Death of a Scriptwriter

—Heinnch Hoffman

Eileen Jessop watched the return of the television film crew with heavy eyes. Who would be interested in her amateur efforts now? It had all been going so well. The women had liked the Scottish comedy she had written so many years ago. She had felt important and popular for the first time in ages.

She wearily trudged down to the general store. Ailsa once more had her sixties hairstyle, and from the community hall came the thump, thump, thump of the music from Edie’s exercise class.

“It’s yourself, Eileen,” Ailsa hailed her. “Going to get a part in the movies?”

Eileen shook her head.

“Och, you’ll be following the camera crew around, getting tips.”

“I don’t suppose any of the women will be interested in my little amateur venture anymore,” said Eileen sadly.

“Don’t say that! It’s the best fun we’ve had in ages. I bet we could knock spots off this lot.”

Eileen blinked myopically. “You mean you all want to go on?”

“Sure.” Ailsa leaned her freckled arms on the counter. “See here, we always do our filming in the evening, and that’s when this lot pack up. Of course we’ll go on.”

Eileen gave her a blinding smile. “That’s wonderful. Mr. Jessop doesn’t mind the rehearsals and the filming at all.”

“Neither he should,” said Ailsa with a grin. “We don’t film on the Sabbath and there aren’t any nude women in it.”

“I hope they all keep their clothes on in this television thing,” said Eileen anxiously. “Mr. Jessop’s blood pressure is quite high.”

“Do you always call him Mr. Jessop? Sounds like one o’ thae Victorian novels.”

“I mean Colin. He likes me to call him Mr. Jessop when talking about him.”

“Funny. But that’s men for you.”

¦

After the filming of The Case of the Rising Tides got well under way, Sheila Burford found herself increasingly reluctant to return to the Tommel Castle Hotel in the evenings with the rest of them to talk endless shop. She was becoming more and more disenchanted with the television world and was beginning to wonder if she had gotten into it because it made her mother so proud of her and all her friends seemed to think she had an exciting job. Sometimes she felt like some sort of maid, fetching and carrying and serving drinks and coffee.

After the first week, she drove to the police station.

“There’s that blonde calling on Hamish Macbeth,” said Jessie Currie to her sister, Nessie. “He can’t keep his hands off them.”

Sheila, all too aware of two pairs of eyes scrutinising her from behind thick glasses, knocked at the kitchen door of the police station.

“Come in,” said Hamish Macbeth cheerfully. “Nothing wrong, is there?”

“No, I just got bored with television chatter.”

She followed him into the kitchen.

“Filming going all right?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, like clockwork, good script, everyone pulling together. It’s as if Jamie had never existed.”

Hamish put a battered old kettle on top of the wood-burning stove. “It’s a warm evening,” said Sheila, who was wearing a T·shirt with the Strathclyde Television logo and a pair of cut-off jeans and large boots. “Do you always have that burning?”

“I was just about to put on my dinner. Want to join me? It’s only chicken casserole.”

“If you’re sure…That would be nice.”

“All right. We’ll have coffee first…So Jamie’s conveniently dead and everyone is happy. Fiona’s kept her job and Angus Harris has come into money and Penelope Gates has lost a husband she didn’t much like anyway. How’s Penelope bearing up?”

“Remarkably well,” said Sheila dryly. “In fact, she’s becoming a bit starry.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s beginning to queen about a bit. It’s odd, that. When Jamie was alive, she was very pleasant and subdued and only really came to life on the set. A hardworking actress, not all that great, but she has the looks. Now she seems to fly off the handle over every little thing and has to be coaxed back into a good temper.”

There was a silence while the kettle boiled. Hamish put instant coffee in two mugs and then carried them to the table and sat down next to Sheila.

“So were you surprised when you found out the murderer was Josh?” he asked.

Sheila took a sip of coffee and wrinkled her smooth brow. She was a very pretty girl, reflected Hamish, and almost immediately, Down, Hamish, you’ve had enough rejections to last you a lifetime!

“I was,” said Sheila. “Just a feeling.”

“Why?” asked Hamish curiously.

“Well, the only proof it was Josh was the blood on his hands.”

“I thought of that,” said Hamish. “He could have been skulking about up on the mountain and found Jamie dead. The body had been turned over.”

“Did they ever find out what struck him?”

“A rock. They found infinitesimal traces of rock in his skull. But all the murderer had to do was throw it away. Just below that bit of heather where he was lying is a whole expanse of scree. If the rock had been hurled down there, well, it could be anywhere.”

“Did they look?”

“Yes, they had a team o’ coppers crawling over the mountain like ants.” Hamish suddenly froze, his mouth a little open.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sheila sharply.

“I’ve chust remembered something,” he muttered. He could feel sweat trickling down from under his armpits. “Excuse me,” he said.

He went through to the bathroom and stripped off his shirt and sponged himself down, then went through to the bedroom and put on a clean shirt. What sort of policeman was he? He had put all the bits and pieces he had picked up off the heather into his backpack and, after finding the body, had forgotten all about them. The plastic bag he had put them in and the cellophane packet with those two threads of cloth were still in the backpack, which he had thrown in the bottom of the wardrobe. When Jimmy had called to tell him that the case was all wrapped up, he had forgotten all about them. He should have handed them over to the forensic team when he left the mountain.

He returned to the kitchen. “I’ll chust put the casserole in the oven and we’ll move to the living room. It’s hot in here.”

Sheila looked curiously at him as she sat down in the living room. “Are you sure you haven’t had a shock?” she asked. “Was it something I said?”

“No, no, I chust remembered I had a report to type up.”

“Am I holding you back?”

“Och, I can do it tomorrow.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door. Hamish went to answer it. The Currie sisters pushed past him and went straight through to the living room.

“We didn’t know anyone was here, didn’t know anyone was here,” said Jessie, who had an irritating habit of repeating everything. “We dropped by to bring you a lettuce from the garden, the garden. And this is…?”

“Miss Sheila Burford, who is with the television company,” said Hamish. “Sheila, the Misses Currie, Nessie and Jessie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sheila, recognising the two who had stared at her so fiercely on her arrival at the police station.

“Is there any trouble at Drim?” asked Nessie.

“Trouble at Drim,” echoed Jessie.