Death Of A Scriptwriter Part 4

"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 pa.s.sions 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 the villagers.

"That will be all right," said Fiona quickly, noticing Jamie's suppressed anger. "I'm sure we'll all be glad of a break. Is there anywhere around here to have lunch?" She felt cross and cold and edgy. The manse had a stone floor, and she was sure the permafrost was creeping up her legs. She longed for a cigarette, but the minister's wife had said she disapproved of smoking.

"There's nowhere here," said the minister, "but my wife and I were just about to have lunch. You are welcome to join us."

"No, we'll go back to Lochdubh and get something there," said Jamie. "Care to join us, Patricia?"

"Thank you...Jamie," said Patricia, feeling quite elated with all this first-name camaraderie. "So everything has been arranged in Drim?"

"It's a start," said Fiona, "that's all. I'll be back up with the production manager, accountant, lawyer and so on to get everything properly and legally agreed on."

As they sat together having lunch in the Napoli in Lochdubh, Sheila, looking out the window, saw white sheets of snow beginning to block out the view.

"I think we'd better get back to the Tommel Castle Hotel and find beds," she suggested. "We can't travel in this."

Jamie finished his wine, wiped his mouth on his napkin and said evenly, "If you don't mind, we will leave for Glasgow immediately."

"I really do not think a young lady like Sheila should be driving in this weather, or anyone else, for that matter," said Patricia. "I, for one, will find accommodation at the hotel."

Jamie smiled at her. "Send us the bill. No, no, least we can do. Come along, Sheila."

"She'll never make it," said Fiona as she climbed into the van.

"It's Sheila's job to drive," snarled Jamie.

So Sheila drove on up over the hills, peering desperately through the blizzard, swinging the wheel to counteract skids. They were up on the moors when the van gave a final wild skid and ploughed into a s...o...b..nk. In vain did Sheila try to reverse.

"You'd better get out and go and find some help," said Jamie.

"No," said Fiona flatly. "No one's going anywhere. We'll need to sit here and hope to G.o.d someone finds us."

Hamish decided to go to the Napoli that evening. The blizzard was still howling, and the police station felt cold and bleak.

In the heady days when Hamish Macbeth had been promoted to sergeant, Willie Lamont, who served him in the restaurant, had been his constable. But Hamish had been demoted over the mixup of the bodies at Drim, and Willie had married the pretty relative of the restaurant owner and left the police force to join the business.

When Hamish had ordered his food, Willie leaned against the table and said, "We had the fillum people in here."

"Oh, aye," said Hamish. "I gather they're going to use Drim."

"Just look at that snow!" said Willie, peering out the window. "A wee la.s.sie to have to drive in that."

"What are you talking about, Willie?"

"I heard that writer woman from Cnothan saying as how they should get beds at the hotel, but the man said that the la.s.sie wi' the blond hair should get on the road."

Hamish swore. "d.a.m.n it. That's suicide. Keep my meal warm for me, Willie."

He hurried back to the police station and called the mountain rescue service, saying finally, "I don't think they could possibly have got far."

"We can't do anything until daylight, but we'll have the chopper out at dawn."

"I'd better see if I can find them myself," said Hamish gloomily, forgetting about his dinner.

He took out a backpack, made a pot of coffee and filled a thermos flask with it. Then he cut some sandwiches and added them to it. He put on a ski suit and goggles, strapped on his snowshoes and set out, cursing under his breath and d.a.m.ning all townees who wittered on about nature, as if nature were some cuddly Walt Disney animal and not a wild, unpredictable force.

He gave up after two hours and headed back to Lochdubh. Like the mountain rescue service, he, too, would have to wait until dawn.

At four in the morning, the van engine rattled and died.

"Get out and open the hood and see what's up," shouted Jamie.

But Sheila found they were now buried so deep in snow that she could not open the door. White-faced, Fiona said, "We'll suffocate."

Fiona and Sheila were in the front and Jamie behind them.

"I'd better see if I can get something to make holes in the snow," said Sheila. She scrambled over the seats and into the back of the van. To her delight she found a length of hollow steel tubing. What it was doing there, she had no idea.

"I'll open the window and push this through so we can get some air." She handed the pipe to Fiona and then scrambled back. She rolled down the window and began to scrabble with her fingers at the solid wall of snow until she had made a tunnel. Then she took the pipe and thrust it into the tunnel and rammed it upwards. "I'll need to draw it back in from time to time and make sure it isn't blocked," she said.

"We have no heating," wailed Fiona. "We're all going to die. How could you have been so stupid, Jamie?"

"It's not me that's stupid," yelled Jamie. "It's all the fault of that stupid b.i.t.c.h, who doesn't know how to drive. When does it get light here?"

"About ten in the morning in winter. And we'll never live that long."

But the sky was pearly grey at nine o'clock when Hamish Macbeth set out again into the bleak white world. The snow had stopped and everything was uncannily quiet, as if the whole of the Highlands had died and now lay wrapped in a white shroud.

He marched ahead on his snowshoes, out of Lochdubh and up to the moors, keeping to where he guessed the road was but looking always to right and left in case they had skidded off it.

Hamish suddenly thought of Patricia and her holiday in Greece. Somewhere in the world outside this bleak wilderness the sun was shining and people were lying on the beach.

He wanted to get as far away as possible from Sutherland. His mind drew back from the sunshine of faraway places and settled on the thought of the film company. I'd like to get away before it happens, he thought. What happens? What happens? screamed his mind, but then his sharp eyes saw a little piece of pipe sticking up above a s...o...b..nk. screamed his mind, but then his sharp eyes saw a little piece of pipe sticking up above a s...o...b..nk.

He tunnelled with his gloved hands into the s...o...b..nk, and then he saw the gleam of green metal. Found them, he thought with relief. Now let's hope they're alive. He heard the clatter of a helicopter in the distance.

He sc.r.a.ped away at the snow until he had the back window of the van clear. He peered in. Fiona, Sheila and Jamie all seemed to be huddled together for warmth on the backseat. He knocked on the gla.s.s, but the still figures did not stir.

He stood back and waved frantically to the approaching helicopter and then crouched down beside the s...o...b..nk made by the covered van to protect himself from the flying snow as the helicopter landed.

Sheila struggled awake as she heard the roar of the landing helicopter. "Fiona!" she cried, shaking her companion. "We're being rescued."

They both tried to rouse Jamie, but he appeared to be unconscious.

Sheila was never to forget that moment after daylight appeared around the van and the door was wrenched open. She tumbled out into Hamish Macbeth's arms and burst into tears. "I thought that b.a.s.t.a.r.d had killed us," she sobbed. "I'll never forgive him."

"Aye, well, into the helicopter with you," said Hamish. "They'll take you all to hospital."

The head of the mountain rescue team supervised the lifting of Jamie's unconscious body into the helicopter. "This lot should be made to pay for all this expense," he grumbled. "What sort of fools drive in the Highlands in this weather?"

Hamish stood with his hands on his hips until the helicopter was only a little dot against the brightening sky.

A light breeze sprang up and caressed his cheek, a breeze coming from the west. Wind's shifted, he thought. Thaw coming. Hoods and mud. What a country!

He made his way slowly back to Lochdubh. Smoke was rising from cottage chimneys.

The Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, middle-aged village spinsters, were outside their cottage, the pale sunlight flashing off their gla.s.ses.

"Just the man!" cried Jessie. "Come and shovel this snow."

"Away wi' you," said Hamish. "I've been up since dawn."

He trudged past.

"Call yourself a public servant!" Jessie shouted after him.

"I call myself one verra tired policeman," Hamish shouted back.

And an uneasy one, he thought. I hope this film company stays away. I've got a bad feeling about the whole d.a.m.n thing.

CHAPTER THREE.

Do not adultery commit; Advantage rarely comes of it Advantage rarely comes of it: Thou shall not steal; an empty feat Thou shall not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat When it's so lucrative to cheat: Bear not false witness; let the lie Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings tofy Have time on its own wings tofy: Thou shall not covet; but tradition Thou shall not covet; but tradition Approves all forms of compet.i.tion Approves all forms of compet.i.tion. -Arthur Hugh Clough -Arthur Hugh Clough Often one cannot look back on the best time in one's life with any pleasure if it ends badly. So it was with Patricia Martyn-Broyd in the months leading up to the first day of filming.

During the long winter months, a glow of fame had kept her exhilarated. Local papers had interviewed her and one national. She had given a talk to the Mothers' Union at the church in Cnothan on writing. And although she had not been able to start on a new book, there was always that little word 'yet' to comfort her. When all the excitement died down, she knew she could get to work again and the words would flow.

She arose early on the first day of filming and dressed carefully. The weather was fine, unusually fine for the Highlands of Scotland, with the moors and tarns of Sutherland stretched out benignly under a cloudless sky. She put on a Liberty print dress-good clothes lasted forever and did not date-and a black straw hat. Had the postman not decided to change his schedule and deliver the mail to Patricia's end of the village first, then her feeling of euphoria might have lasted longer, but a square buff envelope with her publishers' logo slid through the letter box.

She picked it up, sat down at the table and slit it open with an old silver paper knife which had belonged to her father.

She pulled out six glossy book jackets.

She stared down at them in shock. Certainly the old t.i.tle was there-The Case of the Rising Tides -and her name in curly white letters, Patricia Martyn-Broyd. But on the front of the jacket was a photograph of Penelope Gates, a nude Penelope Gates. Her back was to the camera, but she was holding a magnifying gla.s.s and looking over one bare shoulder with a voluptuous smile. Larger than Patricia's byline was the legend 'Now a Major TV Series, Starring Penelope Gates as Lady Harriet.' -and her name in curly white letters, Patricia Martyn-Broyd. But on the front of the jacket was a photograph of Penelope Gates, a nude Penelope Gates. Her back was to the camera, but she was holding a magnifying gla.s.s and looking over one bare shoulder with a voluptuous smile. Larger than Patricia's byline was the legend 'Now a Major TV Series, Starring Penelope Gates as Lady Harriet.'

On the back of the jacket was more advertising for the TV series, along with Jamie Gallagher's name as scriptwriter, Fiona King as producer, then a list of the cast.

Her hands trembled. What had gone wrong? She had seen such detective stories on the bookshop shelves but had never bought them, a.s.suming that the writer was some hack who had written the books from television scripts rather than being an original writer.

Angry colour flooded her normally white face. A naked woman portrayed as her Lady Harriet-elegant, cool, clever Lady Harriet!

She went to the sideboard and took out a bottle of whisky which she had won in a church raffle the previous year, poured herself a gla.s.s and drank it down.

Then she phoned Pheasant Books in London and demanded to speak to her editor, Sue Percival, whom she considered much too young for the job.

"Hi, Patricia!" said Sue in that awful nasal accent of hers which always made Patricia shudder.

"I have just received the book jackets," began Patricia.

"Great, aren't they?"

Patricia took a deep breath. "They are disgusting disgusting. I am shocked. They must be changed immediately."

"What's up with them? I think they're ace."

"What has a naked actress to do with the character I created? And who is going to buy this? The covers make me look like some hack who has written up the book from the TV series."

"Look here," said Sue sharply, "you want to sell your book, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Well, the bookshops will take a good number if it's going to be on TV. Without that book jacket, we may get very low sales indeed. I am sorry you feel this way. We'll see what we can do when your next book is reprinted."

The angry flush slowly died out of Patricia's cheeks.

"Are you there?" asked Sue.

"Yes, yes," said Patricia in a mollified voice. "You must understand I know little about marketing."

"Leave it to us, Pat," said Sue. "You'll be a star."

Patricia said goodbye and slowly replaced the receiver. Another Another book to be published. And what did it matter what they put on the cover? It was book to be published. And what did it matter what they put on the cover? It was her her work the public would be reading. work the public would be reading.

Josh Gates awoke around his usual time, eleven in the morning. He remembered that Penelope was due to start filming that day. He smiled. He felt unusually well. Penelope had begged him to slow down on his drinking, and he only had a couple of pints the evening before. He was pleased with Penelope. The money was good, and this detective series would make her name. No more would people think of her as some sort of trollop.

Josh had strangely oldfashioned ideas. Films on Sky and cable television channels were full of writhing, naked bodies, but he ignored all that. Penelope taking off her clothes for anyone but him reflected badly, he thought, on his masculinity.

He had given his promise that he would not appear on the location. Penelope had hugged him and said that it would spoil her acting.

He wondered idly how to spend his day. He decided to go down to John Smith's bookshop in St. Vincent Street and find something to read.

He crawled out of bed and picked up the clothes he had discarded the night before and put them on.

The bookshop, as usual, was crowded. He thumbed his way through several paperbacks and then, on impulse, asked an a.s.sistant whether he could look at the catalogue of forthcoming books.