M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

♦

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.”