“Not filth,” said Penelope. “Sunday night viewing. Detective series.” She had thrust the script into her briefcase on the road to the kitchen. She took out a battered copy of The Case of the Rising Tides and handed it to him. “It’s based on this.”
He took it and scowled down at it. After this, I’ll have enough money to run away, thought Penelope. What did I ever see in him?
Josh was a heavyset young man with thick black hair and a square, handsome face, but one that was becoming blurred with drink. His mouth seemed set in a permanent sneer.
She made herself a cup of tea and stood by the window, cradling the cup in her hands. A flock of pigeons soared up into the windy sky above Great Western Road. Women’s lib was a farce, she thought. Women were not as strong as men, whatever anyone said. Again she felt trapped, suffocated.
At last she heard Josh’s voice behind her, mollified, almost gentle. “Aye, it looks as if you’ve hit the jackpot this time, lass. It’s a wee bittie old·fashioned. I’ve only read the first few pages. Are you playing this Lady Harriet?”
“Yes, the main part,” said Penelope, turning around.
“It could be like that Miss Marple,” said Josh, his eyes glowing. “It could run forever. Got the script?”
“They’re so frightened of the opposition that they lock the scripts up at Strathclyde Television,” lied Penelope.
“I’m happy for you,” said Josh, “and you should be happy for yourself. I’m telling you, lass, if you’d bared your body on another show, I’d have strangled you.” His eyes gleamed wetly with threat and drink.
Penelope gave a nervous little laugh. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I just. Let’s go out and celebrate. What’s the location?”
“I don’t know yet. They’re up in the Highlands looking for one.”
♦
The Strathclyde Television van cruised slowly through the snowy roads of Sutherland. It was not actually snowing, but a vicious wind was blowing little blizzards across their vision from the snowy fields on either side of the road, where occasionally the humped figures of sheep could be seen.
“Why this far north?” asked Fiona King from the depths of a down-padded jacket. “I still say we could have found somewhere out in the Trossachs, about half an hour’s drive from Glasgow.”
“Loch Lomond’s too crowded, and you’d have too many tourists gawking,” said Jamie Gallagher. He, Fiona and Sheila had been sent out to choose a location. They had zigzagged across Scotland on their way up. Fiona and Sheila had thought they had found various good locations, but Jamie had turned them all down. And as he was the favoured one with BBC Scotland, they both knew they had to let him make the final choice.
Sheila was driving. She was tired and worried about the state of the roads, worried about skidding into a drift. It was such a bleak, white landscape.
And then the wind suddenly dropped. Up ahead of her on the winding road, a shaft of sunlight struck down. She fished out a pair of sunglasses and put them on to protect her eyes against the glare.
“There’s a village down there,” she said. “Let’s stop for something. I could do with a cup of tea.”
“We’ll see,” said Jamie huffily. “But remember your job’s to look for a location.”
“It’s called Lochdubh,” said Sheila, reading the sign. “Oh, this might do.”
She swung the large van over a hump-backed bridge.
Snowy Lochdubh lay spread out before them in the winter sunlight. A line of small cottages faced the waterfront. There was a harbour and a square grey church, and above the village soared two enormous mountains.
“There’s a police station,” said Jamie. “Pull up there, Sheila.”
“Why?”
“Just do as you’re told!”
Sheila pulled up beside the police station. They all got down.
“There’s someone in the kitchen,” said Jamie. He knocked on the door.
A tall, red-haired man answered the door, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He was wearing an old blue wool sweater over a checked shirt, but his thick trousers were regulation black, as were his large boots.
“Are you the policeman?” asked Jamie.
“Aye, I’m Hamish Macbeth. What brings you?”
“Can we come in?” Jamie asked, shivering. “It’s damn cold.”
“Come ben.” Hamish turned and led the way through to his living room. “Would you like tea or coffee?”
Sheila smiled. “That would be lovely. Coffee, please.”
“Forget it,” snarled Jamie. “We’ve business here.”
“Let’s have it, then,” said Hamish, taking a dislike to him.
“We’re from Strathclyde Television, and we’re up here looking for a location. We’re filming a detective series.”
“That would be Miss Martyn-Broyd’s book,” said Hamish. “What about here? You won’t find a prettier place.”
“Not right. Too bourgeois,” said Jamie.
Hamish raised his eyebrows. “I havenae heard that word in years. How much time have you spent in Lochdubh?”
“We’ve just arrived.”
“Snap judgment?”
“I always make snap judgments,” said Jamie. “I can get the feel and smell o’ a place in one minute flat.”
“We’ve a lot in common,” said Hamish Macbeth. “I can get the smell and feel o’ a person in one minute flat.”
He took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Sheila suppressed a grin.
“So why we’re here is to find out if you’ve any suggestions.”
“I can’t think without a cup of coffee,” said Hamish amiably. “I’ll get you one while I’m at it, Miss…?”
“Sheila. Sheila Burford. I’ll come and help you.”
She followed him through to the kitchen. “Look,” said Sheila urgently, “think of something. I’ve been driving and driving.”
“Who is he? The producer?”
“No, the scriptwriter. Fiona’s the producer.”
“So how come he’s calling the shots?”
“BBC Scotland are funding it, and Jamie’s their favourite scriptwriter.”
“I’m surprised somebody loves him,” said Hamish dryly. “Do you think thon Fiona-woman would like a cup?”
“No, she crawls to Jamie,” said Sheila, wondering why she was chatting so openly with a Highland policeman.
He handed her a mug of coffee. “I’ll see what I can do.”
They returned to the living room.
Hamish sat down and smiled sweetly at Jamie. “I believe I haff chust thought of the very place for you.”
Sheila was to learn that the sudden sibilancy of Hamish’s Highland accent meant he was annoyed or upset.
“Where’s that?” asked Jamie.
“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.”