Death of a Scriptwriter

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Well, shite, actually,’ said Harry cheerfully, ‘but we need you to bring all that genius of yours to it.’

  Jamie sat down and scowled all around. He was battling between the joys of exercising his monumental ego on the one hand and remembering that he was currently unemployed on the other.

  ‘What you need to do is take the framework of the plot, all those tides and things,’ said Fiona, ‘and then add some spice.’

  After a long harangue about the English in general and Patricia’s writing in particular, Jamie said, ‘But I could do it this way. You say we’ll get Penelope Gates? Right. You want the sixties feel. Lots of sixties songs. In the books, Lady Harriet is middle-aged. I say, let’s make her young and hip. I know, runs a commune in that castle of hers. Bit of pot. Love interest.’

  ‘In the book,’ said Sheila, ‘it’s Major Derwent.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Jamie, ignoring her, ‘we’ll have a Highland police inspector, real chauvinist pig. And our Harriet seduces him and gets information about the case out of him. Lots of shagging in the heather.’

  ‘We won’t get the family slot on Sunday night,’ said Fiona cautiously.

  Jamie snorted. ‘We’ll get it, all right. Who the hell is going to object to pot smoking these days? No full frontal, either, just a flash of thigh and a bit of boob.’

  Sheila let her mind drift off. Poor Patricia up in the Highlands, dreaming of glory. What on earth would she think when she saw the result? The air about Sheila was blue with four-letter words, but she had become accustomed to bleeping them out. Someone had once said that you could always tell what people were afraid of by the swear words they used.

  After six months Patricia began to become anxious. What if nothing happened? Pheasant Books had not phoned her, and she was too proud and, at the same time, too afraid of rejection to phone them. She had not heard from her old publisher, either.

  The Highlands were in the grip of deep midwinter. There was hardly any daylight, and she seemed to be living in a long tunnel of perpetual night.

  She began to regret that she had not furthered her friendship with that policeman over in Lochdubh. It would have been someone to talk to. She had diligently tried to write again, but somehow the words would not come.

  At last she phoned the police station in Lochdubh. When Hamish answered, she said, ‘This is Patricia Martyn-Broyd. Do you remember me?’

  ‘Oh, yes, you stood me up,’ said Hamish cheerfully.

  ‘I am sorry, but you see . . .’ She told Hamish all about the television deal, ending with a cautious, ‘Perhaps you might be free for dinner tomorrow night?’

  ‘Aye, that would be grand,’ said Hamish. ‘That Italian restaurant?’

  ‘I will see you there at eight,’ said Patricia.

  But on the following day, the outside world burst in on Patricia’s seclusion. Harry Frame phoned to tell her he had got funding for the series.

  ‘From the BBC?’ asked Patricia eagerly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘BBC Scotland.’

  ‘Not national?’

  ‘Oh, it will go national all right,’ Harry gave his beefy laugh. ‘The fact that we’re going to dramatize your books has already been in some of the papers. Haven’t you seen anything?’

  Patricia took The Times, but she only read the obituaries and did the crossword. She wondered, however, why no reporter had contacted her.

  ‘We’re sending you the contracts,’ said Harry. ‘You should get them tomorrow.’

  Then Pheasant Books phoned to say they would like to publish The Case of the Rising Tides to coincide with the start of the television series. They offered a dismal amount of money, but Patricia was too happy to care. She took a deep breath and said she would travel down to London immediately to sign the contract.

  She packed quickly and drove down to Inverness to catch the London train.

  Hamish Macbeth sat alone in the restaurant that evening. Crazy old bat, he thought.

  Chapter Two

  Oh! how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding-ring!

  – Colley Cibber

  Penelope Gates stood for a moment at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the flat she shared with her husband. She wondered for the umpteenth time why she had been stupid enough to get married. No one got married these days. Her husband, Josh, was an out-of-work actor and bitter with it. To justify his existence, he had lately taken to acting as a sort of business manager, criticizing her scripts and performance. They had first met when both were students at the Royal College of Dramatic Art in Glasgow. It had been a heady three-week romance followed by a wedding.

  The first rows had begun when Penelope had acted in a television series as a rape victim. Josh, when he got drunk, which was frequently, accused her of being a slut. Only the fact that he liked the money she earned from subsequent and similar roles had stopped him from outright violence, had stopped him from ‘damaging the goods’. But the last time, he had extracted a promise from her that she would never take her clothes off on screen again, and, anything for a quiet life, thought Penelope bleakly, she had promised. Maybe she could get away with it this time. She nervously thumbed the script of The Case of the Rising Tides. She was not totally naked in any scene.

  Penelope went upstairs and opened the door. ‘Josh!’ she called. ‘I’ve got a great part.’

  His voice sounded from the kitchen, slightly slurred. ‘What filth are you going to act in now?’

  ‘Not filth,’ said Penelope. ‘Sunday night viewing. Detective series.’ She had thrust the script into her briefcase on the way to the kitchen. She took out a battered copy of The Case of the Rising Tides and handed it to him. ‘It’s based on this.’

  He took it and scowled down at it. After this, I’ll have enough money to run away, thought Penelope. What did I ever see in him?

  Josh was a heavyset young man with thick black hair and a square, handsome face, but one that was becoming blurred with drink. His mouth seemed set in a permanent sneer.

  She made herself a cup of tea and stood by the window, cradling the cup in her hands. A flock of pigeons soared up into the windy sky above Great Western Road. Women’s lib was a farce, she thought. Women were not as strong as men, whatever anyone said. Again she felt trapped, suffocated.

  At last she heard Josh’s voice behind her, mollified, almost gentle. ‘Aye, it looks as if you’ve hit the jackpot this time, lass. It’s a wee bittie old-fashioned. I’ve only read the first few pages. Are you playing this Lady Harriet?’

  ‘Yes, the main part,’ said Penelope, turning around.

  ‘It could be like that Miss Marple,’ said Josh, his eyes glowing. ‘It could run forever. Got the script?’

  ‘They’re so frightened of the opposition that they lock the scripts up at Strathclyde Television,’ lied Penelope.

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ said Josh, ‘and you should be happy for yourself. I’m telling you, lass, if you’d bared your body on another show, I’d have strangled you.’ His eyes gleamed wetly with threat and drink.

  Penelope gave a nervous little laugh. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Don’t I just. Let’s go out and celebrate. What’s the location?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. They’re up in the Highlands looking for one.’

  The Strathclyde Television van cruised slowly through the snowy roads of Sutherland. It was not actually snowing, but a vicious wind was blowing little blizzards across their vision from the snowy fields on either side of the road, where occasionally the humped figures of sheep could be seen.

  ‘Why this far north?’ asked Fiona King from the depths of a down-padded jacket. ‘I still say we could have found somewhere out in the Trossachs, about half an hour’s drive from Glasgow.’

  ‘Loch Lomond’s too crowded, and you’d have too many tourists gawking,’ said Jamie Gallagher. He, Fiona and Sheila had been sent out to choose a location. They had zigzagged across Scotland on their way up. Fiona and Sheila had thought they
had found various good locations, but Jamie had turned them all down. And as he was the favoured one with BBC Scotland, they both knew they had to let him make the final choice.

  Sheila was driving. She was tired and worried about the state of the roads, worried about skidding into a drift. It was such a bleak, white landscape.

  And then the wind suddenly dropped. Up ahead of her on the winding road, a shaft of sunlight struck down. She fished out a pair of sunglasses and put them on to protect her eyes against the glare.

  ‘There’s a village down there,’ she said. ‘Let’s stop for something. I could do with a cup of tea.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Jamie huffily. ‘But remember your job’s to look for a location.’

  ‘It’s called Lochdubh,’ said Sheila, reading the sign. ‘Oh, this might do.’

  She swung the large van over a hump-backed bridge.

  Snowy Lochdubh lay spread out before them in the winter sunlight. A line of small cottages faced the waterfront. There was a harbour and a square grey church, and above the village soared two enormous mountains.

  ‘There’s a police station,’ said Jamie. ‘Pull up there, Sheila.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do as you’re told!’

  Sheila pulled up beside the police station. They all got down.

  ‘There’s someone in the kitchen,’ said Jamie. He knocked on the door.

  A tall, red-haired man answered the door, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He was wearing an old blue wool sweater over a checked shirt, but his thick trousers were regulation black, as were his large boots.

  ‘Are you the policeman?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘Aye, I’m Hamish Macbeth. What brings you?’

  ‘Can we come in?’ Jamie asked, shivering. ‘It’s damn cold.’

  ‘Come ben.’ Hamish turned and led the way through to his living room. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

  Sheila smiled. ‘That would be lovely. Coffee, please.’

  ‘Forget it,’ snarled Jamie. ‘We’ve business here.’

  ‘Let’s have it, then,’ said Hamish, taking a dislike to him.

  ‘We’re from Strathclyde Television, and we’re up here looking for a location. We’re filming a detective series.’

  ‘That would be Miss Martyn-Broyd’s book,’ said Hamish. ‘What about here? You won’t find a prettier place.’

  ‘Not right. Too bourgeois,’ said Jamie.

  Hamish raised his eyebrows. ‘I havenae heard that word in years. How much time have you spent in Lochdubh?’

  ‘We’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Snap judgement?’

  ‘I always make snap judgements,’ said Jamie. ‘I can get the feel and smell o’ a place in one minute flat.’

  ‘We’ve a lot in common,’ said Hamish Macbeth. ‘I can get the smell and feel o’ a person in one minute flat.’

  He took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Sheila suppressed a grin.

  ‘So why we’re here is to find out if you’ve any suggestions.’

  ‘I can’t think without a cup of coffee,’ said Hamish amiably. ‘I’ll get you one while I’m at it, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Sheila. Sheila Burford. I’ll come and help you.’

  She followed him through to the kitchen. ‘Look,’ said Sheila urgently, ‘think of something. I’ve been driving and driving.’

  ‘Who is he? The producer?’

  ‘No, the scriptwriter. Fiona’s the producer.’

  ‘So how come he’s calling the shots?’

  ‘BBC Scotland are funding it, and Jamie’s their favourite scriptwriter.’

  ‘I’m surprised somebody loves him,’ said Hamish dryly. ‘Do you think thon Fiona-woman would like a cup?’

  ‘No, she crawls to Jamie,’ said Sheila, wondering why she was chatting so openly with a Highland policeman.

  He handed her a mug of coffee. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  They returned to the living room.

  Hamish sat down and smiled sweetly at Jamie. ‘I believe I haff chust thought of the very place for you.’

  Sheila was to learn that the sudden sibilancy of Hamish’s Highland accent meant he was annoyed or upset.

  ‘Where’s that?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘It’s a place called Drim, not far from here.’

  ‘And what’s so good about it?’

  ‘It’s an odd place. It’s at the end of a sea loch. The whole place is sinister.’

  ‘We need a castle,’ said Jamie. ‘The main character’s supposed to live in a castle.’

  ‘Five miles on the far side o’ Drim is Drim Castle, owned by Major Neal. He’d rented it to an American who’s just packed up and left. I think all the furniture’s been put back in storage.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Fiona, speaking for the first time. She blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘We could use it as offices as well as location.’

  ‘Aye, well, there you are. Drim’s your place.’

  ‘Then we’ll go and have a look. Come along, Sheila, and stop slurping coffee and do your job.’

  Sheila threw Hamish an apologetic smile.

  Hamish followed them out and gave Sheila directions. He waved them goodbye and then went indoors to phone Major Neal. ‘Make sure you get a good price,’ he cautioned after explaining what it was all about.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said the major. ‘I owe you one, Hamish.’

  ‘Won’t forget it.’ Hamish said goodbye. As far as he was concerned, Drim and Jamie deserved each other. He had once solved a murder there, but although Drim was on his beat, he went there as little as possible.

  ‘What about Plockton in Ross?’ asked Fiona, finally breaking the silence as they drove towards Drim.

  ‘Plockton!’ sneered Jamie. ‘Thon village has been used in two detective series already.’

  ‘I think that’s it down there,’ said Sheila.

  Drim was a small huddle of cottages on a flat piece of land surrounded by towering mountains at the end of a thin, narrow sea loch. There was a church and a community hall and a general store, and the road down to the village was a precipitous single-track.

  ‘It’ll be hell getting all the stuff here,’ muttered Fiona.

  Shafts of late red sunlight shone down, cutting through the crevices in the mountains, flooding Drim with a red light. Sheila thought it looked like a village in hell.

  ‘Bypass the village and let’s see this castle before the light fades,’ ordered Jamie.

  Sheila would have missed the turn had not the major stationed two of his gamekeepers out on the road to direct them. She drove cautiously up a snow-covered drive, stalling from time to time, wheels spinning on the ice, until at last the castle came into view.

  The last of the red light was flooding the front. It was a Gothic building, built during the height of the Victorian vogue for homes in the Highlands. It even had a mock drawbridge and portcullis, but no moat, the first owner having run out of money before one could be dug.

  The major met them at the door. He was a small, neat man, dressed in old tweeds. He had a pleasant, lined face and faded blue eyes.

  ‘Macbeth phoned me to say you might be calling,’ said the major. ‘Come in.’

  He had lit an enormous fire in the huge fireplace in the hall and had arranged chairs and a low table in front of it, on which he had placed a bottle of whisky and glasses.

  They introduced themselves. The bullying side of Jamie would have liked to dismiss the whole of Drim as a possible location and make Sheila drive on, but the sight of that bottle of whisky mellowed him. Sheila did not drink because she was driving. Fiona did not drink alcohol. She thought it a dangerous drug. She smoked pot and was part of an organization to get the use of cannabis legalized. So Jamie had most of the bottle.

  The major, who had read Patricia’s book The Case of the Rising Tides, was becoming more and more amused as Jamie waxed enthusiastic over his planned dramatization of the book.

  At last, exhausted by talking and b
ragging and drinking, he fell asleep and Fiona took over and got down to the nitty-gritty of price. She ended up agreeing to pay more than she had intended because she was weary of travelling and the castle was suitable for film offices as well as a location and the major seemed so eager to help.

  At last, business being finished, and when Sheila had taken photographs of all the rooms, he directed them back to Lochdubh and suggested they stay at the Tommel Castle Hotel for the night.

  Jamie was roused from his slumbers. He was in a foul temper all the way back to Lochdubh, and once checked into the hotel, he headed straight for the bar.

  Fiona phoned Harry Frame in Glasgow. ‘It’s Drim,’ she said wearily.

  ‘Where the hell’s that?’ asked Harry.

  ‘It’s at the ends of the earth,’ said Fiona, ‘but Jamie’s happy and it’s right in every way.’ She began to enthuse over the castle, deliberately not mentioning the awkward business of getting there.

  Major Neal said to his head gamekeeper, ‘You’ll find a good haunch of venison in the freezer and a side of smoked salmon. Take them over to Macbeth at Lochdubh tomorrow with my thanks. No, forget it. I haven’t seen Hamish in ages. I’ll take them over myself.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ beamed Hamish when the major arrived on his doorstep half an hour later, bearing gifts.

  ‘Least I could do, Hamish,’ said the major, following him into the kitchen. ‘But, oh my, what’s Miss Martyn-Broyd going to do when she hears how they’re planning to change her book?’

  ‘What are they going to do with it? A dram?’

  ‘Just the one, Hamish.’ They both sat down at the kitchen table. ‘It’s like this. . . . Have you read The Case of the Rising Tides?’

  Hamish shook his head.

  ‘It’s not bad. Complicated plot. But it’s a lady’s book, if you know what I mean. The main character is a Scottish aristocrat called Lady Harriet Vere.’

  ‘So her father was an earl or something like that?’

  ‘The author doesn’t mention any parents at all. Just this Lady Harriet who lives in a castle in the Highlands with devoted servants. In the TV series, she’s going to drop a few years – in the book she’s around forty, with a stern, handsome face and so on – and be played by Penelope Gates, who is a voluptuous blonde whose recent performances on the box have left nothing to the imagination. Unless she dyes her pubic hair as well, she’s a real blonde.’