opened the wardrobe door. It contained six shirts, one suit, an anorak and a raincoat. At the foot of the wardrobe was a selection of boots and shoes.

  She stood back. On the top of the wardrobe was Jamie’s suitcase. Sheila went into the bathroom. A battered toothbrush and a mangled tube of toothpaste stood in a tumbler on the washbasin.

  She turned and went back into the room and opened the drawer in the bedside table. She stared down at Jamie’s car keys and driving license.

  Sheila sat down on the bed. Wherever Jamie was it must be near at hand. Probably getting drunk somewhere. Then she realised the bed she was sitting on had not been slept in, and the manager had said the maids had not yet been in to clean the room.

  She thought Jamie was probably sulking over the charges of plagiarism – no, wait a minute, that had been Fiona’s word for it. What Jamie was accused of was outright theft of the whole manuscript.

  She decided to drive down to the police station and see that nice policeman. He would know bars in the area where Jamie might be found.

  As she drove along the waterfront, she could not help contrasting this view of sunny Lochdubh with the bleak white hell it had all been in the winter. How strange it was up here and how little she or her friends in Glasgow knew of the far north of Scotland.

  Roses were rioting round the blue lamp over the front door of the police station, and Hamish Macbeth was lying back in a deck chair in his front garden, his eyes closed and his face turned up to the sun.

  Sheila gave an apologetic cough, and Hamish opened his eyes. “I was just meditating,” he said defensively. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Sheila accepted the offer, and he said, “Sit yourself down. I’ll get the coffee and another seat.”

  She sat down in the deck chair. It was so peaceful here. From the schoolroom along the road she could hear the voices of children reciting the four times table, a boat chugged lazily somewhere out on the loch and two buzzards sailed up into the blue sky above her head.

  Hamish carried a small table into the garden and a chair, which he set down next to her. Then he went back into the house and reappeared a short time later with a tray of coffee cups and a plate of biscuits.

  “Now,” he said comfortably, sitting down next to her, “what’s up?”

  “I can’t find Jamie.”

  To Sheila’s surprise, he looked worried. “That’s bad,” he said slowly. “Have you checked his hotel room?”

  “Yes, and all his stuff’s still there, including his car keys and toothbrush. I’m supposed to find him, but I don’t know where to start. He might be in some pub.”

  “He wasn’t in any of them at closing time last night,” said Hamish. “I did my rounds. I take away the car keys of anyone who’s too drunk to drive home. When did you last see him?”

  “Early last evening. We were up on the mountain above Drim. A television series is filmed in different bits, not necessarily in sequence. We were filming the bit where Lady Harriet is being chased across the top of the mountain by the murderer. We had to do it when we could get the helicopter. It was a busy day. All the equipment had to be lifted up to the top of the mountain. Jamie was here, there and everywhere, shouting orders, insulting everyone. Did you find out whether he had stolen that script or not?”

  “I’ve asked a friend at Strathclyde police to look into it. I haven’t heard anything yet. Is that chap Angus Harris still about?”

  “He hung about for a few days and then took himself off.”

  “Did you see Jamie come down from the mountain?”

  Sheila wrinkled her brow. “I can’t remember. We lesser mortals had to scramble back down the track…you know the one?”

  “Steep, but an easy climb.”

  “Yes, that one. I thought Jamie would probably get a lift down in the helicopter.”

  “What was he wearing? Was he dressed for climbing?”

  “Oh, thick boots, jeans, checked shirt and that donkey jacket of his because it was pretty cold up there despite the sunshine.”

  “Finish your coffee,” said Hamish. “I’m going in to change.”

  Sheila sat in the sunshine, reluctant to believe that anything serious had happened to Jamie. Still, a village policeman, unused to major crime, probably had become a bit carried away by the presence of a television company.

  Hamish reappeared wearing shirt, stout corduroy trousers, jacket and climbing boots and a rucksack.

  “You go back to the set,” he said. “I’ll chust be checking those mountains.”

  ♦

  I wish I were looking for someone I liked, thought Hamish as he trudged up through the foothills behind Drim and stared at the towering mountain above. Behind him came Jock Kennedy, who had left his wife in charge of the store while he volunteered to show Hamish where they had been filming the day before.

  “The silly cheil’s probably lying dead drunk somewhere,” said Jock. “This fillum business has got all the women running around and screeching like hens.”

  “Were any of them up on the mountain?”

  “No, they were used for a crowd scene earlier, and my Ailsa was making a fool of herself, simpering and twittering.”

  They toiled on upwards, reaching a steep path which wound between two cliffs of rock. The noises of the village faded away, and all was silence except for the grating of their climbing boots on the rock and the panting of Jock, who was beginning to find the climb heavy going.

  Hamish saw two threads of material caught in a gorse bush and pulled them off and put them in a cellophane packet.

  After a long climb, they reached a sort of heathery plateau at the top.

  Jock sat down suddenly and panted, “This is where they were.”

  “Have a rest,” said Hamish. “I’ll look around for a wee bit.”

  Jock leaned back in the heather and closed his eyes. Hamish trudged along, picking up various discarded bits and pieces: a crumpled cigarette packet, an empty Coke can, cigarette ends, chocolate biscuit wrappers and paper cups. He put the debris in a plastic bag as he went along, finally putting the bag down on a rock and weighting it down with a stone.

  He shielded his eyes. A buzzard sailed lazily on a thermal. Then he heard the harsh cry of a hoodie crow and quickened his pace, heading towards the sound of the crow.

  The plateau dipped down to a bleak expanse
of scree.

  There, lying face up in the heather on the scree with two crows pecking at his dead eyes, lay Jamie Gallagher.

  Hamish slithered down towards the body, flapping his hands, feeling sick.

  “Jock!” he called. “Here! Over here!”

  Soon Jock’s burly figure appeared above him. “Oh, my God,” said Jock. He turned away, and Hamish heard the sound of retching.

  Hamish struggled with his rucksack and took out a mobile phone. He tried to call police headquarters in Strathbane but could not get through, as often happened with cheap mobile phones in the wilds of the Highlands.

  “Jock!” shouted Hamish. “I’ll stay here with the body. My phone won’t work. Get help. Call Strathbane!”

  ♦

  Ailsa Kennedy stood on the waterfront and trained a pair of powerful binoculars on the mountain, which soared above the village. “I don’t know if I can go with you to Strathbane this evening,” she said impatiently to Holly. “Jock went up the mountain with that policeman from Lochdubh. You know his temper. If he comes back to an empty house and no tea, he’ll be fit to be tied.”

  “You let him bully you,” said Holly.

  Ailsa tossed her red hair. “Nobody bullies me. Wait a bit. He’s coming.” Then she lowered the glasses. “He’s as white as a sheet and looks in a right state.”

  “What was he up there for?” asked Holly.

  “To look for that scriptwriter.”

  “Something bad must have happened,” said Holly. “Edie, Alice!” She hailed the two women. “Something’s happened to that scriptwriter. Jock went up to look for him, and he’s coming back looking frit.”

  Edie and Alice hailed more people. The gossip spread up to Drim Castle, and when Jock came running into the village it was to find everyone waiting for him.

  “He’s dead!” shouted Jock. “He’s got no eyes. He’s dead!”

  Fiona turned away a little. Sheila heard her mutter, “Thank God.”

  “He can’t be dead,” shouted Harry Frame. “And what’s this about no eyes?”

  “Hamish says we’re to call the police,” panted Jock, running into the shop. Everyone who could get through the door crowded in after him.

  Jock phoned Strathbane police and then sat down on a chair behind the counter. He fished out a bottle of whisky from under the counter and took a strong pull from it.

  “What’s this about him having no eyes?” asked Harry, shouldering his way up to the counter.

  Recovering from his shock and beginning to enjoy the drama, Jock gave them a gruesome picture of the dead body.

  “He knew about this,” said Sheila to Fiona.

  “Who? What?” demanded Fiona sharply.

  “Hamish Macbeth, the policeman. I went to ask his help to suggest some bar Jamie might be found drunk in. He got very serious about it all and said he would set out for where we were filming yesterday right away. He knew something was probably wrong.”

  Fiona turned white and fainted and had it not been for the press of people about her would have fallen to the floor of the shop.

  ♦

  Up on the mountain, Hamish Macbeth peered at the dead body of Jamie. He hoped against hope that the man had died of alcohol poisoning. He eased down the springy heather which was pillowing the dead head and drew back with a little exclamation of dismay. The back of the head was crushed. He longed to turn the body over and inspect it thoroughly but knew he should not touch it.

  He sat back on his heels and looked around. If Jamie had been struck down with some sort of blunt instrument, struck down from behind, why had he fallen on his back? Perhaps the killer had turned him over to make sure he was really dead.

  The trouble with heather was that there would be no footprints. And who could have done it? Where had Angus Harris been the night before? Or Fiona? Or Patricia?

  It was ironic it should be such a perfect day. Tourists travelled up as far as Sutherland to admire the scenery, but often the mountains were shrouded in mist and the villages drenched and grey in lashing rain. It was a day for holiday, for picnics, for lazing around, not for sitting on the top of the mountain with a dead man whose eyes had been pecked out by the crows.

  Then he heard the distant wail of police sirens and the faraway clatter of a helicopter. The bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair of Strathbane, had been on holiday. With any luck he might still be away. But as a helicopter suddenly soared over the top of the mountain and began to descend onto the heathery plateau, Hamish saw Blair’s fat and unlovely features peering down.

  The helicopter landed, and Blair, with his sidekicks, Detectives Harry Macnab and Jimmy Anderson, scuttled forward from the helicopter under the slowly revolving blades. Behind them came the pathologist, Mr. Sinclair, tall, thin and sour, as if years of viewing dead bodies had curdled his nature.

  “Whit’s all this?” shouted Blair above the dying noise of the helicopter engine.

  “The dead man is Jamie Gallagher, scriptwriter for a detective television series which is being shot here by Strathclyde Television,” said Hamish. He described finding the body.

  “Sadistic murder,” said Blair. “Someone poked his eyes out.”

  “Crows,” said Hamish. “Crows got at the body.”

  “So it might not be murder?”

  “The back of his head is crushed.”

  “Oh, aye, and how did you find that out and him lying on his back?”

  “I did not touch the body. I pressed down the heather his head’s lying on.”

  Blair grunted. Another helicopter roared in to land and disgorged a forensic team.

  A tent was being erected over the body. Blair, who had turned away, swung back. “You’d best get back tae your village duties, Macbeth. There’s enough o’ us experts here.”

  “There’s a lot of suspects,” said Hamish sharply.

  “Aye, well, list them when you’re typing up your report. I’ll send Jimmy Anderson along to see you later.”

  Hamish went wearily off down the mountain just as another helicopter bearing Chief Superintendent Peter Daviot arrived on the scene. The cost of all these helicopters, thought Hamish. There would be cuts in everyone’s expenses for the rest of the year.

  Daviot strode up to Blair and listened to his account. “ Where’s Macbeth?” he asked when Blair had finished.

  “He’s got duties tae attend to and we don’t need him here.”

  “Does he know of any suspects?”

  “Aye, he did say something about that.”

  “Good heavens, man, he probably has a damn good idea who did it. I have often thought, Blair, that you let your jealousy of that village bobby get in the way of an investigation. I’ll see Macbeth myself.”

  Daviot strode back to his helicopter. Blair swore under his breath. He hoped Hamish Macbeth had nothing to say but a load of Highland rubbish.

  Hamish reached the police station to find Daviot waiting for him.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Daviot, “and let’s hear what you know.”

  Hamish led him into the police office, wiping dust from the desk with his sleeve.

  “Now, let’s begin at the beginning. Who wanted this man dead?”

  So Hamish outlined what had happened, starting with his own recommendation of Drim.

  “Why Drim?” interrupted the superintendent. “It’s a difficult place to get to and not the prettiest around.”

  Hamish gave him a limpid look. “When I heard it was a detective series, I thought they might want somewhere a bit stark.”

  He then described Patricia Martyn-Broyd’s distress at the savaging of her work, Fiona’s sacking and Angus Harris’s accusation that Jamie had stolen his friend’s script. He finished by saying, “Jamie Gallagher was a nasty sort of drunk. He seemed to go around annoying everyone.”

  “Was anyone actually heard to threaten Jamie’s life?”

  “Well, the writer woman, for one,” said Hamish reluctantly.

  “We’d better get her
in. Type up your report. And try to work with Blair.”

  “I try, I try” – Hamish sighed – “but he doesnae seem to want to work with me.”

  “He’s a good man and a hard worker.”

  When he’s not drunk, thought Hamish.

  “I know he’s a bit jealous of you. Heard from Miss Halburton-Smythe?”

  Hamish flushed. He had once been engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, a fact which had put him in high favour with Daviot, particularly Mrs. Daviot, who was a dreadful snob.

  “Priscilla’s down in London,” said Hamish.

  “Not helping her father run the Tommel Castle Hotel anymore?”

  “There was no call for it, sir. The manager does an excellent job.”

  Daviot gave a little laugh. “It’s a pity that didn’t work out for you. Mrs. Daviot was most disappointed. But then, one cannot imagine Priscilla Halburton-Smythe as the wife of a village policeman.”

  “Quite,” said Hamish, trying to block out a bright image of Priscilla with her calm features and smooth blond hair.

  “Anyway, type up your report. Blair will be with you later.”

  The phone rang shrilly. Hamish picked it up. Blair’s truculent voice asked for Daviot, and Hamish passed the receiver over.

  Daviot listened and then gave an exclamation and said, “That’s great. Good work. It looks as if we’ve got our man. We’ll have this wrapped up today.”

  Daviot rang off. “Blair’s had a call from the police in Glasgow. Two policemen heard Josh Gates, the husband of Penelope Gates, who stars in the series, shouting in the middle of St. Vincent Street, “I’ll kill him.” It turns out he was well-known in the business for blowing his top over his wife’s various sexy roles. He’d been in Smith’s bookshop and asked to see the catalogue of forthcoming books. Then he shouted, “Slut,” and bought an ordnance survey map of this section of Sutherland. The bookseller’s assistant said the catalogue was left open at a book illustration of The Case of the Rising Tides, showing his wife naked on the cover. We’ll find him.”

  ♦

  Hamish typed up his report, feeling irritated and isolated. He itched to know what was going on. Had Josh Gates really committed the murder? If he had, he was probably in hiding somewhere.