M.C. Beaton - Death of a Bore

There was a set menu, but Kirsty went straight to the à la carte. She ordered a lobster cocktail, to be followed by fillet steak. “I think we should have a bottle of white wine to start,” she said brightly, “and one of these nice reds to follow.”

“Aren’t you driving?”

“I took a minicab, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you drive me home.”

Hamish thought of his meagre bank balance. He ordered the set meal for himself. Kirsty ordered the wine. As Hamish would be driving, she drank most of it herself. She said, “You can look at the script later. This is my evening.”

And she chattered. She talked about her hair shampoo and about how she hoped to be a model. She talked about her diet – not much in evidence, thought Hamish sourly. She talked about her friends and their love life and somehow managed to drink and eat at the same time.

Hamish excused himself and said he had to go to the toilet. Instead, he signalled to the maltre d’, who followed him out of the dining room. “Peter,” said Hamish desperately, “I havenae enough money with me.”

“Tell you what,” said Peter. “I’ll say the bill’s on your account and you can make some arrangement with Mr. Johnson tomorrow when he comes on duty.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s going to be one very drunk young lady.”

“I know.”

Hamish returned to the table. Kirsty continued to drink and eat. Her voice became more slurred, and she began to press her foot against Hamish’s under the table. He jerked his chair back. She tried to take his hand. He pretended not to notice and put his hands on his lap. She finished her meal with a confection of strawberries, cream, and meringue, washed down with a half bottle of dessert wine.

“Now let’s see that script,” said Hamish over coffee. Kirsty waggled a finger at him and giggled. “Not yet.”

At the end of the meal Hamish had to help the staggering Kirsty out to the car park. She draped her arms around him and tried to kiss him, but he disengaged himself and helped her into the police Land Rover.

As he drove off, to his immense relief she fell asleep. He drove gently a little way and stopped. He reached across her to where she had put her briefcase on the floor; and gently extracted the script in its green folder and put it in the side pocket of the Land Rover. Then he sped off, driving as fast as possible to Strathbane. On the outskirts he woke her up and asked for directions.

Outside the block of flats where she lived, he helped her down. “Come in for a coffee,” she said.

“Sorry, I’ve got to get back.”

“No coffee, no script.”

Hamish helped her up to the front door of the flats. Then he turned and sprinted back to the Land Rover, jumped in, and drove off, leaving her staring wearily after him.

♦

Hamish told a protesting Lugs he would need to walk himself, let the dog out, and went into the police office, opened the script, and began to read. The opening said:

Wide shot. The village lies by the sea loch hiding its ancient Gaelic secrets behind closed doors. It is winter and during the long dark nights passions build up and old enmities fester. As Alphonse Karr so rightly put it, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.”

ANNE MACKENZIE and the laird walk along the street. Cut into tight close-up, then track and pan to the door of the pub.

Hamish frowned. He wished he knew more about scripts.

Lugs came in and sulkily slumped down at his master’s feet with a sigh. Hamish read on. How had Paul Gibson felt, he wondered, being asked to direct this flowery script where the author stated what camera angles he wanted as well?

He phoned the hotel and asked to speak to Elspeth. “Hamish, it’s after midnight,” she protested.

“I have the script. I could do with your help.”

“Oh, well, I’m awake now. Bring it up.”

“Can I bring Lugs?”

“Why not? The hotel allows dogs.”

Lugs pranced happily out to the Land Rover and waited, with his ridiculous plume of a tail wagging, to be lifted in.

♦

Elspeth opened her room door to them. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her hair was tousled. Hamish felt a surge of the old desire, but her eyes were on the script under his arm.

“Come in,” she said. “Sit down and let’s have a look.”

She took the script from him and began to read. Hamish waited patiently. At last she put the script down on her lap and stared at him. “Harry Tarrant must be a right fool. This is rubbish.”

“You see,” said Hamish eagerly, “what I’m thinking is this. We’ve got a director who’s had a nervous breakdown, recovered, but been associated with failures. Down in the Glen has a big audience. He may have seen it as his chance. Then he gets this script. Do you know any television directors?”

“I know an up-and-coming one on Scottish Television. I think I’ve got his number in my book.”

“Phone him now!”

“Don’t be daft. At this time of night?”

Elspeth reluctantly got the number and phoned. Hamish heard her asking for a Willie Thompson. Then he heard her say, “In Inverness? Which hotel? Right Sorry to wake you.”

“He’s in Inverness filming a documentary on the new highland prosperity.”

“What’s that, I wonder?” said Hamish, thinking of the dinner bill.

“He’s at the Caledonian Hotel.”

“I’ll get down there first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m not doing anything else, and Matthew is besotted with Freda and seems to have lost interest.”

“Can we go in your car? I took a risk driving the girl I got the script from back to Strathbane, and I don’t want Blair to see me on the road.”

“I don’t have my car. Matthew drove. I’ll take one of the hotel cars. What time? It’d better be early.”

“Seven in the morning?”

Elspeth groaned. “Right you are, copper. I’ll pick you up.”

♦

“Do you have to bring your dog?” demanded Elspeth the following morning as Hamish lifted Lugs into the backseat.

“He’s never any trouble, Elspeth.”

“That’s why you’ll never get married,” said Elspeth, driving off. “You’re married to your dog.”

“You can be a nasty bitch at times,” snapped Hamish, and they drove most of the way to Inverness in cold silence.

At the Caledonian Hotel they found Willie Thompson in the dining room, having breakfast.

Hamish told him that they wanted an expert to look at a television script and judge how a director would react. “You only need to read a few pages,” he pleaded.

Willie, a small man with a beard and moustache, sighed, adjusted his rimless spectacles, and began to read.

At last he said, “I’ve read enough. Who’s directing this?”

“Paul Gibson.”

“What! Paranoid Paul?”

“You know him?”

“I know his reputation. But this script would drive me mad. Who does this writer think he is telling the director which camera angles to use? And what’s all this crap about the village? How’s he supposed to film that? How on earth did Strathbane Television ever accept a script like this?”

“The boss, Harry Tarrant,” said Hamish, “was a friend of John Heppel.”

“Oh, the one that got murdered? After seeing this script, I’m not surprised.”

“Harry Tarrant compared it to Dostoyevsky.”

“The curse of directors of soaps is the Dostoyevsky script. Along comes some flowery, literary writer. The bosses are tired of people sneering at their soaps as dumbing down and trash, so they seize on some literary crap and think, that’ll show the critics.”

“You’ve been a great help,” said Hamish. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.”