Death of a Scriptwriter (24 page)

Harry’s TV detective series got panned by the critics and suffered badly in comparison with Eileen’s play.

‘Do you know,’ said Eileen as she and Sheila sat on the floor of Sheila’s flat, with newspapers spread all around them, ‘I’ve been so busy writing this new play and
with all the fuss and excitement, I’ve never given a thought to poor Ailsa.’

‘Let’s drive up to Drim this weekend,’ said Sheila. ‘I’d like to see Hamish Macbeth again. That poor man. The number of times I stood him up. I’ll phone
him.’

‘Tell him not to tell anyone we’re coming,’ said Eileen.

‘Are you worried about Colin?’

‘Not any more. But I’d like to make our arrival in Drim a surprise.’

Sheila phoned Hamish. ‘I feel the least I can do is buy you a meal,’ she said. ‘If you’re fed up with me, I quite understand.’

‘No,’ said Hamish. ‘But turn up this time. When?’

‘We’re driving up on Saturday. Saturday evening at the Napoli at eight?’

‘That’ll be grand. How does it feel to be successful?’

‘Great.’

‘Harry Frame must be furious with you.’

‘He tried to offer me a job. Can you believe it? I had great pleasure in telling him to get lost. See you Saturday. Oh, and we want to surprise them in Drim, so don’t tell
anyone.’

It was odd to be approaching Drim again, thought Eileen, blinking out at familiar landmarks through her new contact lenses. Sheila drove down the winding road that led down to
Drim, then parked outside the general stores.

‘Well, here we are,’ said Sheila as she and Eileen stepped out of the car.

‘This looks like a welcoming committee,’ laughed Eileen. The women of Drim were coming down from their cottages towards them. Ailsa came out of the shop and stood with her arms
folded, her face grim.

‘Ailsa!’ cried Eileen, making to run towards her.

‘Keep your distance,’ shouted Ailsa.

‘There’s something badly wrong here,’ said Sheila nervously, watching the women get closer.

Then Holly Andrews, who was at the head of the group, stood and yanked up a clod of grass and earth and hurled it straight at them.

‘Bitch!’ shouted Holly. ‘You made money out o’ us! Bitch!’

A wind raced down the loch, whipping Eileen’s skirts about her legs. Crows dived and screamed overhead.

‘Get in the car,’ shouted Sheila, her face white.

They drove off as stones rattled against the sides of the car.

‘Where to?’ panted Eileen.

‘Back to Glasgow,’ said Sheila. ‘I’m never coming here again.’

Willie Lamont leaned against Hamish’s table in the restaurant that evening and said, ‘Stood up again?’

‘It looks like that,’ said Hamish gloomily.

‘It’s your reputation for philately that puts the women off.’

‘I suppose you mean philandering, Willie. Who am I supposed to be philandering with? You?’

‘No need to get so shirty,’ said Willie, backing off.

This is my life, thought Hamish, sitting in a restaurant waiting for some woman who can’t even be bothered to turn up.

Jimmy Anderson walked in.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘Patricia Martyn-Broyd’s just topped herself.’

‘How did she do it?’

‘Hanged herself on a bit o’ sheet. Well, less money for the taxpayer to bother about. You on your own, Hamish?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, I’m right hungry. There’s nothing like a plate o’ spaghetti washed down wi’ a glass o’ Scotch.’

Jimmy sat down and shook out his napkin. ‘Sure you weren’t waiting for anyone, were you?’

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been stood up.’

‘That’s the women for ye,’ said Jimmy. ‘And do ye know the answer, Hamish?’

‘No.’

‘Get drunk!’