Death of a Scriptwriter (8 page)

Fiona listened to Harry ten minutes later on her mobile phone. ‘You can’t do this to me, Harry,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid I have to, luv. I’ll find something else for you.’

‘I’ll kill Jamie,’ said Fiona.

‘I’ll come up myself tomorrow,’ said Harry.

‘What’s the point?’ Fiona snapped her mobile phone shut and stared coldly into space.

The following morning Patricia sat down to read her daily copy of the
Scotsman
. She felt calmer now. She would just stay away from the film location, wait until her book
was published and then the reviewers would surely point out how superior it was to the television production. Then she came across an interview with Jamie Gallagher, famous scriptwriter of
Football Fever
. In the interview, Jamie described how he had created
The Case of the Rising Tides
and the character of Lady Harriet. There was no mention of Patricia or that the
television series had been adapted from one of her books.

‘I’ll kill him,’ hissed Patricia. Then she ripped the newspaper to shreds.

* * *

Angus Harris sat sadly in the Glasgow flat of his late friend, Stuart Campbell, sorting through his effects. Angus had been away in the States and had only just discovered that
his friend had died of AIDS during his absence and had left him his flat and effects in his will.

Stuart had been a struggling writer. A trunk was full of manuscripts. Angus did not know what to do. Perhaps he should find some literary agent and send off all these manuscripts in the hope
that at least one would get published. He pulled them out one by one, stopping when he came to one entitled
Football Fever
.

He slowly opened it. It was the script for a television documentary. He frowned. It had been shown in the States on PBS, but he was sure Stuart’s name hadn’t been on it. It had
originally been produced by BBC Scotland.

And then he remembered seeing something about it in that day’s
Scotsman
. He went and got the paper and came to the interview with Jamie Gallagher.

It all clicked into place in his mind as he read the interview with Jamie. Stuart had written to him, saying that a scriptwriter called Jamie Gallagher was running an evening class to teach
writers how to prepare a script for television.

‘The bugger must have stolen it,’ said Angus.

He set out to investigate. He called at BBC Scotland, but they had never heard of Stuart. He tried to find out names of any people who had attended Jamie’s classes, which had been held in
the basement of a church. But there were no records, and no one could remember anything.

Angus knew his own violent temper was his weakness. But the thought that poor Stuart had died and someone had used his script to get international fame and glory was past bearing. This Jamie
Gallagher was in Drim.

He would drive up there and confront him.

Josh Gates, hungover, ate his bacon and eggs in a bed-and-breakfast outside Perth as he read the interview with Jamie. Here was the man who was behind making his wife flaunt
herself on television.

‘He’ll have me to reckon with!’ howled Josh.

The other diners averted their eyes. This must be the madman whose drunken retching had kept them awake during the night.

Fiona moved through the next day as if walking in a nightmare. She could hardly bear to look at Jamie and at the triumphant little smirk on his face.

Harry Frame arrived, having flown to Inverness early in the morning and taken a taxi up to Drim. Typical, thought Fiona. I have to watch out for every penny, and he spends about a hundred and
fifty pounds on a cab fare.

‘Hang on for another week and be sweet to Jamie,’ urged Harry. ‘It might blow over.’

‘No scriptwriter should have this amount of power,’ said Fiona.

‘Well, he hasn’t done anything since
Football Fever
, but everyone still talks about that.’

Fiona picked up a script. ‘But
Football Fever
was clever and witty, and this is just crap.’

‘Jamie knows what he’s doing,’ said Harry.

‘Well, let’s take this location of Drim for a start.
The Case of the Rising Tides
. It’s on a sea loch, but the tides don’t rise and fall the way they would do at
the seaside. Also, the climax of the book is based on the flooding of the spring tide, and this is summer and the tide doesn’t flood.’

‘I thought we weren’t going by the book,’ said Harry. ‘What is it, Sheila?’

‘There’s an Angus Harris here, breathing blood and fire,’ said Sheila. ‘He says his friend Stuart Campbell wrote the script for
Football Fever
and Jamie pinched
it.’

‘Show him in,’ said Fiona quickly.

Angus Harris was a good-looking young man with blond hair and a tanned face.

‘What’s this all about?’ asked Fiona.

‘This!’ Angus held out the script of
Football Fever
he had discovered. ‘My friend Stuart Campbell died when I was in the States. He left me his flat and effects. I was
going through his stuff and I found this. Now Stuart attended a scriptwriting class given by Jamie Gallagher, and as I remember, the people in this class submitted various scripts to Gallagher for
his opinion. The bastard must have copied Stuart’s script and, hearing he was dead, submitted it as his own.’

‘Do you have any proof of this?’

‘Not yet. But I’ll get it. I’ll go the newspapers with this. I’m sure someone who was in the same class will read it and come forward.’

‘Get Jamie in here,’ Harry ordered Sheila.

They waited in silence until Jamie came in. With a certain amount of relish, Fiona described the reason for Angus’s visit.

Jamie went off into full rant. ‘How dare you!’ he gasped. ‘That was my script and no one else’s. I gave up that class because they were a bunch of losers. I was wasting
my time and talent on a bunch of no-hopers and wannabes. Och, I remember this Stuart Campbell. Useless wee faggot.’

Angus punched him on the nose, and Jamie reeled back, blood streaming down his face. ‘Get the police!’ howled Jamie, and Fiona picked up the phone.

Hamish Macbeth, arriving half an hour later, listened carefully, trying to sort out accusations from the babble of voices that greeted him. Jamie’s voice was loudest,
‘I’m charging this bastard with assault!’

‘Wait a bit,’ said Hamish soothingly. ‘Now Mr Harris, as far as I can make out, the situation is this. You found a script of
Football Fever
amongst your dead
friend’s effects and came to the conclusion that he had written it.’

‘I know he wrote it,’ said Angus. ‘It was his style.’

‘Charge him,’ said Jamie.

‘In a moment,’ said Hamish mildly. ‘We’ll deal with this business o’ the script first. I’ll phone Glasgow police and we’ll take the matter from there.
It should be easy to find someone who was at that class.’

The anger drained out of Jamie. ‘Let’s just leave it. I’m sorry I called Stuart a faggot. I don’t feel like wasting my time appearing in a sheriff’s court.
I’ve got work to do.’

‘But I think the matter should be investigated,’ said Fiona sweetly. ‘Plagiarism is a serious business.’

‘You bitch!’ snarled Jamie. ‘You’ve just got it in for me because you’re out of a job.’

‘Now I’ve met you,’ said Angus to Jamie, ‘I can’t believe for a minute that you wrote anything as intelligent and amusing as
Football Fever
. You’re a
dead man.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Hamish. ‘Although gather the provocation was great, Mr Harris, don’t go around hitting people.’ He turned to Harry Frame.
‘I’ll let you know what I find out.’

Over in Lochdubh, Dr Brodie received a distress call from the minister’s wife at Cnothan. ‘It’s Miss Martyn-Broyd. She’s wandering around shouting
something about killing someone, and our Dr MacWhirter is on holiday.’

Dr Brodie drove over to Cnothan. The first person he saw in the bleak main street was Patricia, striding up and down, clenching and unclenching her fists.

The doctor got out of the car. ‘Miss Martyn-Broyd? I’ll just be getting you home.’

‘Leave me alone,’ grumbled Patricia.

‘This is a disgraceful way for a lady to behave,’ said Dr Brodie.

She looked at him in dazed surprise and then began to cry. ‘Get in the car,’ ordered the doctor.

He drove her back to her cottage. He had called there once before when the local doctor had been on holiday. Patricia had thought she was suffering from a heart attack, but Dr Brodie had
diagnosed a bad case of indigestion.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered when they were in her cottage, ‘and tell me from the beginning what’s put you in this state.’

Patricia began to talk and talk. She showed him the book jacket. She told him about her horror at seeing Penelope Gates on the set and finished by wailing, ‘I’ll be a laughing stock.
I’ll kill that man Gallagher.’

‘You’ll only be a laughing stock if you march about Cnothan speaking to yourself,’ complained Dr Brodie. He noticed that Patricia was calm and reasonable now.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Have you any friends up here?’ asked Dr Brodie.

‘I know people in the church.’

‘I meant real friends. A shoulder to cry on.’

‘There is no one here I can relate to,’ said Patricia with simple snobbery. ‘They are not of my class.’

‘I would drop that old-fashioned attitude and get out and about a bit more or go somewhere where you think you’ll be amongst your own kind. I’m not giving you a sedative. I
don’t believe in them. But if it all gets too much for you again, I want you to phone me or come to my surgery in Lochdubh and talk it over. There is nothing like talking in a situation like
this.’

When Dr Brodie drove back into Lochdubh, he saw Hamish Macbeth strolling along the waterfront and hailed him.

‘What’s this I hear about Patricia going bonkers?’ asked Hamish.

‘News travels fast in the Highlands,’ said the doctor. ‘The poor woman had a brainstorm because of the savaging of her work.’

‘I don’t like this film business at all,’ said Hamish. ‘I want it to work for the people in Drim – they could do with the money – but there’s a bad
feeling about the whole thing. I found out that Fiona woman, the producer, got fired because of Jamie Gallagher, the scriptwriter, and now there’s a young man from Glasgow who says that Jamie
pinched his friend’s script for
Football Fever
and used it as his own. There’s already been violence. The young man, Angus Harris, punched Gallagher on the nose. Och, I’m
worrying too much. Maybe it’s chust the way TV people go on!’

Major Neal, with true Highland thrift, was eating his lunch at the television company’s mobile restaurant set up in the forecourt of the castle. It was another sunny day,
and everyone seemed in good spirits. A week had passed since all the fuss from Patricia and Angus Harris.

Fiona King came in and collected a plate of food and joined him. ‘Everything all right?’ asked the major.

‘It’s all going splendidly because Jamie’s taken himself off somewhere,’ said Fiona. ‘Harry’s furious because he wants some changes to the script and Jamie
didn’t say anything about leaving.’

‘Anything to do with that chap who says his friend wrote the script of
Football Fever
?’

‘Could be. I wish he would stay away forever. If I had my way, I’d have another scriptwriter brought in. His stuff’s pretty lifeless. I don’t like this commune business,
although Harry’s all for it. There’s something so trite about it all. Have you seen
Ballykiss-angel
angel on television?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s Celtic whimsy, Irish Celtic whimsy at that, but it’s guaranteed to run forever. It’s soothing, it’s funny and it’s nice.’

‘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 licence.

Sheila sat down on the bed. Wherever Jamie was it must be near at hand. Probably getting drunk somewhere. Then she realized 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.