Hamish told a protesting Lugs he would need to walk himself, let the dog out, and went into the police office, opened the script, and began to read. The opening said:
Wide shot. The village lies by the sea loch hiding its ancient Gaelic secrets behind closed doors. It is winter and during the long dark nights passions build up and old enmities fester. As Alphonse Karr so rightly put it, “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.”
ANNE MACKENZIE and the laird walk along the street. Cut into tight close-up, then track and pan to the door of the pub.
Hamish frowned. He wished he knew more about scripts.
Lugs came in and sulkily slumped down at his master’s feet with a sigh. Hamish read on. How had Paul Gibson felt, he wondered, being asked to direct this flowery script where the author stated what camera angles he wanted as well?
He phoned the hotel and asked to speak to Elspeth. “Hamish, it’s after midnight,” she protested.
“I have the script. I could do with your help.”
“Oh, well, I’m awake now. Bring it up.”
“Can I bring Lugs?”
“Why not? The hotel allows dogs.”
Lugs pranced happily out to the Land Rover and waited, with his ridiculous plume of a tail wagging, to be lifted in.
¦
Elspeth opened her room door to them. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her hair was tousled. Hamish felt a surge of the old desire, but her eyes were on the script under his arm.
“Come in,” she said. “Sit down and let’s have a look.”
She took the script from him and began to read. Hamish waited patiently. At last she put the script down on her lap and stared at him. “Harry Tarrant must be a right fool. This is rubbish.”
“You see,” said Hamish eagerly, “what I’m thinking is this. We’ve got a director who’s had a nervous breakdown, recovered, but been associated with failures.
“I know an up-and-coming one on Scottish Television. I think I’ve got his number in my book.”
“Phone him now!”
“Don’t be daft. At this time of night?”
Elspeth reluctantly got the number and phoned. Hamish heard her asking for a Willie Thompson. Then he heard her say, “In Inverness? Which hotel? Right Sorry to wake you.”
“He’s in Inverness filming a documentary on the new highland prosperity.”
“What’s that, I wonder?” said Hamish, thinking of the dinner bill.
“He’s at the Caledonian Hotel.”
“I’ll get down there first thing in the morning.”
“I’ll come with you. I’m not doing anything else, and Matthew is besotted with Freda and seems to have lost interest.”
“Can we go in your car? I took a risk driving the girl I got the script from back to Strathbane, and I don’t want Blair to see me on the road.”
“I don’t have my car. Matthew drove. I’ll take one of the hotel cars. What time? It’d better be early.”
“Seven in the morning?”
Elspeth groaned. “Right you are, copper. I’ll pick you up.”
¦
“Do you have to bring your dog?” demanded Elspeth the following morning as Hamish lifted Lugs into the backseat.
“He’s never any trouble, Elspeth.”
“That’s why you’ll never get married,” said Elspeth, driving off. “You’re married to your dog.”
“You can be a nasty bitch at times,” snapped Hamish, and they drove most of the way to Inverness in cold silence.
At the Caledonian Hotel they found Willie Thompson in the dining room, having breakfast.
Hamish told him that they wanted an expert to look at a television script and judge how a director would react. “You only need to read a few pages,” he pleaded.
Willie, a small man with a beard and moustache, sighed, adjusted his rimless spectacles, and began to read.
At last he said, “I’ve read enough. Who’s directing this?”
“Paul Gibson.”
“What! Paranoid Paul?”
“You know him?”
“I know his reputation. But this script would drive me mad. Who does this writer think he is telling the director which camera angles to use? And what’s all this crap about the village? How’s he supposed to film that? How on earth did Strathbane Television ever accept a script like this?”
“The boss, Harry Tarrant,” said Hamish, “was a friend of John Heppel.”
“Oh, the one that got murdered? After seeing this script, I’m not surprised.”
“Harry Tarrant compared it to Dostoyevsky.”
“The curse of directors of soaps is the Dostoyevsky script. Along comes some flowery, literary writer. The bosses are tired of people sneering at their soaps as dumbing down and trash, so they seize on some literary crap and think, that’ll show the critics.”
“You’ve been a great help,” said Hamish. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.”
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Willie, “but you’re wrong. Paul Gibson may be a flake, but murder?”
“I never said he was a murderer,” said Hamish.
¦
“So what do you do now?” asked Elspeth on the road back. “You’re never going to get a search warrant on the strength of this script.”
“I’ll think of something. Do you mind if we stop here for a bit? I’ve got to walk Lugs.”
“Oh,
¦
Hamish went back to the police station, made himself coffee, and sat down to think out a plan of action.
Then he began to wonder if Harry Tarrant, the executive drama producer, knew that the script had been changed.
Leaving Lugs this time after he had fed him, he drove off to Strathbane. The wind had shifted round to the north. He rolled down the window and sniffed. He could smell snow in the air.
At Strathbane Television he had to wait some time before he was able to see Harry Tarrant.
Hamish handed over the script. “Someone sent me the original script,” he said. “I wondered whether you knew that they were working on a different script.”
“Nonsense.”
“I’ve seen the script they’re working on. The storyline is vaguely the same, but that’s all.”
Harry picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Sally,” he said, “could you step along to my office?”
He turned to Hamish. “We’ll get this sorted out.”
Sally Quinn came in and stopped short at the sight of the script on Harry’s desk.
“This copper,” said Harry, “says you aren’t working from John’s script.”
“Well, we are, more or less,” said Sally, looking flustered. “John’s script as it stood was unworkable.”
“Why wasn’t I consulted?”
“We didn’t want to bother you. Paul said a few minor changes were necessary.”
“Bring me a copy of the script he’s using.”
Sally glared at Hamish as she went out.
¦
