Death of a Scriptwriter (5 page)

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Fiona lay on her bed in a room in the Tommel Castle Hotel and listened to the moaning of the wind outside. Thank God a location had been found! This series could make her name
at last. If only she hadn’t got to deal with Jamie. She felt uneasy about his work. She had read his ‘bible’, where he had set out plot, storyline, characters and casting.

If only it had been a regular TV detective series like Poirot or Miss Marple. Despite her acid remarks about the British viewing public, she knew the large viewing figures lay with Mr and Mrs
Average. Ambition coursed through her veins. She would do her damned best to make it work.

A few rooms away, Sheila Burford was also awake. She had suggested to Fiona that they should phone up Patricia and invite her for dinner. Fiona had snorted and said the less
they had to do with writers the better. Sheila felt guilty. She was sure there was going to be the most awful scene when Patricia found out what they were doing with her book.

She had not liked what she had seen of Drim. It was a grim place, and she guessed that was why the policeman had sent her there. Fiona had been right in the first place. There were plenty of
pretty locations within easy reach of Glasgow. Her own role had moved from that of researcher to personal assistant to Fiona. For the first time in her young career, she began to wonder whether
there might be life outside television, some sane sort of job. She had been with the television company for only two years and had never worked on a project as large as this one was going to be. It
was amazing, too, that in cosy, overcrowded Britain there should be this vast, unpopulated landscape at the very north with its great acres of nothingness. She shivered despite the central
heating.

Over in Drim, Miss Alice MacQueen, the local hairdresser, could not sleep for excitement. A television company was coming to film in Drim! They would have their own
hairdresser, of course. Or would they? Business had been slack. The local women came in for a perm about every six months. But they would all be hoping to at least appear in a crowd scene, and they
would all be wanting to get their hair done. A good bit of business and she could get a new kitchen unit from the DIY shop in Inverness. She finally drifted off to sleep and into a happy dream
where she was no longer hairdressing in the front parlour of her cottage but had a posh salon with a smart staff in pink smocks.

Mrs Edie Aubrey, her neighbour, was also in a state of excitement. She had once run exercise classes in the community hall, but gradually the women had lost interest and Edie
had felt time lying heavy on her hands. She would put up her poster on the notice board at the community hall in the morning. Perhaps she might get a part herself? Better get round to Alice in the
morning and get her hair done.

Patricia Martyn-Broyd was awakened with the sound of the telephone ringing. She struggled out of bed. After midnight! Who could it be?

She picked up the receiver and gave a cautious, ‘Yes?’

‘I’m so sorry to ring so late. This is Mrs Struthers.’

The Cnothan minister’s wife. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’ve just heard that they’re going to be filming your book in Drim!’

‘Drim. Where’s that?’

‘It’s just the other side of Lochdubh. Didn’t you know?’

‘No,’ said Patricia bleakly. If they had chosen Drim, then it meant they had been up in Sutherland and had not even bothered to call on her.

‘They were over at Major Neal’s today. They’re going to use his castle – Castle Drim.’

‘Today? Are they still here?’

‘Yes, three of them. They’re staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Struthers,’ said Patricia. She would need to go over there in the morning, find out why they had not troubled to consult her. It was
her
book!

But when she called at the hotel at nine o’clock the following morning, it was to find her quarry had checked out. Patricia drove into Lochdubh and then followed the
signposts to Drim, a village she had never visited.

She gritted her teeth as her car slid and skidded down the hillside to Drim. The sky was black and a few flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

She saw a large van with the legend ‘Strathclyde Television’ painted on its side parked by the loch and in front of the general store.

She pulled up beside it and went inside. Fiona, Sheila and Jamie were talking to the owner, Jock Kennedy. They were making arrangements to use the store for filming.

Patricia’s voice cut across their conversation. ‘Ahem,’ she said, ‘I am surprised you did not call on me first to consult me.’

They all swung around, Fiona quickly masking her dismay. ‘Why, Patricia,’ she said with a smile. ‘We were just going to call on you when we finished here. This is Jamie
Gallagher, our scriptwriter. Jamie, Miss Patricia Martyn-Broyd, the author.’

Sheila knew that Jamie had a blinding hangover and that Jamie despised Patricia’s writing, so she was surprised when Jamie beamed at Patricia and said, ‘It’s an honour to meet
you. Perhaps you’d like to come along with us until we fix up our business here and see how it all works, and then we can have a bite of lunch?’

Patricia melted. ‘That would be very exciting,’ she said.

‘Fiona, I’ll leave you to finalize the arrangements with Jock here,’ said Jamie. ‘A word with you outside, Sheila.’

He ushered Sheila outside. Then he turned and faced her. ‘Don’t let that old bat get wind of what’s in the script,’ he hissed. ‘And get your arse over to the
major’s and tell him the same thing or he can kiss his castle goodbye.’

‘She’s bound to find out sooner or later,’ said Sheila.

‘Then let it be later. I’ve worked with these authors before, and they’re a pain. They all ponce about as if they’ve written
War and Peace
instead of a piece of
shite. She’ll just have to lump it. There’s nothing in her contract about her having any say in the script.’

But do they have to be so nice to her? thought Sheila as she drove off towards the castle. It’s going to be a terrible blow when she finds Drim Castle is going to be featured as a hippie
sixties commune.

The major was in his modest bungalow home. ‘I moved in here two years ago and rented the castle,’ he said after he had served Sheila a cup of coffee. ‘It’s a hell of a
place to heat and get cleaned.’

Sheila told him the reason for her visit.

‘Funnily enough, I was talking over just that with Hamish Macbeth, the policeman at Lochdubh, and he said something to the effect that it would be cruel to let the old girl know at this
stage. Let her have her dream for a bit longer. She couldn’t stop it if she knew, could she?’

‘No, but she could go to the press, although that would not make much difference. They must be used to writers complaining about their work being mangled on television.’

‘I’m feeling sorry for her. What kind of woman is she?’

‘In her seventies, but very fit. Very vain, but a bit shaky underneath, if that makes sense. I think maybe she’s a more powerful personality than Harry Frame – that’s our
executive producer – realizes.’

‘Whereas you, so young and experienced, do?’ The major’s eyes twinkled.

Sheila laughed. ‘I’m not so hardened as the rest of them, so I notice people as people and not as commodities.’

‘There’s a great deal of excitement in Drim over this.’ The major suddenly frowned. ‘I just hope it doesn’t lead to trouble like the last time.’

‘You mean Drim’s been used by a television company before?’

‘No, it wasn’t that. I was away at the time, but there was a young Englishman came up here to live. Very handsome. Flirted with all the ladies and broke a lot of hearts. He was
murdered by the minister’s wife.’

‘Gosh, I remember reading about that.’

‘Poor Hamish Macbeth got into trouble over that. He shocked a confession out of the minister’s wife by confronting her with a dead body, but it was the wrong body, a rare specimen of
Pictish man, and Hamish had every historian and palaeontologist in the country down on him like a ton of bricks.’

‘Hamish recommended Drim.’

‘That’s probably his Highland humour. Drim’s a funny place.’

‘How do you mean funny?’

‘You’ve seen it. It’s locked away from the world at the end of the loch. Don’t get many outsiders. There was a lot of malice and spite over the Englishman. I hope the
women competing for parts in the series don’t get at each other’s throats. Your genuine Highlander is not like the lowland or central Scot. Can have very black and bitter passions when
roused. Another coffee?’

‘I should be getting back.’ Sheila looked wistfully at the blazing coal fire. ‘Oh, well, yes. They can do without me. I’m pretty much a chauffeur this trip.’

‘Snow’s coming. Bad forecast. You’d better find somewhere to stay the night.’

When Sheila returned to Drim it was to find the other two at the manse. There was a new minister since the time of the murder, a taciturn little man, Mr Jessop, with a mousy
wife.

When Sheila arrived, he was patiently explaining that any filming on a Sunday would not go down well with the villagers.

‘That will be all right,’ said Fiona quickly, noticing Jamie’s suppressed anger. ‘I’m sure we’ll all be glad of a break. Is there anywhere around here to have
lunch?’ She felt cross and cold and edgy. The manse had a stone floor, and she was sure the permafrost was creeping up her legs. She longed for a cigarette, but the minister’s wife had
said she disapproved of smoking.

‘There’s nowhere here,’ said the minister, ‘but my wife and I were just about to have lunch. You are welcome to join us.’

‘No, we’ll go back to Lochdubh and get something there,’ said Jamie. ‘Care to join us, Patricia?’

‘Thank you . . . Jamie,’ said Patricia, feeling quite elated with all this first-name camaraderie. ‘So everything has been arranged in Drim?’

‘It’s a start,’ said Fiona, ‘that’s all. I’ll be back up with the production manager, accountant, lawyer and so on to get everything properly and legally
agreed on.’

As they sat together having lunch in the Napoli in Lochdubh, Sheila, looking out of the window, saw white sheets of snow beginning to block out the view.

‘I think we’d better get back to the Tommel Castle Hotel and find beds,’ she suggested. ‘We can’t travel in this.’

Jamie finished his wine, wiped his mouth on his napkin and said evenly, ‘If you don’t mind, we will leave for Glasgow immediately.’

‘I really do not think a young lady like Sheila should be driving in this weather, or anyone else, for that matter,’ said Patricia. ‘I, for one, will find accommodation at the
hotel.’

Jamie smiled at her. ‘Send us the bill. No, no, least we can do. Come along, Sheila.’

‘She’ll never make it,’ said Fiona as she climbed into the van.

‘It’s Sheila’s job to drive,’ snarled Jamie.

So Sheila drove on up over the hills, peering desperately through the blizzard, swinging the wheel to counteract skids. They were up on the moors when the van gave a final wild skid and ploughed
into a snowbank. In vain did Sheila try to reverse.

‘You’d better get out and go and find some help,’ said Jamie.

‘No,’ said Fiona flatly. ‘No one’s going anywhere. We’ll need to sit here and hope to God someone finds us.’

Hamish decided to go to the Napoli that evening. The blizzard was still howling, and the police station felt cold and bleak.

In the heady days when Hamish Macbeth had been promoted to sergeant, Willie Lamont, who served him in the restaurant, had been his constable. But Hamish had been demoted over the mix-up of the
bodies at Drim, and Willie had married the pretty relative of the restaurant owner and left the police force to join the business.

When Hamish had ordered his food, Willie leaned against the table and said, ‘We had the fillum people in here.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Hamish. ‘I gather they’re going to use Drim.’

‘Just look at that snow!’ said Willie, peering out the window. ‘A wee lassie to have to drive in that.’

‘What are you talking about, Willie?’

‘I heard that writer woman from Cnothan saying as how they should get beds at the hotel, but the man said that the lassie wi’ the blonde hair should get on the road.’

Hamish swore. ‘Damn it. That’s suicide. Keep my meal warm for me, Willie.’

He hurried back to the police station and called the mountain rescue service, saying finally, ‘I don’t think they could possibly have got far.’

‘We can’t do anything until daylight, but we’ll have the chopper out at dawn.’

‘I’d better see if I can find them myself,’ said Hamish gloomily, forgetting about his dinner.

He took out a backpack, made a pot of coffee and filled a thermos flask with it. Then he cut some sandwiches and added them. He put on a ski suit and goggles, strapped on his snowshoes and set
out, cursing under his breath and damning all townees who wittered on about nature, as if nature were some cuddly Walt Disney animal and not a wild, unpredictable force.

He gave up after two hours and headed back to Lochdubh. Like the mountain rescue service, he, too, would have to wait until dawn.

At four in the morning, the van engine rattled and died.

‘Get out and open the hood and see what’s up,’ shouted Jamie.

But Sheila found they were now buried so deep in snow that she could not open the door. White-faced, Fiona said, ‘We’ll suffocate.’

Fiona and Sheila were in the front and Jamie behind them.

‘I’d better see if I can get something to make holes in the snow,’ said Sheila. She scrambled over the seats and into the back of the van. To her delight she found a length of
hollow steel tubing. What it was doing there, she had no idea.

‘I’ll open the window and push this through so we can get some air.’ She handed the pipe to Fiona and then scrambled back. She rolled down the window and began to scrabble with
her fingers at the solid wall of snow until she had made a tunnel. Then she took the pipe and thrust it into the tunnel and rammed it upwards. ‘I’ll need to draw it back in from time to
time and make sure it isn’t blocked,’ she said.

‘We have no heating,’ wailed Fiona. ‘We’re all going to die. How could you have been so stupid, Jamie?’