Death of a Scriptwriter

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 finalise 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 – realises.”

“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 paleontologist 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