Death of a Scriptwriter

“He won’t be back,” said Hamish cheerfully. “He’s lazy. He only picks on easy targets.”

Patricia was about to suggest sternly that she return home immediately, but in that moment a picture of her windswept cottage arose in her mind’s eye. Having broken out of her long isolation, she was reluctant to go back to it.

She gave a weak smile. “You are a terrible man. You must be in your thirties and yet you are still only a policeman. Is that because you have little respect for the law?”

“Except for the fishing, I haff the great respect for the law,” said Hamish. “But I like Lochdubh and I hate Strathbane, which is where I would have to go if I got promoted.”

“But everyone is ambitious.”

“And not everyone is happy. You are looking at the exception to the rule.”

They fished all afternoon in the warm sunlight without catching anything else, but Patricia enjoyed herself immensely. At the end of the day, she invited Hamish to join her for dinner, but he said he had reports to type up. Patricia wanted to ask if she could see him again but felt as shy and tongue-tied as a teenager and just as frightened of rejection.

Hamish, with that almost telepathic ability of the Highlander, was well aware of what was going through her mind. She hadn’t been bad company, he thought. Maybe she would now branch out a bit. Don’t get involved, screamed his mind. She’s all right, but she’s a bit rigid and pompous, and if she’s lonely, it is all her own damned fault. But he found himself saying weakly as he climbed out of her car, “Perhaps I could help ye with some ideas for a detective story? Maybe we could hae a bit o’ dinner tomorrow night.”

Her face glowed. “That is very kind of you, but let it be my treat. Where would you like to go?”

“The Napoli, that Italian restaurant in Lochdubh.”

“Very well,” said Patricia happily. “I will see you at eight o’clock.”

She turned and went indoors. She scooped the post up from the doormat. The postman had delivered her mail that day after she had left. She carried the letters in and dropped them on the table in the living room. She never received anything interesting through the post. It was usually bank statements and junk mail.

She hummed to herself as she made a cup of tea. She carried it through to her little living room cum dining room and sat down at the table.

Then she found there was a letter with the legend ‘Strath-clyde Television’ on the envelope. She slowly opened it.

“Dear Ms. Martyn-Broyd,” she read. “We have had the delight of reading some of your detective stories and are interested in making some of them into a series, possibly starting with The Case of the Rising Tides. We would be happy to deal with you through your agent if you could supply us with a name, address and telephone number. In any case, please telephone so that I can arrange to meet you to discuss this project. Yours sincerely, Harry Frame, Executive Producer, Strathclyde Television.”

Patricia read the letter several times and then slowly put it down with a shaking hand. After all these long years, recognition at last!

¦

She passed a night of broken sleep and was awake by dawn, waiting and waiting until such time as offices opened and she could begin to make telephone calls.

She had to wait until ten o’clock before she was finally able to talk to Harry Frame.

“This is a pleasure,” he boomed. “May I call you Patricia?”

“Please do…Harry.” Patricia felt she had just made an exciting leap into an exciting, modern world.

“Would you have any objection to us dramatising your books?”

“I am very flattered,” fluted Patricia. “Who will play Lady Harriet?”

“Early days, early days. Perhaps you could visit us in Glasgow so we may discuss the terms of the contract? Or perhaps you would like me to contact your agent?”

Patricia felt a sudden burst of hatred for her ex-agent, who had done nothing to stop her precious books going out of print.

“No,” she said firmly, “I will handle the negotiations myself.”

And so the arrangements were made. The day was Wednesday. On Friday Patricia would take the early train from Inverness to Perth and then train from Perth to Glasgow, where a taxi would be waiting to bear her to Strathclyde Television.

By the time she put down the phone, her face was flushed and her heart beating hard.

Then, after another restorative cup of coffee, she dialled her old publishers and asked to speak to her former editor, Brian Jones, only to find that Mr. Jones was dead. She explained the reason for her call and was put through to a woman editor, Jessica Durnham. Patricia explained about the television series. To her disappointment, her news was not met with an offer of thousands for the reissue of all her books. The editor said cautiously that she would discuss it at conference and get back to her, or perhaps phone her agent? “No, you will deal with me,” said Patricia firmly.

She spent the rest of the day in rosy dreams, and it was only as evening approached that she remembered her date with the village constable.

She frowned. She should not have gone slumming with a policeman. Good heavens! What if that water bailiff had caught her and she had ended up in court? A celebrity such as Patricia Martyn-Broyd must be very careful of her reputation. She telephoned the police station and left a curt message on the answering machine.

¦

Hamish had been visiting his parents in Rogart and had then gone straight to the restaurant on his return and so did not receive the message until after he had eaten a solitary meal.

The voice on his answering machine was almost offensively curt. He shrugged. He probably wouldn’t see her again, and that was no great loss.

¦

Half an hour before Patricia was due to arrive at Strathclyde Television, Harry Frame was chairing a conference. Several people sat around the table, each clutching a copy of The Case of the Rising Tides. They had been able to get only one of the books and had run off copies.

“You want me to produce this?” demanded Fiona King, a rawboned, chain-smoking woman dressed in the height of lesbian chic: bone-short haircut, short jersey exposing an area of yellow skin at the midriff, jeans and large combat boots. “It will be an interesting challenge.” Privately she thought it the most boring load of crap she had ever been forced to read, but surely something could be done with it.

“The thing about it is this,” said Harry wearily. “She’s been out of print for ages, so she won’t cost much. We set it in the sixties, flares and white boots and miniskirts.”

“Is this going to be Sunday night family viewing?” demanded Fiona, lighting another cigarette despite the NO SMOKING sign above her head. “You know, the sort of pap the cocoa-slurping morons of middle Britain enjoy?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “But we’re still going in for shock here. Lots of bonking.”

“But this bitch, Lady Harriet, definitely keeps her Harris tweed knickers on right through the book.”

“We’ll get ‘em off, give her a bit of rough stuff to roll in the heather with.”

“What setting will you have?” asked a researcher.

“Plenty of places in the Highlands.”

“And who’ll play Lady Harriet?”

“Penelope Gates.”

“Jesus,” said Fiona. “That foul-mouthed little keelie.”

“She’s got great tits, and she’s prepared to open her legs on television.”

“And off television,” remarked Fiona sourly. “What on earth is this old frump Martyn-Broyd going to say?”

“We just get her to sign. After that, she’ll just need to lump it. In fact, she’ll enjoy it. Everyone these days wants to have something to do with television. Have you seen those schlock TV shows from the States? They’ll divorce their hubby on screen if it gets them a few moments of fame. I don’t like your tone, Fiona. Don’t you want to do this?”

“I consider it a privilege to be chosen by you, Harry,” said Fiona quickly.

A secretary popped her head round the door and said primly, “Miss Martyn-Broyd is here.”