Death Of A Scriptwriter Part 3

"It's a place called Drim, not far from here."

"And what's so good about it?"

"It's an odd place. It's at the end of a sea loch. The whole place is sinister."

"We need a castle," said Jamie. "The main character's supposed to live in a castle."

"Five miles on the far side o' Drim is Drim Castle, owned by Major Neal. He'd rented it to an American who's just packed up and left. I think all the furniture's been put back in storage."

"Doesn't matter," said Fiona, speaking for the first time. She blew out a cloud of smoke. "We could use it as offices as well as location."

"Aye, well, there you are. Drim's your place."

"Then we'll go and have a look. Come along, Sheila, and stop slurping coffee and do your job."

Sheila threw Hamish an apologetic smile.

Hamish followed them out and gave Sheila directions. He waved them goodbye and then went indoors to phone Major Neal. "Make sure you get a good price," he cautioned after explaining what it was all about.

"I'll do that," said the major. "I owe you one, Hamish."

"Won't forget it," Hamish said goodbye. As far as he was concerned, Drim and Jamie deserved each other. He had once solved a murder there, but although Drim was on his beat, he went there as little as possible.

"What about Plockton in Ross?" asked Fiona, finally breaking the silence as they drove towards Drim.

"Plockton!" sneered Jamie. "Thon village has been used in two detective series already."

"I think that's it down there," said Sheila.

Drim was a small huddle of cottages on a flat piece of land surrounded by towering mountains at the end of a thin, narrow sea loch. There was a church and a community hall and a general store, and the road down to the village was a precipitous one-track.

"It'll be h.e.l.l getting all the stuff here," muttered Fiona.

Shafts of late red sunlight shone down, cutting through the crevices in the mountains, flooding Drim with a red light. Sheila thought it looked like a village in h.e.l.l.

"Bypa.s.s the village and let's see this castle before the light fades," ordered Jamie.

Sheila would have missed the turn had not the major stationed two of his gamekeepers out on the road to direct them. She drove cautiously up a snow-covered drive, stalling from time to time, wheels spinning on the ice, until at last the castle came into view.

The last of the red light was flooding the front. It was a Gothic building, built during the height of the Victorian vogue for homes in the Highlands. It even had a mock drawbridge and portcullis, but no moat, the first owner having run out of money before one could be dug.

The major met them at the door. He was a small, neat man, dressed in old tweeds. He had a pleasant, lined face and faded blue eyes.

"Macbeth phoned me to say you might be calling," said the major. "Come in."

He had lit an enormous fire in the huge fireplace in the hall and had arranged chairs and a low table in front of it, on which he had placed a bottle of whisky and gla.s.ses.

They introduced themselves. The bullying side of Jamie would have liked to dismiss the whole of Drim as a possible location and make Sheila drive on, but the sight of that bottle of whisky mellowed him. Sheila did not drink because she was driving. Fiona did not drink alcohol. She thought it a dangerous drug. She smoked pot and was part of an organisation to get the use of cannabis legalised. So Jamie had most of the bottle.

The major, who had read Patricia's book The Case of the Rising Tides The Case of the Rising Tides, was becoming more and more amused as Jamie waxed enthusiastic over his planned dramatisation of the book.

At last, exhausted by talking and bragging and drinking, he fell asleep and Fiona took over and got down to the nitty-gritty of price. She ended up agreeing to pay more than she had intended because she was weary of travelling and the castle was suitable for film offices as well as a location and the major seemed so eager to help.

At last, business being finished, and when Sheila had taken photographs of all the rooms, he directed them back to Lochdubh and suggested they stay at the Tommel Castle Hotel for the night.

Jamie was roused from his slumbers. He was in a foul temper all the way back to Lochdubh, and once checked into the hotel, he headed straight for the bar.

Fiona phoned Harry Frame in Glasgow. "It's Drim," she said wearily.

"Where the h.e.l.l's that?" asked Harry.

"It's at the ends of the earth," said Fiona, "but Jamie's happy and it's right in every way." She began to enthuse over the castle, deliberately not mentioning the awkward business of getting there.

Major Neal said to his head gamekeeper, "You'll find a good haunch of venison in the freezer and a side of smoked salmon. Take them over to Macbeth at Lochdubh tomorrow with my thanks. No, forget it. I haven't seen Hamish in ages. I'll take them over myself."

"That's very good of you," beamed Hamish when the major arrived on his doorstep half an hour later, bearing gifts.

"Least I could do, Hamish," said the major, following him into the kitchen. "But, oh my, what's Miss Martyn-Broyd going to do when she hears how they're planning to change her book?"

"What are they going to do with it? A dram?"

"Just the one, Hamish." They both sat down at the kitchen table. "It's like this...Have you read The Case of the Rising Tides? The Case of the Rising Tides?"

Hamish shook his head.

"It's not bad. Complicated plot. But it's a lady's book, if you know what I mean. The main character is a Scottish aristocrat called Lady Harriet Vere."

"So her father was an earl or something like that?"

"The author doesn't mention any parents at all. Just this Lady Harriet who lives in a castle in the Highlands with devoted servants. In the TV series, she's going to drop a few years-in the book she's around forty, with a stern, handsome face and so on-and be played by Penelope Gates, who is a voluptuous blonde whose recent performances on the box have left nothing to the imagination. Unless she dyes her pubic hair as well, she's a real blonde."

"You'd make a good detective," said Hamish dryly.

"Anyway, in the TV series, she's going to be a hippie aristocrat who runs a commune in her castle, pot and free love."

"Bit sixties."

"It's set in the sixties."

"I wonder if Miss Martyn-Broyd knows this," said Hamish.

"Probably does. Her books have been out of print. Bound to go along with anything. I'll be glad when the light nights come back again, Hamish. These long northern winters get me down. But thanks to you, once they start filming and I get paid, I'll be able to take a holiday somewhere far away from Scotland."

"Nonetheless, I wouldn't tell Miss Martyn-Broyd about what they're going to do to her book, in case she doesn't know. Better to upset her later than sooner. How are things in Drim?"

"Same as ever. A living grave with resident ghouls."

"This TV thing should spice them up. Did you tell them they'd better cosy up to the minister and the village headmen?"

"Yes, that Fiona woman knew how to go about it."

"I should think those silly village women will all be seeing themselves as film stars the minute they hear about it."

"You know how they are up here, Hamish. They'll be split into two camps. There'll be those who are trying like mad to get their faces on the telly and the sour ones who stand around the location hoping to register their disapproval on camera." Hamish laughed. "And no filming on the Sabbath."

"I didn't tell them, and I'm not telling them until I've got the contract."

Fiona lay on her bed in a room in the Tommel Castle Hotel and listened to the moaning of the wind outside. Thank G.o.d a location had been found! This series could make her name at last. If only she hadn't to deal with Jamie. She felt uneasy about his work. She had read his 'bible,' where he had set out plot, storyline, characters and casting.

If only it had been a regular TV detective series like Poirot or Miss Marple. Despite her acid remarks about the British viewing public, she knew the large viewing figures lay with Mr. and Mrs. Average. Ambition coursed through her veins. She would do her d.a.m.ned best to make it work.

A few rooms away, Sheila Burford was also awake. She had suggested to Fiona that they should phone up Patricia and invite her for dinner. Fiona had snorted and said the less they had to do with writers the better. Sheila felt guilty. She was sure there was going to be the most awful scene when Patricia found out what they were doing with her book.

She had not liked what she had seen of Drim. It was a grim place, and she guessed that was why the policeman had sent her there. Fiona had been right in the first place. There were plenty of pretty locations within easy reach of Glasgow. Her own role had moved from that of researcher to personal a.s.sistant to Fiona. For the first time in her young career, she began to wonder whether there might be life outside television, some sane sane sort of job. She had been with the television company for only two years and had never worked on a project as large as this one was going to be. It was amazing, too, that in cosy, overcrowded Britain there should be this vast, unpopulated landscape at the very north with its great acres of nothingness. She s.h.i.+vered despite the central heating. sort of job. She had been with the television company for only two years and had never worked on a project as large as this one was going to be. It was amazing, too, that in cosy, overcrowded Britain there should be this vast, unpopulated landscape at the very north with its great acres of nothingness. She s.h.i.+vered despite the central heating.

Over in Drim, Miss Alice MacQueen, the local hairdresser, could not sleep for excitement. A television company was coming to film in Drim! They would have their own hairdresser, of course. Or would they? Business had been slack. The local women came in for a perm about every six months. But they would all be hoping to at least appear in a crowd scene, and they would all be wanting to get their hair done. A good bit of business and she could get a new kitchen unit from the DIY shop in Inverness. She finally drifted off to sleep and into a happy dream where she was no longer hairdressing in the front parlour of her cottage but had a posh salon with a smart staff in pink smocks.

Mrs. Edie Aubrey, her neighbour, was also in a state of excitement. She had once run exercise cla.s.ses in the community hall, but gradually the women had lost interest and Edie had felt time lying heavy on her hands. She would put up her poster on the notice board at the community hall in the morning. Perhaps she might get a part herself? Better get round to Alice in the morning and get her hair done.

Patricia Martyn-Broyd was awakened with the sound of the telephone ringing. She struggled out of bed. After midnight!

Who could it be?

She picked up the receiver and gave a cautious, "Yes?"

"I'm so sorry to ring so late. This is Mrs. Struthers." The Cnothan minister's wife. "What's the matter?"

"I've just heard that they're going to be filming your book in Drim!"

"Drim. Where's that?"

"It's just the other side of Lochdubh. Didn't you know?"

"No," said Patricia bleakly. If they had chosen Drim, then it meant they had been up in Sutherland and had not even bothered to call on her.

"They were over at Major Neal's today. They're going to use his castle-Castle Drim."

"Today? Are they still here?"

"Yes, three of them. They're staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel."

"Thank you, Mrs. Struthers," said Patricia. She would need to go over there in the morning, find out why they had not troubled to consult her. It was her her book! book!

But when she called at the hotel at nine o'clock the following morning, it was to find her quarry had checked out. Patricia drove into Lochdubh and then followed the signposts to Drim, a village she had never visited.

She gritted her teeth as her car slid and skidded down the hillside to Drim. The sky was black and a few flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

She saw a large van with the legend 'Strathclyde Television' painted on its side parked by the loch and in front of the general store.

She pulled up beside it and went inside. Fiona, Sheila and Jamie were talking to the owner, Jock Kennedy. They were making arrangements to use the store for filming.

Patricia's voice cut across their conversation. "Ahem," she said, "I am surprised you did not call on me first to consult me."

They all swung around, Fiona quickly masking her dismay. "Why, Patricia," she said with a smile. "We were just going to call on you when we finished here. This is Jamie Gallagher, our scriptwriter. Jamie, Miss Patricia Martyn-Broyd, the author."

Sheila knew that Jamie had a blinding hangover and that Jamie despised Patricia's writing, so she was surprised when Jamie beamed at Patricia and said, "It's an honour to meet you. Perhaps you'd like to come along with us until we fix up our business here and see how it all works, and then we can have a bite of lunch?"

Patricia melted. "That would be very exciting," she said.

"Fiona, I'll leave you to finalise the arrangements with Jock here," said Jamie. "A word with you outside, Sheila."

He ushered Sheila outside. Then he turned and faced her. "Don't let that old bat get wind of what's in the script," he hissed. "And get your a.r.s.e over to the major's and tell him the same thing or he can kiss his castle goodbye."

"She's bound to find out sooner or later," said Sheila.

"Then let it be later. I've worked with these authors before, and they're a pain. They all ponce about as if they've written War and Peace War and Peace instead of a piece of s.h.i.+te. She'll just have to lump it. There's nothing in her contract about her having any say in the script." instead of a piece of s.h.i.+te. She'll just have to lump it. There's nothing in her contract about her having any say in the script."

But do they have to be so nice to her? thought Sheila as she drove off towards the castle. It's going to be a terrible blow when she finds Drim Castle is going to be featured as a hippie sixties commune.

The major was in his modest bungalow home. "I moved in here two years ago and rented the castle," he said after he had served Sheila a cup of coffee. "It's a h.e.l.l of a place to heat and get cleaned."

Sheila told him the reason for her visit.

"Funnily enough, I was talking over just that with Hamish Macbeth, the policeman at Lochdubh, and he said something to the effect that it would be cruel to let the old girl know at this stage. Let her have her dream for a bit longer. She couldn't stop it if she knew, could she?"

"No, but she could go to the press, although that would not make much difference. They must be used to writers complaining about their work being mangled on television."

"I'm feeling sorry for her. What kind of woman is she?"

"In her seventies, but very fit. Very vain, but a bit shaky underneath, if that makes sense. I think maybe she's a more powerful personality than Harry Frame-that's our executive producer-realises."

"Whereas you, so young and experienced, do?" The major's eyes twinkled.

Sheila laughed. "I'm not so hardened as the rest of them, so I notice people as people and not as commodities."

"There's a great deal of excitement in Drim over this." The major suddenly frowned. "I just hope it doesn't lead to trouble like the last time."

"You mean Drim's been used by a television company before?"

"No, it wasn't that. I was away at the time, but there was a young Englishman came up here to live. Very handsome. Flirted with all the ladies and broke a lot of hearts. He was murdered by the minister's wife."

"Gosh, I remember reading about that."

"Poor Hamish Macbeth got into trouble over that. He shocked a confession out of the minister's wife by confronting her with a dead body, but it was the wrong body, a rare specimen of Pictish man, and Hamish had every historian and paleontologist in the country down on him like a ton of bricks."

"Hamish recommended Drim."

"That's probably his Highland humour. Drim's a funny place."