Death of a Scriptwriter

“No, this is just a social call.”

“Is there any news of Miss Halburton-Smythe coming up here soon?” asked Nessie.

“I have not heard from Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish stiffly.

“Such a beautiful girl,” said Nessie.

“Beautiful,” said Jessie.

“Was engaged to Hamish here, but he didnae appreciate her.”

“Appreciate her.”

“And went to foreign parts.”

“Foreign parts.”

“To hide a broken heart.”

“Broken heart.”

“Havers!” shouted Hamish, exasperated. “I thank you kindly for the lettuce, but I am chust about to prepare dinner.”

“We’re going, going,” said Jessie huffily.

Hamish ushered them out.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

Sheila grinned. “Who is this Miss Halburton-Smythe? Anything to do with the Tommel Castle Hotel?”

“Her father owns it, we were engaged once, didn’t work, end of story. I’ll get the food.”

When they were seated in the kitchen with the stove now damped down and the door and window open to the evening air, Sheila said, “It amazes me that it hardly ever gets dark up here.”

“The nights are beginning to draw in all the same,” said Hamish. “In June it’s light all night.”

“At least we’ll be finished and out of here by the winter,” said Sheila with a reminiscent shiver.

“It wass unusual, all that snow,” said Hamish, but thinking uneasily instead of that plastic bag at the bottom of his wardrobe. His accent, as usual, increased in sibilancy when he was upset. “To get back to Penelope Gates, she’s employed by the television company. Why doesn’t the director or whateffer chust tell her to do her job and cut the histrionics?”

“She’s the star of the show, and stars, however small they might be, can rule the roost.”

“Is she on anything?” asked Hamish, remembering the pot-smoking Fiona. “Uppers or anything?”

“No, I think she was kept down by Josh, and now he’s gone, she’s bursting out all over the place.”

“In every sense of the word, I suppose,” said Hamish. “Unless the naughty scenes have been cut.”

“No, they’re still in. She seduces the chief inspector tomorrow. They’ve built a bedroom set in the castle, four-poster and all that. But it’ll be away from the eyes of the villagers.”

“A good thing, too,” said Hamish. “The minister would have something to say about it.”

“I gather the minister’s wife, Eileen, is making a film of her own.”

“That crushed wee woman! I don’t believe it.”

“Fact. One of the village women told me. Eileen wrote a play when she was at university. They’re performing that, and Eileen’s filming it with her camcorder.”

“And what does the minister have to say?”

“He seems pleased. He doesn’t like us TV people being back, but Fiona gave him a generous donation to the church. This chicken is very good. Just as a matter of interest, what’s Patricia doing?”

“She’s writing again.”

“Where was she on the day Jamie got killed?”

“Out walking, she says.”

“I had her down as the murderess,” said Sheila. “She was so outraged. She’s got a medieval kind efface. I could imagine her being quite ruthless.”

“If she was ruthless,” said Hamish, “she would have found some hot-shot lawyer to try to break the terms of her contract.”

“You may be right.”

Hamish surveyed her. “You definitely don’t think Josh murdered Jamie.”

“I’m fantasising,” said Sheila. “Read too many detective stories. I suppose the police know what they’re doing.”

Hamish said nothing, but he wondered whether Strathbane police, because of pressure from the media, had not jumped too thankfully to the easiest conclusion.

“I’m sorry I havenae any wine to go with the meal,” he said.

“That’s why I’m here,” said Sheila. “The dinners at the hotel get a bit boozy.”

“So tell me about yourself. How did you get into the television business?”

“I went to college in New York, in Washington Square in the Village, to learn all about filming. I did a short film and won the Helena Rubinstein prize. I was homesick, so as soon as I finished the course, I returned to Glasgow and applied for a job on Strathclyde Television. They said I should start at the bottom and learn the ropes. I’ve been there two years and I’m still at the bottom, fetching and carrying and making coffee, fixing hotels, driving that minibus around.”

“So why don’t you try the BBC or ITV or maybe one of the cable channels?”

“Because I’m suddenly sick of the whole business. I think I might take a computing course. I’m interested in computer graphics.”

“All the beautiful girls end up studying computers,” said Hamish.

“Is that what took Miss Halburton-Smythe away?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “More coffee?”

Sheila wished she hadn’t made that remark. There was a certain chill in the air which had nothing to do with the weather.

When she had finished her coffee, Hamish said, “Now if you don’t mind, I’d better get on with that report.”

“Thanks for dinner. You must let me take you out.”

“Aye, that would be grand.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Hamish hesitated. “Give me the number of your mobile and I’ll phone you.”

Which you won’t, thought Sheila sadly as’ she walked to her car.

¦

When she had gone, Hamish went through to the bedroom, hauled out the backpack and took out the plastic bag and emptied the contents on the floor. Nothing much here, he thought with relief: old Coke cans, cigarette ends, a book of matches, but with no advertising on it, no sinister nightclub or sleazy bar such as they were always finding in detective novels. Then there was the little envelope with the two threads of cloth. Bluish tweed. What had Josh been wearing?

He should throw this lot away and forget about it.

Case closed.

¦

Patricia Martyn-Broyd received a letter from her publishers. She weighed the large buff envelope in her hand and then slit it open. She pulled out book jackets and a letter from her editor, Sue Percival.

“Dear Patricia,” Sue had written. “As you will see, we have changed the book jackets, feeling the original ones might not have been too tasteful in view of the murder. We hope you like them.”

The new cover showed Penelope Gates dressed in tweed hacking jacket, knee breeches, lovat stockings and brogues, standing on a heathery hillside, looking down at the village of Drim. Patricia’s name was larger and more prominent this time.

She heaved a sigh of relief. Everything was working out quite well. Harry Frame had called to tell her they had cut out the commune scenes. She smiled.

It was time she visited the location and saw what they were doing. She was pleased with the new covers, very pleased.

¦

“This coffee tastes like filth,” said Penelope Gates, throwing the contents against the wall of her caravan. “Get me a decent one.”