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“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.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Willie, “but you’re wrong. Paul Gibson may be a flake, but murder?”

“I never said he was a murderer,” said Hamish.

“So what do you do now?” asked Elspeth on the road back. “You’re never going to get a search warrant on the strength of this script.”

“I’ll think of something. Do you mind if we stop here for a bit? I’ve got to walk Lugs.”

“Oh, Hamish!

Hamish went back to the police station, made himself coffee, and sat down to think out a plan of action.

Then he began to wonder if Harry Tarrant, the executive drama producer, knew that the script had been changed.

Leaving Lugs this time after he had fed him, he drove off to Strathbane. The wind had shifted round to the north. He rolled down the window and sniffed. He could smell snow in the air.

At Strathbane Television he had to wait some time before he was able to see Harry Tarrant.

Hamish handed over the script. “Someone sent me the original script,” he said. “I wondered whether you knew that they were working on a different script.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’ve seen the script they’re working on. The storyline is vaguely the same, but that’s all.”

Harry picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Sally,” he said, “could you step along to my office?”

He turned to Hamish. “We’ll get this sorted out.”

Sally Quinn came in and stopped short at the sight of the script on Harry’s desk.

“This copper,” said Harry, “says you aren’t working from John’s script.”

“Well, we are, more or less,” said Sally, looking flustered. “John’s script as it stood was unworkable.”

“Why wasn’t I consulted?”

“We didn’t want to bother you. Paul said a few minor changes were necessary.”

“Bring me a copy of the script he’s using.”

Sally glared at Hamish as she went out.

Paul Gibson was still in bed when the maid came in to clean his room. “Sorry, sir,” she said, backing out. “I’m that used to you being up early.”

“It’s all right. Come in. We’re having a late start.” He climbed out of bed and put on his dressing gown. The maid approached the bed with clean sheets. “It looks like snow,” she said.

“That’s all right. Some snow scenes might be nice.”

“It’s that exciting having the telly people here, sir.”

“Must be a very quiet life up here for you,” said Paul, lighting a cigarette.

“Not always. Our local policeman has solved some murders, and we had the telly and newspapers all over the village.”

Paul stiffened. “If he’s that good, why is he still a village bobby?”

“He says he likes it here, that’s why. Of course, we’re all saying in the village he should get married and settled down. We thought he might marry the schoolteacher, but she’s running around with that reporter from Glasgow. Mind you, Elspeth Grant is back. She’s a reporter, too, but she and Hamish were sweet on one another. Maybe something’ll come of that. Mind if I vacuum, sir?”

Harry glared at the script Sally had just handed him. “What the hell’s the meaning of this?” he roared.

“Paul rewrote it to make it something he could work with.”

“Without telling me?” He buzzed his secretary. “Get me Paul Gibson on the phone. And get me that director, Johnny Fremont, who did some of the last shows and get him up here fast.”

He turned to Hamish. “Is there anything else?”

“Why did you choose Paul Gibson?”

“John recommended him.”

“So John Heppel knew him? When? Where?”

“I think he had written to John once wanting to dramatise his book. Paul wrote the occasional script as well.”

The phone rang and Harry picked it up. “Paul. You’re fired.”

Hamish would have liked to hear the rest of the conversation, but Harry waved him away.

Hamish went out into a changed world. The grimy streets and buildings of Strathbane were covered in snow. Fine white snow blew horizontally across the parking lot.

He drove up onto the moors, driving slowly and carefully because the road ahead seemed to be gradually disappearing. Then he dimly saw the orange light of a snowplough in his rear-view mirror and pulled aside to let it pass. With a feeling of relief, he followed it as far as the Tommel Castle Hotel and swung off into the hotel car park.

Paul Gibson would be rattled at being fired. Hamish decided to interview him and see if he could get him to betray himself.

The television crew were trapped in the hotel because of the blizzard. Mr. Johnson came out to greet Hamish. “My guests are getting fed up with this lot,” he said. “At first they found it all very exciting, but now they’re complaining. Television people do swear a lot. It’s like living on a building site.”

“Is the director around?”

“You’ll find him in the games room. He was shouting and swearing. I told him I’d turn him out, snow or no snow, so he went in there, the last I saw of him.”

Hamish pushed open the door of the games room, originally the billiard room in the days when the castle had been a private home. The old billiard table was still there, but a table tennis table had been added, and shelves held board games such as Monopoly and Scrabble.