Free Death of a Scriptwriter by MC Beaton Page B

church.’
    ‘I meant real friends. A shoulder to cry on.’
    ‘There is no one here I can relate to,’ said Patricia with simple snobbery. ‘They are not of my class.’
    ‘I would drop that old-fashioned attitude and get out and about a bit more or go somewhere where you think you’ll be amongst your own kind. I’m not giving you a sedative. I
don’t believe in them. But if it all gets too much for you again, I want you to phone me or come to my surgery in Lochdubh and talk it over. There is nothing like talking in a situation like
this.’
    When Dr Brodie drove back into Lochdubh, he saw Hamish Macbeth strolling along the waterfront and hailed him.
    ‘What’s this I hear about Patricia going bonkers?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘News travels fast in the Highlands,’ said the doctor. ‘The poor woman had a brainstorm because of the savaging of her work.’
    ‘I don’t like this film business at all,’ said Hamish. ‘I want it to work for the people in Drim – they could do with the money – but there’s a bad
feeling about the whole thing. I found out that Fiona woman, the producer, got fired because of Jamie Gallagher, the scriptwriter, and now there’s a young man from Glasgow who says that Jamie
pinched his friend’s script for Football Fever and used it as his own. There’s already been violence. The young man, Angus Harris, punched Gallagher on the nose. Och, I’m
worrying too much. Maybe it’s chust the way TV people go on!’
     
Chapter Four
    I passed through the lonely street. The wind did sing and blow.
    I could hear the policeman’s feet. Clapping to and fro.
    – William Makepeace Thackeray
    Major Neal, with true Highland thrift, was eating his lunch at the television company’s mobile restaurant set up in the forecourt of the castle. It was another sunny day,
and everyone seemed in good spirits. A week had passed since all the fuss from Patricia and Angus Harris.
    Fiona King came in and collected a plate of food and joined him. ‘Everything all right?’ asked the major.
    ‘It’s all going splendidly because Jamie’s taken himself off somewhere,’ said Fiona. ‘Harry’s furious because he wants some changes to the script and Jamie
didn’t say anything about leaving.’
    ‘Anything to do with that chap who says his friend wrote the script of Football Fever ?’
    ‘Could be. I wish he would stay away forever. If I had my way, I’d have another scriptwriter brought in. His stuff’s pretty lifeless. I don’t like this commune business,
although Harry’s all for it. There’s something so trite about it all. Have you seen Ballykiss-angel angel on television?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, it’s Celtic whimsy, Irish Celtic whimsy at that, but it’s guaranteed to run forever. It’s soothing, it’s funny and it’s nice.’
    ‘I thought niceness wasn’t your forte,’ said the major, his eyes twinkling. ‘I’ve heard some of your remarks about Sunday night viewers.’
    ‘I’ve changed,’ said Fiona. ‘I want a success. Besides, there’s something about it up here. The quality of life.’
    ‘It’s a sunny day,’ said the major cautiously, ‘and even Drim seems like a nice place. But there are a lot of passions and rivalries here. It can be a difficult place to
live in, particularly during the long dark winter.’
    Fiona shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me of the winter. I thought we were all going to die. Pity Jamie recovered from hypothermia. He’d been drinking a lot, and that put him in a
worse state than Sheila or myself.’
    ‘Have you heard any more from Miss Martyn-Broyd?’
    ‘No, thank God. Writers are tiresome creatures.’
    ‘I thought you’d been fired.’
    Fiona sighed. ‘This is supposed to be my last day.’
    Harry Frame’s large bulk darkened the doorway. ‘We really need to find out where Jamie’s gone and get him back,’ he said. ‘I’ve put Sheila on to
it.’
    The manager of the Tommel Castle Hotel was, at that moment, unlocking Jamie’s