Hamish Macbeth 14 (1999) - Death of a Scriptwriter

by M C Beaton

  “Took your time,” said Angus by way of greeting. “So they’ve driven that poor woman mad, have they?”

  “How did you find out so quickly?”

  Angus tapped his forehead and winked, and Hamish looked at him impatiently. “I wish I had your network of gossip, Angus, because I’m off the case.”

  “What’s the new man like?”

  “So you even know there’s a new man? Oh, don’t tap your forehead again. He’s a pompous little fart,” said Hamish bitterly. “He called on me this morning.”

  “And you not even in uniform. My, my.”

  Hamish’s eyes fell on an expensive basket of fruit on the table. He jerked a thumb at it. “What’s that for? Going hospital visiting?”

  “That iss the present from a grateful client. They are not all as mean as Hamish Macbeth.”

  “Any of the TV people come to see you?”

  “That would be telling. I neffer betray the confidences of my clients.”

  “Then I won’t waste any more time with you,” said Hamish, going to the door.

  Angus followed him. “I warned you not to get your hopes up about that wee blond lassie.”

  “I don’t see much hope of that,” retorted Hamish. “I’ve been told to keep clear, so I probably won’t see her again.”

  “Not unless you hurry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Herself has chust driven up to the police station.”

  Hamish stared down the hillside. A car had driven up outside the police station, and he could see the glint of blond hair as the driver got out.

  He muttered an exclamation and began to run off down the hill, his long legs going like pistons.

  As he arrived at the police station, Sheila was just driving off. He waved and shouted, and she screeched to a halt and then turned the car and headed back in his direction.

  “Hallo, Hamish,” she said, getting out of the car again. She was wearing a shirt blouse, shorts and sandals. Her legs were muscular but well shaped, smooth and tanned.

  “Come in and have a coffee,” panted Hamish.

  “Where did you come from?” Sheila asked.

  “I wass up seeing Angus Macdonald, the seer.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Any good?”

  “Nothing but an old gossip,” said Hamish, leading the way into the kitchen. “Coffee?” He plugged in the electric kettle.

  “That would be nice,” said Sheila. “I didn’t know you had gone modern.”

  “What?”

  “The electric kettle. I thought you had to light that stove every time you wanted a cup of tea.”

  “Och, no, I only use it for cooking. Milk and sugar?”

  She nodded.

  “So what brings you?”

  “I’ve got a break. There’s to be no filming today. The lawyers are locked in battle with the police. But the police have a statement from the people in Drim that Patricia had already gone potty, so they might not get very far. I thought you’d be over with them.”

  “I’ve been taken off the case by the new man.”

  “Do you find that hard?”

  “Yes, I do. These murders took place on my beat. I know all the locals. I should not have been left out. How are things in Drim?”

  “Seething. It’s a funny place. When we first arrived, I thought it was lovely, a sort of Brigadoon, leisurely and kind. But after a bit, I got to know some of the locals that are being used as extras. They can be quite spiteful about each other. Edie Aubrey, that thin woman who does the exercise classes, got one line to say, that was all, and the other women ganged up and said unless they had something to say themselves, they wouldn’t appear. Fiona told them that the whole thing would go on without them and they backed down, but none of them are speaking to Edie, and someone threw a brick through her living room window.”

  “That’s Drim for you.”

  “And Alice, the hairdresser, she also had a line to say. Now, she had an extra bathroom put in upstairs two years ago, and she never bothered getting planning permission for it, and suddenly someone reports the existence of that bathroom to the council and she’s in trouble. And yet they all seemed like such friends.”

  “It’s a closed-down sort of place, cut off by the mountains and the loch,” said Hamish, “and the winters up here are long and dark. They’ve nothing else to do but study each other.”

  “I thought watching television would have given them a broader outlook.”

  “It narrowed it. They watch the soaps, you see, and that turns them into drama queens. One of the women confided in me last year that she had low self-esteem because her mother never said she loved her. A Scottish mother, for heaven’s sake, does not go about telling her children she loves them. It is just something up here that’s expected to be understood. Then those American chat shows are a curse. I ‘member when a few of the biddies decided they had been sexually abused in their youth.”

  “I thought there might be a lot of incest in these villages.”

  “Not with the church being so strong. They’d be affeard that God would strike them dead. Anyway, it seems as if no one is ever going to find out what happened to Penelope. Did you know that Harry Frame reported me to my superiors for harassment?”

  “Yes, he was fuming about that this morning. Do you think he did it? Come on, Hamish! Harry!”

  “Chust a thought,” said Hamish huffily, because he was privately wishing he had never approached Harry Frame.

  “I mean, why?”

  “Because Jamie was buggering up the film and then Penelope. Will it run smoothly with both of them out the way?”

  “Well, yes. Mary Hoyle is a very good actress. And she never throws scenes, she doesn’t drink and she has a reputation of never being late on the set and of taking direction. She’s a director’s dream.”

  “Giles Brown is the director.”

  “Don’t get any ideas there. He couldn’t hurt a rabbit. In fact, he is a bit of a rabbit.”

  “Would you like to go out for dinner tonight?” asked Hamish.

  “That would be nice. Where?”

  “The Napoli.”

  “Is nine o’clock too late?”

  “No, that’ll be just fine.”

  Sheila rose. “See you then, copper.”

  Hamish admired her sturdy legs as she walked out of the kitchen. Sheila got in the car and drove slowly off. Then she stopped outside the general store, went in and asked where the seer lived.

  Having got directions, she drove up to the back of the village and parked the car at the bottom of the long winding path which led up to Angus’s cottage. She had bought a bottle of wine in Patel’s since she had heard the seer expected a gift.

  Despite her natural cynicism, she was impressed with Angus’s old cottage and by Angus himself, with his long beard and piercing eyes.

  “So,” said Angus after they were seated, “it iss the famous Miss Sheila Burford.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  Angus smiled at her. “I see everything.”

  “I am not famous. You are mistaken about that. I am a combination of researcher, secretary, office girl, tea maker and general dogsbody. Strathclyde Television does that soap The Highland Way. Harry promised me I could direct one of the episodes, but nothing’s come of it.”

  “I see it all. You won’t be a director.”

  “I thought that,” said Sheila gloomily.

  “You’ll make your name as a producer.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I am neffer wrong. So you are wasting your time thinking about marriage.”

  “Doesn’t every girl?”

  “A pretty young thing like yourself, with all that ambition inside you, should not be contemplating throwing her career away by getting married to a village policeman.”

  Sheila coloured but laughed. “Hamish and I are just friends.”

  “Remember what I said,” intoned Angus. “Now I am tired. The spirits have left me.�
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  “I didn’t even know they had arrived,” said Sheila, getting to her feet. She waited a moment to see if he had anything more to say, but the seer had lain back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  Sheila made her way thoughtfully down the path to her car. It was all a load of rubbish, of course. Still, it would do no harm to seek out Harry Frame if he had not left for Glasgow and tackle him about that director’s job.

  When she got back to Drim, it was to find Harry closeted with the lawyers. It was late afternoon before he emerged from the room in which they had been holding their meeting.

  “Can I have a word with you, Harry?” asked Sheila.

  “Just a few minutes. I have to get down to Glasgow. We’ll use Fiona’s office. It’s empty at the moment.”

  They went inside and Harry closed the door.

  “It’s like this,” said Sheila. “You know I work hard.”

  “None better,” said Harry. His eyes fell to her legs. She tucked them under her chair.

  “You’ve been saying for ages that I could direct an episode of The Highland Way. Any chance of that?”

  He was sitting opposite her. He drew his chair closer until their knees were almost touching.

  “Your work for me is appreciated, Sheila. You know that. You’re a pretty girl and we get on fine. In fact, we could get on better.” He put a large hand on her knee and squeezed it.

  “Harry,” said Sheila, “I would like that director’s job because you think I can do it and not for any other reason.”

  “No, no,” he said, caressing her knee. “But I could be great help to you in your career.” The hand left her knee and clasped her breast.

  She jerked away and stood up. “Forget it, Harry,” she said, and went quickly out of the room.

  She ran through the castle and out into the courtyard. Damn that seer. She was not going on anyone’s casting couch.

  Eileen Jessop gathered up her cartridges of videotape. She needed help, and now that Colin was not going to stand in her way, she was going to go to Drim Castle and ask Fiona King if she might have time to look at some of the film and see if someone could help her edit it.

  Wearing makeup and her new shirtwaister dress, she drove to the castle. The first person she saw in the courtyard was Sheila.

  “It is Miss Burford, is it not?” asked Eileen, suddenly feeling dowdy before this picture of glowing youth.

  Sheila did not recognise the minister’s wife.

  “I am Eileen Jessop. We met when you were looking for a location. I am the minister’s wife.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember you now,” said Sheila politely, although her mind was still filled with outrage at Harry’s advances. She felt in her bones that once the series was filmed he would get rid of her as soon as he could.

  “I wonder if I might see Miss Fiona King. I wanted her help in a little matter.”

  “She wasn’t in her office,” began Sheila, and then she saw Fiona striding into the courtyard. “There she is now. Fiona!”

  Fiona joined them. “This is Eileen Jessop, the minister’s wife,” said Sheila.

  “Oh, yes,” said Fiona, looking edgy and harassed. It had been a long day.

  Eileen surveyed her timidly and then took a deep breath. “I have been filming a play of mine, using the village women as actresses. The film needs cutting and editing. I wondered if you could spare the time to see a little of it, and perhaps one of your staff could advise me.”

  Fiona was usually tactful, but the stress of the murders and the police investigation into Penelope’s murder had shredded her nerves. All she wanted was a deep bath and a cold drink.

  “We are a professional television company,” she said nastily, “and you should know we hardly have time to break off our work to cope with amateur dramatics. I am sorry, but that’s the way it is. Sheila, I’ll be at the hotel if anyone wants me.”

  She strode off.

  Sheila saw that Eileen was red with mortification. She looked at her watch. “I’m meeting someone for dinner, but I’ve an hour to spare. Bring your stuff and I’ll look at it for you.”

  “I feel ashamed of myself now,” said Eileen, clutching her cartridges protectively to her chest. “You’ll just be bored.”

  Probably to death, thought Sheila. But she was sorry for the minister’s wife, so she said instead, “Come along. I’m dying to see it.”

  She led the way to Fiona’s office, pushing open the door cautiously in case Harry Frame should still be there, but to her relief the room was empty.

  “This is the first one,” said Eileen eagerly, handing her a cartridge.

  At least I’ve got that dinner date with Hamish as an excuse not to stay too long, thought Sheila, repressing a sigh.

  She sat back and began watch. Then she leaned forward a little in her seat. To Eileen it was agony, for Sheila made no comment. She went through cartridge after cartridge. The black hands on the face of the large clock on the wall moved up to nine o’clock and on past, and still Sheila watched.

  Sheila felt the palms of her hands damp with excitement What a gem! The script was witty and funny. The village women were natural actresses, and there were miles of tape where the bad camera angles and occasional fluffed lines could be cut.

  At last Sheila said, “Have you shown this to anyone else?”

  “I’ve shown it to the village women, of course.”

  “But to no one else on the television company?”

  “No.”

  Sheila took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Leave this with me to cut and edit. I will then try to sell it to a television company if you let me put my name on it as producer and we share the profits—thirty percent to me, and the rest to you.”

  Eileen’s voice trembled. “Do you mean you like it?”

  “It’s marvellous. Very clever. I haven’t seen anything so innocently funny since Whisky Galore. But you must keep very quiet about it.”

  “Oh, I will. I won’t even tell my husband.”

  “Okay, let’s just go through it again.”

  Hamish Macbeth gloomily finished his solitary meal in the Napoli. She could have got tied up with something, but the place over there was crawling with mobile phones. She could at least have phoned. He had been rejected all round, off the case, and stood up by Sheila.

  But there was still something he could do for Patricia in his spare time. Somehow, somewhere, he would find someone who had seen her on the day of the murder.

  Eileen Jessop left Drim Castle after midnight, her eyes shining and her face flushed. That drive to Inverness with Ailsa had changed her life. She longed to tell Ailsa about what Sheila had said of the film, but she had promised Sheila not to breathe a word. She remembered all Sheila’s advice and comments. She would get all the women together and try again, making it glossier and sharper. Sheila had said that was not necessary, but it would give them all something to do while she waited to see if Sheila could sell the film.

  As she approached the grim bulk of the manse, her heart sank. And then for the first time she wondered why she stayed married to Colin. She could just get in the car and drive away into the sunshine as she had driven down to Inverness with Ailsa, with the wind in her hair and the tape deck blasting.

  The next day Hamish put on his uniform and went out on his rounds. He had a feeling that Lovelace might call at the police station to make sure he was not slacking off. He drove over to Cnothan and started again to ask questions. The trouble was that Patricia’s cottage was outside the village and she did not need to drive through Cnothan to get anywhere.

  He started at one end of the village and began knocking on doors, patiently questioning without success.

  Cnothan stood on the edge of an artificial loch caused by an ugly hydroelectric dam. It consisted of one bleak main street which led down to the loch. The council houses were segregated on the other side of the loch from the main village, but the privately owned houses in the village were so drab and grey that they look
ed like the council ones. The people of Cnothan seemed to have been soured by their surroundings. All he got were curt, rude answers. The villagers had a capacity for making work. They were always rushing about doing nothing. “I’m too busy to speak to you,” seemed to be the standard reply.

  In his zeal to find out where Patricia had been, he had quite forgotten he was poaching on Sergeant MacGregor’s territory until, on leaving one house at the top of the main street, he found the sergeant standing by the garden gate, glaring at him.

  “Whit are you doing here?” demanded the sergeant.

  “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “Aye, come up to the house until we sort this thing out.”

  Hamish thought Sergeant MacGregor’s house reflected everything that was worst about Cnothan. Even on this summer’s day, it felt cold.

  The living room was still the same as the last time he had seen it, with its dreadful ornaments and overstuffed salmon-coloured three·piece suite.

  “Now what’s this all about?” demanded Sergeant MacGregor.

  “It’s like this,” said Hamish. “I have a quiet day today and I thought I might find out if anyone had seen Patricia Martyn-Broyd on the day of the murder. I should have called you first, but I did not think you would be wanting to waste your time with this sort of inquiry. In fact, I have to beg you not to report my visit here.”

  “Why?”

  “Blair has been suspended and Lovelace is in charge of the case, and he told me to butt out.”

  “Lovelace!” MacGregor’s face darkened. “Thon bastard.”

  “You know him?”

  “Know him? I was off duty in Inverness five years ago and I nipped into a pub for a drink before I got home. I didn’t know Lovelace, so I didn’t recognise him. I got talking to a crony, had a few more. When I left the pub and got in the car, Lovelace and two coppers were waiting to Breathalyze me. He insisted on putting in a report, and I nearly lost my job. If that’s all you’re doing in Cnothan, you can go ahead. He won’t be hearing anything from me.”

  “That’s good of you,” said Hamish with relief. Lovelace could certainly have handled that affair better. He could have strolled over to MacGregor in the bar and introduced himself, and MacGregor would have been out of there like a shot. Of course, it could be argued that MacGregor should not have been taking one nip over the limit, but still, it seemed an unnecessarily harsh way of doing things.