Stuart MacBride

The Tasting Menu

In loving memory of Jasper,

a most excellent horse,

who was our wee lad for twenty-six years,

and is sorely missed.

1992(ish)–2023

Amuse-Bouche

Three Billy Goats Gruff

Goat Liver parfait on a Multi-Seed-&-Parmesan tuile with pickled Lingonberry espuma, and Pine Needle mist

Ascream ripped free as lightning tore the night apart — light strobing across the bleak landscape, casting it in harsh shades of black and white.

Michael cowered beneath his wee stone bridge, numb hands clamped across his mouth, ankle-deep in the growling burn. The water rising.

Out there, the blasted moorland of heather and reeds stretched off towards a dark band of jagged pines and the unwelcoming lump of a dirty-big mountain. A storm-whipped expanse of grey water stretched out behind it, bordered by more hills, their tops lost in low cloud and slashing rain. All caught in the lightning’s flash. The image burned onto the backs of his eyes as he trembled and shivered. Staying there long after the glow faded and the thunder roared.

Michael flinched further back into the shadows, teeth chattering, breath misting around his head. His jeans, boots, T-shirt, and black leather jacket, all soaked through, hair plastered to his head. And OK, some of the reviewers said he was far too old to be dressing like that, but just because he wasn’t quite as young as he used to be, it didn’t mean he had to wear slippers and a cardigan.

Mid-forties according to his website.

Mid-fifties according to his Wikipedia page.

Bastards.

He wiped the water from his glasses and peered out into the downpour, keeping his voice low. “Come on, Mike, it’ll be fun, Mike. A nice relaxing weekend away, Mike.”

As the thunder faded, other noises rose through the darkness — rain slamming into the bridge above him, hissing in the reeds and weeds. Then the distant gunshot-barks of big dogs, on the hunt.

There, in the distance: the bobbing glow of torchlight. Getting closer.

They were coming.

Michael shuddered in a deep breath and lumbered out into the night, splashing along the course of the burn, because running water put dogs off the scent, right?

Hopefully...

He’d barely gone a dozen steps before lightning slashed across the sky again, catching him in the open, illuminating his escape for all to see.

The storm raged, the dogs howled, the thunder bellowed.

And Michael ran...

Course 1

But a Mermaid Has No Tears

Loch Ewe Oyster served with a Raspberry-&-Vodka sorbet

Basil-&-Black-Pepper Champagne Cocktail With Perrier-Jouët, Belle Époque Brut, 2013

Michael stopped pacing and tightened his grip on the phone. “What do you mean ‘they don’t love it’? How could they not love it?”

Seagulls wheeled in the grey-blue sky, probably searching the quaint wee harbour for tourists to mug. Teeny fishing boats and their reflections were tied up along the quayside, overlooked by no more than two dozen little white houses. A shortbread-box background of jagged mountains and trees.

Jessica’s breathy SW1 accent drawled in Michael’s ear: “Nobody wants gangster novels anymore; everyone’s obsessed with cosy crime. Could you... tweak it maybe?”

On the other side of the harbour’s granite horseshoe, Victor puffed away on a King Edward, a waxed flat cap tilted back on his tanned bald head. It went with the Barbour jacket, mohair waistcoat, and burgundy cords, but clashed a bit with the prison tattoos poking out the collar of his faux-farmer shirt. He’d shrunk a lot in the last five years, to a shadow of the monster he used to be, but he wasn’t dead yet: leaning against a wrought-iron sign with “AM BÒRD MÒR” picked out in tasteful lettering.

Michael turned his back on him. “Tweak it?”

“Tweak it. Maybe instead of a mob enforcer, he’s a retired cat burglar, trying to make things right with his estranged daughter. And if you make her a cop, they could team up and solve mysteries together!”

“But I’m M.D. Sodding Harris! I’m a number-one bestseller, Jessica. I’ve won more awards than I can bloody count. I’m translated into twenty-six languages! I don’t write stupid, cosy, sub-par, Agatha Wanking Christie knock-offs!”

A shrill whistle cut across the harbour, and when Michael turned there was Victor — tapping his watch.

“Michael, sweetie, you know you’re my favourite client, right? But you haven’t had a number one in twelve years. You haven’t been shortlisted for over a decade, never mind won anything. No one wants the TV rights. As of now your books are available in precisely two languages: English and Armenian. And the Armenians didn’t even offer on the last one.”

“But—”

“No one wants gangsters.”

Another shrill whistle, more watch-tapping. Michael waved it away.

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Jessica!”

“Which is why I’m telling you to tweak the damn book.”

A rattling noise grumbled through the silence as Alex appeared from the hotel car park, grim-faced, struggling with a trio of wheelie suitcases that leapt about on the uneven cobbles. A backpack slung over one shoulder, two holdalls over the other. At fifty-two she was way fitter and thinner than either Michael or Victor, but that was a career in the police for you — her ash-blonde hair still done up in its regulation bun.

“Look, I’ve got to go. Honestly, the Frankfurt Book Fair gets more like a meat market every year.”

“But—”

“Who’s the best agent in the world?”

He sagged. Sighed. “You are.”

“So tweak the book! Ciao.” And she hung up.

Michael slouched back along the harbour wall, the familiar argument getting louder with every step:

Alex dumped the holdalls beneath the signpost. “Because I don’t see why I’ve got to be your bloody porter!”

Victor puffed a plume of smoke in her direction. “You know fine well why.”

“We’re meant to be celebrating my retirement, you puffed-up, red-trouser-wearing...” She jabbed a hand at Michael. “Michael, tell him!”

This again. He forced a smile. “Are you pair still at it?”

“I am not a bloody pack mule!”

Victor took another puff. “The boy here booked and paid for the hotel last night. I booked and paid for a very swanky weekend away, at a phenomenally exclusive destination restaurant.”

Alex stuck her chin out. “I bought breakfast yesterday!”

“Grubby bacon butties from a greasy roadside van don’t count.”

A taxi pulled up outside the hotel and a pair of old ladies climbed out, both dressed in tweed and tartan. Both with grey hair. One short, delicate, and bird-like — limping along with a cane and one immobile leg. The other tall and broad, with what was clearly a prosthetic plastic hand dangling from the end of her left arm — fingers set in a permanent kung-fu grip.

Alex poked Victor in the chest. “Are you calling me cheap?”

“You got any idea how many strings I had to pull to get these reservations?”

The taxi driver waddled round to wrestle three suitcases out of the boot, followed by one about the size of a small fridge.

Victor tapped ash onto Alex’s shoes. “Would it kill you to show a bit of gratitude?”

The taller old lady paid the driver and off he went, leaving them standing there with their luggage.

“Gratitude?” Going purple in the cheeks.

Michael groaned. “Can we please not do this again?”

“You’re no’ a DI anymore, OK? Out here in the real world, people have to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.”

Like bloody children.

The guttural chug, chug, chug of an ancient engine puttered closer, as a small fishing boat slid in through the harbour entrance. It had “THE SINGING MERMAID” painted on its prow and a makeshift canopy jury-rigged over the back, made of tarpaulin and orange string.

Hallelujah: something to change the subject.

Michael pointed. “Think this is us? Not very swish.”

The taller old lady grabbed one of the smaller suitcases and marched along the quay towards them. Waving her kung-fu hand. “I say, you chaps heading to The Big Table?” Very jolly-hockey-sticks. They must’ve all looked puzzled, because she pointed at the sign. “Am Bòrd Mòr.” A smile. “Any chance you could lend a hand with the luggage? I’ve only got the one, and poor old Olivia’s been off the legs for years.”

All smiles, Victor slapped Alex on the back. “Alex would be happy to help, wouldn’t you, Alex?”

A glower. “Fine.” And off she stomped.

Michael slouched after her, keeping his voice down. “Victor only does it ’cause you take the bait every time.”

“‘Please’ and bloody ‘thank you’...” Glancing back over her shoulder. “You ever wonder how he’s paying for all this? The swanky restaurant, flash accommodation, private shuttle boat?”

“Just ignore him.” Michael smiled at the shorter old lady. “Hi, I’m Michael. This is Alex. Why don’t you go ahead, and we’ll get the bags?”

She peered at him with watery eyes. “Oh, thank you! How very kind.” Then tottered away as he grabbed the two small suitcases.

Alex sniffed. “You didn’t answer the question.” She clacked out the big case’s handle. Pulled. Then came to a sudden halt. “Bloody hell... What’s in this, breeze blocks?” Tried again. “Little help?”

“With my back?” And off he trundled, suitcases clattering across the uneven stone.

The wee fishing boat chugged up to the quayside, tied up beside the sign, and clattered out a gangplank.

Alex finally got the big case moving, following him along the cobbles. “I’m just saying: if he’s been going straight all these years, how’s he paying for this?”

“Maybe he’s got a security box, or a thing of buried treasure somewhere?”

“Great. So we’re holidaying on the proceeds of crime.”

“What do you care? You’re retired.”

A baldy Captain Birdseye lookalike — dressed in a dark seafaring jacket, baggy trousers, and scuffed yellow wellies — climbed off the boat and helped the smaller old lady on board.

“I care, because it matters.” A tiny smile cracked the corner of Alex’s mouth. “Just because you have the personal morals of a drunken weasel, doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

“True. But maybe this weekend we should all be a bit more drunken-weaselly?”

They lumbered to a halt beside the boat — holding out the luggage handles so Captain Birdseye could load them into the stern, where Victor was already offering the two old ladies a nip from his hipflask.

Michael lowered his voice. “Just try, OK? It’s no fun with you two bickering away the whole time. Let’s just... relax and enjoy the trip.”

Alex groaned. Rolled her eyes. Grimaced. Then, finally: “All right, all right.”

Fingers crossed, anyway.

The captain peered at the grey sky, then spat a gobbet of phlegm into the harbour. “Best get moving. There’s a storm coming.”

Course 2

A Princess’s Kiss To Break the Spell

Smoked Frog’s Legs served in a gilded White-Chocolate-&-powdered-Lobster ball, with a Lobster-&-Tarragon velouté

Hirsch Vineyards Hirsch Estate Chardonnay, 2020

It was pretty obvious that The Singing Mermaid hadn’t been designed with passengers in mind, but at least the captain had cleared away the creels and nets, leaving just enough space for the five of them and their luggage while he steered from the wheelhouse. Soon as they cleared the harbour walls, the engine abandoned its gentle putt-putt-putt for a throaty growl, forging a bow wave through the mirrored water. Leaving a scarred wake across the reflected mountains and trees.

Alex nudged that huge suitcase with her toe, setting something inside click-clacking. “You don’t exactly pack light.”

The little old lady pouted. “I’m sorry...”

The taller one laughed. “Olivia makes the best marmalade in the country, don’t you, Olivia?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” A proud wee smile bloomed. “Don’t you listen to Muriel, she’s prone to tall tales.”

“Nonsense. You’ve won awards, old girl!”

Olivia checked both ways, as if looking for jam spies. “It’s the bergamot puree that gives it an extra zing.”

“Normally the chef makes everything in-house, but even he can’t beat Olivia’s marmalade. So once a year, we make the trip from the ancestral pile and do a swap. They even sell it in the hotel shop!”

“It’s nice to be able to pay one’s way, don’t you think?”

Pink bloomed in Alex’s cheeks, but she didn’t say anything.

Michael leaned on the gunwale, frowning out at a clump of rocks where a trio of seals lounged like huge glistening slugs. Staring back at him as the boat growled past.

Victor sidled up alongside. “So, what were you pacing the harbour wall for, face like a spanked arse?”

“Mmm? Oh... Erm... Nothing. Just this Hollywood producer who won’t take no for an answer. You know what Film People are like.”

The lie got him a laugh and a slap on the back. “Make the bastards pay, right?”

“Yeah...”

Up ahead, a huge bank of fog marked the end of the world, swallowing all sound and detail. The Singing Mermaid grumbled into it, and everything turned grey and dim. The captain flicked the boat’s lights on, but somehow that just made things worse.

Alex joined them. “What?”

“Just reminding our Mikey how lucky he is I took him under my wing. You’re gonna write about the swamp, you need someone who knows the water.” Wriggling his hands about like he was swimming. “Someone who can guide you through the dark currents: point out how to catch the shiniest fish and dodge the poisonous snakes.”

Her lip curled. “And in this little scenario, are you meant to be an alligator? Because I’ve always seen you as more of a toad.”

Here we go again.

Michael’s shoulders drooped. “Guys...”

But instead of retaliating, Victor gazed out into the fog. “I ever tell you about a guy called French Bob? Frog-faced wee bastard-and-a-half. Convinced his luck was for shite because some old gypsy wifie cursed him. Course, he torched her caravan with her wee dog in it, so she kinda had reason. Only it turns out the MacDougal brothers have got a soft spot for wee dogs, and they were not pleased that someone in their employ had been so careless. Took them six months to track him down.” Victor’s toe tapped a little tattoo against the boat’s hull. “You’d be surprised how much dog food you can make out of one frog-faced wee bastard. Especially if you take your time carving bits off him.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “This a confession?”

“What, me? Naw.” Grin. “Just a daft auld mannie talking nonsense to entertain his friends, isn’t it?” Victor sucked a hiss of air through his teeth. “But that’s why you should always check for wee dogs before you set fire to somewhere. Good life lesson, that.” He dug out his hipflask again. “Now, who fancies a morning pick-me-up? No?” A wink and a swig. “All the more for me then.”

Course 3

White As Snow

Langoustine and King Scallop sashimi, confit of Halibut, Apple, Snow Melon, Shallot, and Cauliflower puree, served with a Beetroot-&-Yuzu coulis

Viña Lareira Albariño Sobre Lias

It started as a faint grey line in the white expanse, growing as The Singing Mermaid chugged closer.

Shapes loomed in the fog, like shadows on an X-ray: rocks, pilings, then a jetty — which looked far too fancy for a crappy old fishing boat. Garlands looped over its ornate railings; olde-worlde carriage lamps glittered away in the gloom. Two blurred figures lurked beneath one of them. Waiting...

They stepped forward as the boat’s engine died and The Singing Mermaid drifted up against the jetty.

A woman, handsome in a black suit and red cloak, held up a hand. Her hood was thrown back, showing off long, curly auburn hair that glistened in the mist. Beside her, a younger man held a tray with drinks. He was capable-looking, with a wide jaw and a wider smile. Dimpled cheeks. In shirtsleeves, with black trousers and a tie-and-waistcoat combo that perfectly matched the red of the woman’s cloak.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a howl mourned through the air, followed a moment later by a second, then a third... They echoed away into silence as the captain tied up and clattered the gangplank down again.

The woman stepped forward, arms wide. “Welcome, welcome to Am Bòrd Mòr!” She helped Olivia totter onto the jetty. “How lovely to see you again, Miss Selkirk-Prentice.”

The... waiter? bellboy?... proffered his tray. “Sloe Royale, Miss?”

“Ooh, lovely. Thank you.”

The Concierge gave a small bow as Muriel strode down the gangplank. “Miss Selkirk-Prentice.”

“Elizabeth.” Muriel hooked a thumb at the big case. “As agreed. Going to be absolutely delicious.” She stuck a hand out to the Bellboy. “Talisker, neat?”

“Of course, Miss.” Passing her a glass.

Another bow. “And you must be our new guests!”

“Oh, aye.” Victor sauntered onto the jetty, shoulders rolling, every inch the gangster wideboy.

Michael pulled a face at Alex and followed.

She sighed and grabbed a couple of wheelie cases.

A sneer from Victor. “Leave it, you idiot. They’ve got people for that.” He shook the Concierge’s hand. “Victor McAllister. William MacDougal recommended this place very highly.”

“I’m so pleased.”

He turned and pointed at the pair of them: “My friend, Michael Harris, and that’s Ex-Detective-Inspector Alex Raith. This is her retirement bash.”

“Welcome: lady, gentlemen. Champagne?”

The Bellboy nodded at the remaining glasses. “Bollinger, La Grande Année, 2014.”

That was more like it.

Michael plucked one from the tray and sipped the sparkling nectar.

Soon as they all had a drink, the Concierge lowered her head. “I am sorry we couldn’t send the launch to get you, it’s stuck off St Kilda in heavy seas. I hope your crossing wasn’t too rough?”

Victor savoured a mouthful of champagne. “Bit fishing-boaty, but we’ll recover. It’s...” Another howl keened through the fog. “Is that...?”

“There’s a rewilding project on one of the other islands, but don’t worry — they’re further away than they sound.” A smile. “Besides, not even wolves get in here without a reservation. Speaking of which: Mr MacDougal called ahead and asked us to set aside the Cairngorm Suite for you.” She lowered her voice. “It’s one of our finest rooms.” Then swept an arm towards the jetty’s landward end. “Shall we?”

They followed her, up onto a flagstone path that ended at a gravel track, where a horse-drawn carriage lurked in the mist. A proper, old-fashioned, off-to-see-Dracula one, with a pair of big black Friesians to pull it and a coachman dressed in funereal gloom with a stovepipe hat to match.

He raised it as everyone bar the Concierge and the Bellboy climbed on board — into a cocoon of red leather upholstery. Very swanky.

The Concierge closed the carriage door. “Do enjoy the trip.” Then stepped back as the horses set off at a casual walk. Waving at them, till the mist swallowed her whole.

Victor stretched out in his seat, grinning as he raised his glass. “Could get used to this.”

The carriage trundled along, through the serried ranks of dark pines. Past what might once have been fields, before the reeds and gorse took over. Then the hollow corpse of an ancient stone bothy, slumped at the side of the track. All wreathed in fog so thick it was impossible to see more than twenty or thirty feet.

It thinned out as the road climbed, past jutting boulders and crumbling drystane dykes, jagged gorse and razor-wire brambles, then out onto a bleak moor of twisted heather and pallid grass that stretched away to the base of a dark-blue mountain.

Horse hooves clip-clopping over a wee stone bridge, with a little burn gurgling beneath it.

A crooked ring of standing stones drifted by the carriage windows, before mist swallowed the world again.

Michael let his head fall back against the red leather upholstery. To be honest, trundling through fog at three miles per hour got boring sooner than you’d think.

Olivia was slumped against her sister’s arm, mouth open, fast asleep. Muriel, on the other hand, stared out at the never-ending wall of grey, the fingers of her real hand twitching and writhing like a spider. Alex eyed everyone like a potential shoplifter. Victor drifted in and out, but at least he hadn’t started snoring yet.

And Michael...

Yeah.

He pulled out his phone and had another go.

So much for 5G.

Wiggling the thing about didn’t help, either.

“Good, isn’t it?” Muriel tapped him on the knee with her plastic hand. “No internet, no ‘selfies’. Nothing but good food and great wines. Like the outside world doesn’t exist.”

Going by the view, it probably didn’t.

And then a golden glow shimmered through the fog, getting brighter as the carriage approached, until it turned into strings of lights, looped about an old-fashioned Scottish building — painted white as snow, with a black slate roof. Faint shapes to either side meant it wasn’t alone out here.

By the time the carriage came to a halt at the building’s front door, the Bellboy was already standing there, holding another tray of drinks, beneath the sign: “AM BÒRD MÒR ~ EAT, DRINK, REST, & BE MERRY, FOR YOU ARE AMONG FRIENDS.”

The Concierge appeared, as if by magic. “Ladies, gentlemen: your rooms are ready. Cocktails will be taken in the Cuillin Suite from seven, with dinner commencing at half past. Till then, please enjoy a welcoming dram.” She gestured at the Bellboy’s tray.

Muriel bounded from the carriage, helping herself to another large whisky as her sister yawned and stretched.

Michael climbed out into the damp air. “Is there Wi-Fi? My agent’s in Frankfurt and she’ll probably need to get in touch.”

“Mr Harris. If you, Mr McAllister, and Ms Raith would like to join me at Reception, we’ll get you checked in.” The Concierge turned and headed inside.

“Time, is it?” Victor emerged, blinking, then had a wee sniff at the tray of drinks. “Ooh... Don’t mind if I do.”

And if Victor was having one; might as well.

Michael took a whisky; Alex, an orange juice, sipping it as she followed the Concierge inside. What happened to being a bit more drunken-weaselly? And she was missing out as well, because his dram was bloody lovely.

He and Victor ambled after her, into a cosy room with white walls, a polished mahogany desk, and a Highland cow’s head mounted on the wall. A door marked “MANAGER” sat off to one side, next to a set of ten pigeonholes — each named after a different Scottish mountain.

The Concierge stepped behind the desk. “Now, first may I have your identification?”

“Eh?” Alex’s eyes narrowed. “You want ID?”

“We had a most unpleasant incident eighteen years ago, when a journalist posed as a peer of the realm and attempted to ‘dig up a scoop’.” The Concierge gestured towards the pigeonholes. “Our esteemed patrons, like yourself, don’t just expect world-class dining and excellent accommodation, Ms Raith. Discretion is of the utmost importance. Which is why we also require all guests to surrender any electronic devices for the duration of their stay.”

She held out a large wooden bowl and smiled at them.

Michael pulled out his iPhone and bit his lip. “But my agent—”

“We are uniquely blessed in our position here, Mr Harris. The nearest phone tower is on the mainland, on the other side of the mountains, granting us peace and calm and no mobile signal whatsoever.”

Bugger.

He fired up his phone’s screen, but she was right: not even the teeny-weeniest of bars.

She waggled the bowl.

Urgh...

Michael pulled the driving licence and library card from his wallet and dropped them in. Then did the same with his phone.

Alex went next: one old Nokia and an expired warrant card. And finally, Victor: two flash new smartphones and a passport.

“Perfect, thank you.” The Concierge took the bowl and disappeared into the Manager’s office, reappearing a minute later with a trio of iPads. Handing them out. “Now, as first-time guests, we’ll need you to fill out these questionnaires and sign the waiver-slash-indemnity at the end.”

“Hold on...” Alex scrolled and scrolled. Frowning. “Why do you need to know my medical history, or if I’m on any medication? Bit intrusive for a restaurant.”

“An excellent question, Ms Raith. We ask, because certain ingredients can react badly with some medications. Do you know that liquorice and ginseng are contraindicated for people on blood pressure tablets? St John’s Wort interferes with tyrosine kinase inhibitors, antivirals, and antidepressants. Fenugreek can cause problems if you’re diabetic. Turmeric with anticoagulants. And some medications, when combined with alcohol, can lead to respiratory failure...” A shake of the head. “We would be most distressed if one of our valued guests didn’t wake up in the morning.”

And with that, they all filled in their questionnaires. Signed with a finger. And handed the iPads back.

“Thank you kindly.” The Concierge dinged a little bell. Smiled. “Cameron will show you to your rooms.”

Course 4

Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum

Sourdough Bonemeal Bread with Bone Marrow Beurre Noisette, Pea Shoots, crushed Haricot Beans, and a Bone-Broth Consommé

Domaine Lécheneaut Les Pruliers, 2016

It turned out, Cameron wasn’t the Bellboy. Instead, he was a middle-aged man in the same dark trousers, white shirt, red-tie-and-waistcoat get-up, but, maybe because he was older, he got to wear a jacket too. He stood in the middle of Michael’s... “room” was too small a word for it, because it was a little house in its own right. Scottish vernacular, like the main building, all painted white with gable ends; a lounge area, and a king-sized bed; modern-but-retro furniture. A flash music system and compact library, but no television. Drinks cabinet. Very swish-looking wet room featuring an infinity bath.

Cameron placed a leather-bound folder on the coffee table. “And if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call. All the numbers are in your information pack. I can thoroughly recommend checking out the hotel spa, and our löyly is perfect before a dip in the loch.”

“Right. I’ll do that.” Michael dug out his wallet again. “Cameron, isn’t it?”

Cameron held up his hand. “Thank you for the thought, Mr Harris, but we don’t accept tips at Am Bòrd Mòr. Knowing we’ve done a good job is thanks enough.”

“Oh. Right.” He put it away again. “Thanks. Erm... great job.”

Cameron performed a tiny bow, then let himself out.

Leaving Michael to explore the fancy new accommodations. “Wow...” He had a poke through the drinks cabinet — all high-end bottles that would probably cost a sodding fortune from a hotel minibar — then the wee library. Which didn’t feature a single M.D. Harris book.

Suppose you couldn’t have everything.

He opened the welcome pack and skimmed through the index, looking for whatever the hell a “lowwwelyah” was.

The room’s phone trilled before he got that far.

Michael answered it. “Hello?”

Alex: “Is your room half as nice as mine? Because: Jesus.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How’s he affording all this, Mike? And did you hear who set it up for him? William ‘Bonecracker Bill’ MacDougal. You remember the story he told about the MacDougal brothers turning that poor prick into dog food?”

“Ah, you know Victor and his stories. Barely half of them are true. And even those are massively exaggerated.”

“Yes, but what if he’s still connected? What if he’s been doing the MacDougals favours this whole time?”

Michael went back to flicking through the binder. “Victor’s old enough to be your dad! What: he’s in the post office, collecting his pension, and thinks, ‘Hey, maybe I should knock the place over while I’m here?’”

Her voice soured. “Old people can still be violent pricks, Mike. Trust me, I’ve arrested enough of them.”

Oh, for God’s sake...

“Look, he put this weekend together for you, OK? Because even though the pair of you fight like bloody children, he likes you.”

“Pfff... Yeah, and if you believe that, I’ve got some magic beans to sell you.” A pause. “He’s up to something.”

Outside, the fog swirled, revealing hints and spectres of the other buildings/rooms.

Shadows on an X-ray.

Michael cleared his throat. “Go easy on him, Alex. Someone like Victor, he doesn’t have a lot of friends. Most of the guys he worked with are either dead, in prison, or want to kill him. You and me — we’re pretty much all he’s got.”

Silence.

He turned over a couple of pages, waiting for a reply.

Didn’t get one.

Because she and Victor were both as bad as each other.

Still, can’t say he didn’t try.

“Look, I’m gonna have a bath, or...” Ah, there it was: page twenty-nine. “Hey, did you know a ‘lowwwelyah’ is—”

“A Finnish steam room. Yes. And if I have to picture you all naked and sweaty it’ll put me right off my dinner.”

Course 5

I’ll Huff and I’ll Puff...

Pork Belly, Cheek, and Shoulder with Celeriac mirepoix, Apple emulsion, Vichy Carrot puree, and Fennel Pollen

Bodega Contador — Benjamin Romeo “Qué Bonito Cacareaba”, 2014

You’d think a hotel dining room would be one big space full of tables and chairs, but at Am Bòrd Mòr they’d gone for something a bit... different.

The space was divided up into ten alcove booths, each one like a little room in its own right. Stained-glass panels topped dark wooden panelling that looked as if it could be shifted about to accommodate different-sized parties. Every partition tall enough that, even standing up, it was impossible to see who occupied the other tables. They even had their own full-sized doors, making everything intimate and private.

An excited background hum of conversation filled the room, heady with anticipation.

In Booth Number Six, a heavy white linen cloth was draped across a table set for three, with a dazzling array of sparkling glasses and glittering cutlery, while a nice bottle of something fizzy clinked in a free-standing ice bucket.

Michael skimmed the menu again. “This all looks incredible. Ever eaten ‘black ants’ before?”

Victor took a sip of champagne, so chuffed he was almost purring. “You remember when we did the Fat Duck for your fiftieth?”

A groan from Alex. “My overdraft loved that. But it was worth every penny.” She raised her glass. “A toast: to no more rubbery canteen bacon butties. No more manky Police Scotland coffee. And no more banging-up nasty wee scroats!”

Michael hoisted his champagne. “To a better class of criminal.”

“Aye.” Victor clinked his glass off theirs. “To friends.”

But before they could drink, the polite dingle-ding-ding-ding of a little brass bell silenced the room. Followed by the Concierge’s voice: “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you all to give a hearty Am Bòrd Mòr welcome to our newest guests, at Table Six.”

Victor preened. “That’s us.”

A round of applause clattered around the room.

“And I’m delighted to announce a change to tomorrow night’s menu, in honour of our esteemed new guests. Chef will be preparing...” dramatic pause, “...a banquet!”

This time, the applause thundered.

Someone actually cheered.

At Table Six, Michael, Alex, and Victor beamed.

“Oh aye.” A wink from the old ex-con. “Told you this place was special.”

The booth door opened, and in slipped a slightly androgenous mid-twenties bloke, wearing the hotel’s black-white-and-red livery, carrying a bottle of sparkling water. Sharp, bone-china features. Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.

A second waiter followed with a tray. She was a slightly more feminine version of him, with the same outfit, cheekbones, and long black ponytail. So either the pair were related, or something weird was going on. She placed a small black plate in front of each of them, featuring a quenelle of silk-smooth pâté on a little round biscuit, topped with red froth. Then stepped back as her brother filled everyone’s water glass with sparkling. She pulled an atomizer from her pocket and sprayed an elaborate figure-of-eight above the table, filling the air with the sharp outdoor scent of freshly cut pine.

After which, the pair of them swept from the booth, without saying a single word.

“OK...” Alex popped the amuse-bouche in her mouth, crunching on it with her eyes closed, nostrils twitching as she took in the scent. “Oh my God, that’s amazing!”

And so the meal began...

The bone-broth consommé was clear as a Highland stream, but rich and savoury and delicious. Which went very nicely with the Burgundy Côte de Nuits. Someone must’ve really liked it, because a round of applause came from one of the other partitioned-off tables.

Bit weird, but OK.

Alex dipped a nugget of sourdough into her broth. “... and there he is, stark-naked except for his socks, frothing at the mouth as he teeters on the edge of the bridge. And he takes this huge swig of brandy, and Biohazard’s sneaking up from the other side, and—”

“Hud on.” Victor waved his spoon. “Who’s ‘Biohazard’ again?”

A glare. “DS Marshall. How many times?” Alex chewed on her soggy nugget. “Anyway, he’s managed to dig up a tow rope from somewhere, and he’s swinging it round his head, because the idiot thinks he can lasso the Right Honourable Stephen Gordonson MP — like the fat bugger’s a hairy coo gone rogue at the mart.” More dipping. “Only what Biohazard doesn’t know, is our bare-arsed MP for Aberdeenshire North has slathered himself all over with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter...”

The sixth course was a pair of spherical meat lollypops in a wooden holder, with a wee pile of golden-fried liver, and what looked like a cockscomb of scarlet jelly, all dolled up with decorative herby bits and a dash of purple powder. Served in solemn silence by the chuckle-less brother-and-sister, with a glass of oaky Primitivo.

“Urgh...” Michael stared at his plate. “I wish I had my phone. This stuff is way too Instagrammable.”

Victor slurped at his wine. “What was I talking about?”

“You weren’t.” Alex leaned in to give her lollypops a good sniff. “Michael was telling his George R.R. Martin story. Again.”

“Was he the guy wrote that book about fly-fishing? You know, in the Yellow Pages advert?”

“That was J.R. Hartley, you daft old sod.” She took a wee bite of lolly and her eyes went wide. “Oooooooh... You’ve got to try these!”

Michael pouted at her. “You used to love my stories.”

“Yeah, the first dozen times.”

“OK: I got one, I got one.” Victor put his wine down and leaned in — all conspiratorial. “Once upon a time, I used to know this useless prick called French Bob, and one day he burns down some old gypsy woman’s caravan. Course he doesn’t know—”

“Her dog was inside, so she cursed him, and the MacDougal brothers chopped him up and turned him into dog food.” Alex rolled her eyes. “God, it’s like having dinner in an old-folks home...”

She was too busy polishing off her lollypop to notice Victor’s shoulders slump at that, his face sagging like a crestfallen basset hound as another round of applause rang out.

Oblivious, she stabbed her wobbly, scarlet cockscomb with a fork — sooking on the thing, before munching it down. “Have you tried the jelly? Try the jelly, it tastes of whisky!”

Brother Waiter filled Michael’s glass with a rich-orange Rioja Blanco to go with the pumpkin wedges, calf’s feet, and deep green sauce, as yet another round of applause burst out from a random corner of the dining room.

Alex turned in her seat, looking towards the sound. “What is that?”

Michael held up a hand, before Sister Waiter could disappear again. “Excuse me, but the clapping — is there something we’re missing?”

Her voice was a soft island lilt. “It’s a tradition at Am Bòrd Mòr, Mr Harris. The Misses Selkirk-Prentice have provided a key component of tomorrow night’s banquet, so the other tables are taking turns to send them drinks as a mark of thanks.”

Alex frowned. “What, the marmalade?”

“Aye, good idea.” Victor put on his best lord-of-the-manor voice: “We’ll have a bit of that. You know, if it’s tradition.” Snapping his fingers at Brother Waiter. “Please send the lovely ladies whatever it is they’re drinking. My treat.”

“Of course, Mr McAllister.”

Which seemed to please Victor no end.

But as he tucked into his calf’s foot, Alex glared at him, face all scrunched up — bitter as chicory. Not saying anything as Victor sooked the delicate-pink meat off a bone.

You’d think, after eleven delicious, jaw-dropping courses, a plate of cheese and biscuits would be a bit superfluous; but here they were, determined to cram down every last morsel. Especially as Brother Waiter had poured them all a generous glass of port, then left the decanter.

Good job there was only coffee and petit fours to go, though, otherwise Michael was in very real danger of doing a Mr Creosote all over the dining room.

He loosened his belt and sagged in his seat. Smiling like a stuffed and well-oiled simpleton. God, if only publishers’ dinners were like this...

Victor was rosy-cheeked and beaming, swaying slightly in his seat, candlelight shining off his big bald head.

Alex was none too steady on her bum either: one eye closed as she topped herself up with a third large port in a row. “No, no, hold on; another toast.” She raised her glass, only spilling a dribble. “To William ‘Bonecracker Bill’ MacDougal — Central Belt gangster; allegedly responsible for four murders, and those are just the ones we know about; who runs half the brothels, drug dens, and protection rackets in Glasgow; renowned criminal, misogynist, tosser, and massive wankstain on the arse of society — for sorting out this lovely meal for us this evening.”

Here we go again...

Michael frowned at her. “Come on, Alex, don’t spoil it.”

She honed her voice to a sharp cruel edge. “I’m not spoiling anything. I’m saying ‘thank you’ to the vicious wee shite for swinging it so we can be here tonight.”

Victor scowled. “Get off your high horse. You’re happy enough freeloading off me and Mikey, aren’t you?”

“I do not freeload!”

Michael grabbed the decanter. “Can the pair of you just let us enjoy one meal?”

“You freeload! You never put your hand in your pocket for anything, less it’s cheap. Show a bit of gratitude!”

“Oh, excuse me, Mister McAllister! I should be more like the auld wifies, right? Simpering away over a couple of free drinks, like you’re king of the fucking castle.” Alex gave him a mocking bow. “I’m so grateful that the pair of you froze me out of that BBC2 thing.”

This again.

Michael sighed. “We didn’t ‘freeze you out’. Police Scotland wouldn’t let you take part because you were a serving officer.”

“You didn’t have to do it without me!” She knocked back her port in one. “Bloody typical. The only one who hasn’t made a fortune out of crime is the poor bastard who actually had to fight it. The gangster and the crime writer lined their pockets like a pair of—”

“Oh aye?” Victor jabbed a cheese knife in her direction. “Well, maybe, if you didn’t have your head jammed up your—”

“I should’ve made superintendent by now! But every sodding time promotion came up there you were, hanging over me like a damp smell. Associating with a known criminal? I’m lucky I made it this far!” She hurled her napkin down, lurched upright, and stormed out of the booth.

It was only now the shouting had stopped that it became clear the rest of the dining room had fallen silent.

Urgh...

Michael sagged back in his seat and swore.

Victor stared at the door as it slowly swung shut, closing off their private booth again. His bottom lip trembled a little, matching the tremor in his left hand. A look of hurt and betrayal pulling his face down.

Outside, the murmured conversations started up again. No doubt discussing how the inconsiderate lowlifes at Table Six had spoiled the evening for everyone.

“Come on, Victor.” Michael glugged a hefty swig of port into both their glasses. “She didn’t mean it. She’s just... you know. It’s a lot to leave a job after thirty years.”

Victor shrank. “I just wanted this to be a last hurrah, before I have to... go.”

Yeah.

Michael reached across the table and patted Victor’s arm. “I know, mate. I know.”

But all the excitement and joy had gone from the table.

Course 6

The Sky Is Falling In

Confit Poussin “lollypops”, sautéed Chicken Liver, Talisker-&-Cranberry jelly, Beetroot powder, and Micro Herbs

Antica Enotria Vriccio, 2014

Sometime during the meal the fog had disappeared, leaving the sky full of stars. A rich inky darkness that faded to indigo where it kissed the mountain and treetops, with the Milky Way spread from horizon to horizon.

The sparkling heavens were reflected in the mirror-still loch, making it look as if Alex was floating in space as she sat on a rock at the water’s edge, her feet dangling just above the infinite void. Sipping from a tumbler of something.

At least she seemed to have sobered-up/calmed-down a bit...

Now the haar had disappeared, the other hotel “rooms” made pale white shapes in the moonless night, spread out along the shore, with the moorland sweeping out from the other bank, all the way to the island’s central peak. The primeval shadow of woods bracketing the whole scene.

Michael stepped off the path and walked towards Alex’s rock, carrying the bottle of white wine he’d liberated from the minibar in his room, and a couple of glasses. A peace offering of sorts. “Hey.”

She kept her eyes on the stars. Took another drink. “Don’t, OK?”

“You’re a silly prick, you know that, don’t you.”

“Easy for you to say with your film deals and your vaults full of cash.”

She never stopped, did she.

“I didn’t—”

“I helped you out with research and legal stuff and police procedure for decades, and what did I get?”

Michael let a long flat breath rattle free. “Come on, we’ve been over—”

“Sod all. That’s what.” This time it wasn’t a sip, it was a swig. “I get sod all and he gets a cushy retirement on the Costa del Crime!”

“I thought you helped because we’re friends, Alex. Just like Victor. ’Cause he doesn’t get a slice of the royalties either. All he gets is a slap-up meal in a fancy restaurant after every book launch, same as you. Because. We’re. Friends.”

Something moved in the deep dark water, sending ripples out to distort the reflections. Making the stars quake.

Suppose it was time she found out. “The reason Victor set all this up — the trip, the fancy restaurant, the swanky rooms — the reason he’s paying for all this is he’s dying.”

Alex snorted. “Fuck off.”

“It’s true!” Michael sat on the rock next to hers. “You saw him repeating himself, right? The ‘French Bob, dog food’ story? He does that all the time now. Not bad enough he’s riddled with cancer; the dementia’s getting worse.”

She stopped stargazing and stared at him. “Wait a minute, cancer? When did this happen? Dementia?”

“That’s why he disappeared for a couple months in June — first round of chemo.”

“He told me he shaved his head because someone said it made him look younger!”

Deep breath. “The point is—”

“Why did nobody say anything?” Her face pinched. “You bastards always do this.”

“Alex, please, this isn’t—”

“You’ve excluded me from the very start, haven’t you. You and Victor, in your little all-boys-together club, shutting me out!”

Here we go again...

“It’s not about you, OK? It’s about Victor.” Michael waved a hand in the vague direction of Victor’s room. “He’s dying. And instead of rallying around, instead of helping, you’re throwing a tantrum! Like a spoiled child.”

“I am not—”

“This trip’s the last one we’ll ever take together, OK? It’s meant to build memories we can hold on to after he’s gone.” He filled his voice with disappointment. “Is this what you want to remember?”

Silence settled across the loch.

Alex finished whatever was in her tumbler. Then looked away. Shrugged.

Michael unscrewed the top from the wine, filled one of the glasses and handed it to her. “There’s no vaults full of cash. Twenty years ago: oh yeah. But now?” He puffed out his cheeks, deflating along with them. “Before I met Victor, I was writing books full of existential angst and convoluted sentences, and they’d get rave reviews in the literary press, but no one wanted to actually read them. They certainly didn’t want to buy the things.” He filled a glass of his own. “Then I meet Victor in Barlinnie Prison—”

“You were doing a talk, he was doing six years. I know. Everyone knows.” A wee bitter laugh. “Joke’s on you, though. Swanning around like he’s Tony Soprano; Victor was never more than a low-level bagman for the MacDougals. A glorified accountant.”

Oh...

“Point is, he inspired me. He’s the reason I abandoned literary fiction and started writing gangster novels instead. He’s the reason I reached out to you for the police side of things. Bestseller lists, film deals, a villa in Provence, mantelpiece groaning with awards, two marriages, two divorces... I even turned down an OBE once, did you know that?”

Her eyebrows went up, so clearly she didn’t.

“And now look at me.” He took a mouthful of wine — cold and round and buttery. “My publisher’s rejected the latest book. Apparently people want their crime fiction ‘cosy’ these days.” His shoulder drooped even further. “No one wants gangsters anymore.”

Alex stared into her Chardonnay. “If it’s any consolation, no one wants retired police officers, either.”

Yeah.

Michael nodded, then raised his glass. “A toast.”

It took a couple of breaths, but she raised hers in reply. “Go on then.”

“Fuck the lot of them!”

A wee smile and Alex clinked glasses. “Fuck the lot of them.”

They drank, sitting there in silence as a shooting star streaked its way across the night sky. Strange to think that little rock had travelled millions, possibly billions of miles, for countless eons, only to go out in a fleeting blaze of glory on a cold Scottish night. And they were the only people to witness it. Bit heavy-handed as metaphors went, but appropriate, nonetheless.

Alex checked her watch. “Too late tonight. I’ll apologise tomorrow. And then I’ll batter the living crap out of him for not telling me he’s dying.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

And they did.

Course 7

Into the Deep Dark Woods

Portobello, Morel, Porcini, Enoki, Girolle, and Maitake, with Beetroot soil, Black Truffle pearls, shaved Jerusalem Artichoke, Black Ants, Matsutake powder, Sourdough breadcrumbs, and Beechwood smoke

Carlo Giacosa, Barbaresco Riserva Luca, 2016

Acouple of Alka-Seltzer tablets fizzed in a glass of water, next to the Bloody Mary that had seemed like a good idea when Michael sat down to breakfast.

The dining room was still laid out in its individual booths, the table already set and bearing a basket of crisp rolls and flaky pastries, jugs of orange and grapefruit juice, and a platter of prepared fruit, though Michael was the only one who’d surfaced to enjoy it.

Half eight, and a low murmur of conversation filled the dining room, along with the delicious scents of à-la-carte fry-ups, kedgeree, omelettes, and, going by the menu, about two dozen different kinds of eggs Benedict.

Michael necked his fizzy medicine, poking at a couple of melon slices as Alex slouched into Table Six’s private booth.

Water dripped from the point of her Am Bòrd Mòr umbrella. She peeled off her damp jacket and collapsed into the same seat as last night. “Should’ve nicked a high-viz on my way out the station door. Sodding horrible out there.”

“Any joy?”

“Nah, must be sulking.” She held up her hands. “I tried, honestly. Phoned his room, went round there, knocked and knocked and knocked. Pfff... You know what he’s like the morning after a binge. He’ll surface when he surfaces.” She popped her glasses on and peered at the menu. “You order yet?”

“Fry-up. Always the fry-up.”

“Looks good. Ooh, and I’m starting with ‘Who’s Been Sleeping In My Bed?’... ‘Homemade porridge with cream, heather honey, Highland Park, and cashew-nut butter’.” She grabbed a croissant from the basket. “You look like crap, by the way. Is there any of this legendary old-lady marmalade?”

Michael just scowled at her.

Morning people should be taken outside and shot.

It was strange how much better the world seemed after a massive plate covered in devilled kidneys, black pudding, homemade sausages, sautéed potatoes, fried eggs, buttery mushrooms, crispy bacon, haggis, artisanal beans, sourdough toast, tattie scones... All washed down with lashings of tea, coffee, and a second Bloody Mary.

Victor would be gutted when they told him what he’d missed.

A knock at the booth door, and in slipped the Concierge. She’d ditched the long red cloak, sticking to the black suit and serious expression instead. “Ms Raith, Mr Harris, I’m afraid the launch is still out of action, but rest assured we’re doing our best to find you alternative transport back to the mainland.”

Oh, buggering hell.

“But...” Michael put his Bloody Mary down. “If this is about last night, we’re sorry for the argument at dinner, we didn’t mean to spoil anyone’s—”

“No, Mr Harris. It’s not...” She frowned. “I assumed you would want to check in on Mr McAllister. Forgive me.” Already backing towards the exit.

Alex stood. “What about him? Victor. Mr McAllister.”

“I left a message on your room phones. And there was a note under each of your doors?” All she got from that were blank looks. “Mr McAllister was taken ill during the night. Our resident doctor evacuated him to the mainland. They arrived just in time for the ambulance crew to stabilise him.”

Alex wobbled. “‘Stabilise him’?”

Michael stared. “Oh God...”

“Yesterday’s trip back from St Kilda caused some damage to the launch, but it was an emergency, so obviously we didn’t hesitate. Unfortunately the experience has proved to be somewhat ruinous for the engine. But, as I say, I shall endeavour to find you another way back to the mainland — though the current storm is making that... somewhat challenging.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I will, of course, keep you updated with any developments.” And with that, she was gone.

Alex sank back into her seat. “Fuck...”

And then some.

Wind clawed at the bushes, rain crackling against the windowpane as Michael huddled closer to the glass, hands cupped either side of his head to see inside. But the blinds were shut, sealing away all sight of Victor’s fancy suite.

He gave up and turned his back on the storm. “Did you...?”

Alex produced an envelope from an inside pocket. “Yeah. Must’ve walked right past it this morning. You?”

“Couldn’t figure out how to play the message.”

“Christ...”

They hobbled back towards the main building, wind shoving at their backs.

“What do you want to do?”

Alex frowned. “Honestly? No idea. I mean, we’ve got to go see him in hospital, obviously.”

“Yeah... Don’t think that’s going to happen. Not till the weather breaks.”

Because you’d have to be insane to risk taking a boat out in this.

They kept going, past the restaurant with its fairy lights writhing in the storm. Following the path as it twisted around the building, heading for the dark mass of woodland that bordered the hotel and loch on three sides.

Alex dug her hands deep into her pockets. “He was fine yesterday...”

“Victor’s not been fine for years. He just didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well, that worked, didn’t it!”

The storm sounds changed as they stepped into the woods — the sharp clatter of rain swapped for a sibilant hiss, the howling wind exchanged for a yearning moan. Branches and tree trunks creaking as Alex and Michael followed the twisting stone path between drooping mounds of glistening bracken.

Michael reached into a pocket and pulled out a half-bottle of Macallan. “I raided the minibar.” He peeled off the foil, popped the cork, and held the bottle out.

She hesitated for a moment. “You do know this’ll cost you an arm and a leg, right?” Then took a swig.

“Don’t care.” He tossed the cork away into the undergrowth. Wouldn’t be needing that again. “Did Victor ever tell you: one of his biggest regrets was he never got to go up against you. Professionally.”

She handed the bottle back. “Don’t talk shite.”

The further into the woods they went, the darker it got.

“No, seriously. Most guys in his line of work are in and out of prison all the time, but no one could lay a finger on Victor till ‘Chib’ Nicholson ratted him out. Victor thought you were the only cop who could’ve given him a run for his money.”

A frown creased her forehead. “Didn’t Chib Nicholson get stabbed in a prison laundry somewhere?”

Michael took a swig of his own. “Sixty-three times. Was like a teabag by the time they hauled the guy off him.”

“And I suppose Victor had nothing to do with that?”

“Couldn’t possibly comment.”

The path wound deeper and deeper into the forest. A thick layer of pine needles blanketed the ground in shades of brown and grey, heavy with shadows as the upper branches strangled the light from the sky. Leaving their breath hanging around their heads, like shrouds of fog.

Then the woods opened out into a clearing — about the size of a tennis court — filled with row upon row of tiny headstones. None of them were more than a foot high and the older ones bore a thick crust of moss, but nearer the centre, the stones were still shiny. The carving crisp and clear. Each bearing a first name and a date.

A weird little pet cemetery, in the middle of nowhere, slowly drowning in the rain.

Alex plucked the bottle from Michael’s hands. “Well, this isn’t creepy at all.”

He waited for her to finish drinking before retrieving the bottle. “Come on, let’s get back to—”

“Ah, Mr Harris, Ms Raith.” A voice, right behind them. Low and sombre.

Michael turned.

The Concierge — dressed in her red cloak, with the hood up — standing beneath a hotel umbrella. The Bellboy hovered behind her, head bowed, paying his respects to all the dead cats, dogs, and gerbils.

Alex cleared her throat. “Did something...?”

“I’ve just got off the phone with the doctor. Mr McAllister suffered a series of small strokes, followed by a cardiac... incident.” She lowered her head, mirroring the Bellboy’s mourning pose. “On behalf of everyone at Am Bòrd Mòr, I’d like to say how very sorry we are for your loss.”

“It’s...” There was a pause as Alex blinked at all the teeny graves. “A heart attack...”

Michael bit his bottom lip, but tears still made the forest swim. Each word catching in his throat like fishhooks. “Was it quick?”

“My understanding is that Mr McAllister was unconscious at the time and didn’t feel a thing.”

Alex reached for the whisky. Knocked back a good mouthful.

Michael took his glasses off and wiped a hand across his wet eyes.

“I’m so sorry.” The Concierge shook her head. “Is there anyone you’d like us to contact?”

“What? No. No.” Alex huffed out a long breath, staring at the headstones. “We’re his only family. The rest died out years ago.”

A nod. “Then we shall add a marker for him here, with our family.” She swept her free hand out, indicating all the tiny graves. “And tonight’s banquet will be held in his honour.”

“Yeah, about that.” Pink rushed up Alex’s cheeks. “This whole trip was... Victor arranged it and... it’s just...” Deep breath. “Financially speaking, you see... I’m—”

“Please, don’t worry, Ms Raith. I can assure you it’s all taken care of.”

Alex’s blush deepened. She nodded.

Everyone stood in silence as the rain fell.

Then the Concierge gave them a small bow. “Lunch is at one, but if you wish to be alone at this difficult time, please let me, or one of the staff, know and it can be served in your rooms.” One final, deferential nod, and she swept from the clearing — her red cloak swirling out behind her. Fading away through the trees, with the Bellboy right behind her.

Alex held the bottle of Macallan aloft, like a burning torch. “To Victor.” Then knocked back a serious swig. Hissing as it went down. Eyes screwed shut, holding the whisky out.

Michael took it. Raised the bottle high. “Fuck the lot of them!” Took a massive scoof of his own.

And then there were two...

Course 8

You Shall Go To the Ball

Flame-grilled Pumpkin, roast Calf’s Feet, Gold Leaf, toasted Pine Nuts, Thyme-&-Nettle velouté, dusted with Oak-Ash powder

Marqués De Murrieta Castillo Ygay Blanco Gran Reserva Especial, 1970

After all the morning whisky, Michael skipped pre-dinner cocktails and opted for a pint of fizzy water instead — sitting at the table in their private booth, opposite a shell-shocked Alex and an empty seat. Am Bòrd Mòr had laid the table as if Victor was just a little late for the banquet to begin, a single red rose placed on his plate.

He’d have liked that.

Alex cleared her throat and rearranged her cutlery. “Did you get any rest?”

“Can’t believe he’s gone...”

“I didn’t see you at lunch.”

Michael took a deep breath. “It was so sudden.” Blinking back the tears. “Didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

She reached across the table and patted his arm. Just like he’d done for Victor last night. “I know it’s hard, but—”

That little brass bell dingle-ding-ding-dinged again, and the dining room fell silent for the Concierge. “Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin tonight’s banquet, I’d like to raise a glass to our distinguished and dear departed guest, Mr Victor McAllister.”

The sound of chairs scraping back came from the other booths.

Alex and Michael stood too, raising their mismatched glasses.

The Concierge let his name ring out: “To Mr McAllister.”

And the other guests joined in: “Mr McAllister.”

Michael swallowed the lump in his throat. “To Victor.”

Alex closed her eyes. “To Victor.”

They drank, and the sound of shifting chairs filled the room once more, followed by the chatter of excited hotel guests looking forward to another excellent meal.

Michael frowned at the pint of water, then at Alex’s gin-and-tonic.

Yeah...

He was going to need something stronger than Perrier to get through tonight.

If last night’s meal was theatre, tonight’s banquet was a full-on theme park. A lot more meat-heavy than before, but every bit as delicious. Even if the spark had kind of gone out of things.

It was hard to dig in with enthusiasm when one of your two best friends was lying on a mortuary slab in Inverness. Which was wrong, because there was no way in hell Victor would support wasting good food.

Michael took a bite of perfectly cooked spare rib — the meat juicy and tender, not falling-off-the-bone, but just firm enough to come away clean with a gentle bite. Smoky, well sauced and spiced, savoury, and probably the best ribs he’d ever had.

The booth door opened and Brother Waiter entered, bearing a tray with two glasses of white wine on it. He placed one glass in front of each of them, then stood with his head bowed in a suitably sombre pose. “This is a 1990 Nicolas Joly ‘Clos de la Coulée de Serrant’, from Savennières in the Loire Valley. Courtesy of Table One, in celebration of Mr McAllister.”

Michael stared at him. “‘In celebration’...?”

Alex blinked. Then nodded. “Yeah. No, that’s right. That’s the way to do it.” She smiled up at the waiter. “Please, tell Table One, ‘thank you’, from us.” Then raised her glass. “In celebration.”

Which didn’t seem right at all.

But what else was there?

It took a couple of moments, but Michael clinked his wine glass against hers.

As if on cue, a round of applause crackled out from somewhere in the dining room.

Michael sipped at the golden Chenin Blanc: honey, apples, warm apricot-and-lemon notes, with a lovely mineral finish. “Wow, that is good.”

Victor would’ve approved.

The third course was slow-braised veal, with mushrooms and stuffed apples in a rich jus. Sticky and comforting.

Brother Waiter placed a glass of red on the table for each of them. “Château Margaux, 2000, Bordeaux. From Table Two, in celebration of Mr McAllister.”

Alex and Michael reached for the new glasses.

Langoustines and lobster tails glistened atop an exquisite pale ragù and al dente tagliatelle.

A pair of tulip glasses appeared with a flourish.

“1992 Domaine Baron Thenard Montrachet, Burgundy, from Table Three. In celebration of Mr McAllister.”

Lovely.

Nothing remained on Michael’s plate. Not even a smear of crème brûlée.

Alex dabbed up the last crumbs of strawberry-and-basil tuile on a moistened fingertip, then sat back — pink-cheeked and smiling.

The pair of them rosy with the glow of memorial drinks.

She groaned and pushed her plate away. “Don’t think I’ll need to eat another thing in my entire life.”

“Victor would’ve loved this.”

“That he would.”

They clinked their glasses — a very fine 199 °Château d’Yquem, Sauternes from Bordeaux, courtesy of Table Ten — then drained the last sticky drops.

Michael rubbed his swollen stomach. “Want a nightcap?”

“Urgh. I would literally burst. Besides,” she checked her watch, “nearly midnight. Can’t risk turning into a pumpkin.”

Yeah, she was probably right.

He wobbled to his feet. “Woah...” The room was a bit unsteady, after all that.

“Lightweight.” Alex rolled her eyes, then stood and linked her arm through his. “Come on, I’ll walk you back.”

The other booths all had their doors closed, the sound of contented after-dinner conversation oozing out through the dark, polished wood.

Michael let himself be led towards the door — putting a fair bit of effort into making his knees work. “I miss him.”

“I know.” The smile faded from her face. “I do too.”

Just a shame it had taken a massive “cardiac incident” to stop the pair of them fighting.

Course 9

To Sleep for a Hundred Years

Ballotine of Rabbit stuffed with Pigeon-&-Blackberry farce, Hedgerow Herbs, Crab Apple gel, Sorrel emulsion, a Feuilles de Brick spindle, confit Cantaloupe pearls, pickled Rose Petals, and Champagne hollandaise

Château De Beaucastel Châteauneuf-Du-Pape Blanc Roussanne Vieilles Vignes, 2017

“Mmmph...?” Michael blinked at the ceiling of his hotel room as the rat-a-tat-tat of someone knocking on the door machinegunned through the darkness.

Why was...?

The knocking sounded again, only harder and faster. More urgent.

Urgh...

He levered himself out of bed and stumbled over to answer it. “All right, all right. Jesus.” Grabbing his jeans off the chair where he’d dumped them a mere hour and a half ago. Hopping his way into them, before wrenching the door open with an unwelcoming “What?”

It was Alex, standing there, looking back over her shoulder — jacket all crumpled and stained with mud. And when she turned to face him there was blood oozing down her top lip and chin, scrapes on her cheeks and forehead.

“What the hell happened to—”

She barged into the room, thumping the door shut behind her.

OK...

He reached for the light switch, but Alex slapped his hand away.

“Leave the lights off. And get dressed.”

“Why’s your face all—”

“I’ve been in the job long enough to know when something smells fishy. And this whole place reeks like a manky haddock.” She snatched up his bedside phone and poked at the buttons. Scowled. “No outside line. Mine’s dead too.” Slamming the phone down, then striding back to the front of the room. Making a wee gap in the curtains to stare out into the night.

Michael rubbed at his eyes. “But I don’t—”

“Get sodding dressed!”

God almighty. The woman was insane.

But he grabbed the rest of his discarded clothes and scurried off to the bathroom anyway. Because whatever the hell was going on, middle-aged men shouldn’t run about with no pants on. It was undignified.

The storm had let up a bit, swapping driving rain and howling wind for a glimmer of cold moonlight as Alex led the way around the loch, heading away from the main hotel building. Sticking to the shadows. Giving the other rooms/houses a wide berth. Acting like a crazy person.

Michael crept along behind her. “Will you please tell me why we’re—”

“Shhhh! This way...”

At the far end of the loch, Alex took a wee stone path off towards the dark mass of woodland that bracketed Am Bòrd Mòr.

It would serve her right if he just flat-out refused to take another step till she explained what the hell they were doing out here.

But instead, Michael followed her past a small picnic area and in beneath the coal-black canopy of pine needles.

It took a moment, but eventually a meandering path emerged from the gloom.

Alex marched off, following it.

Groaning, Michael slouched after her. “Serve you right if I just went back to bed.”

“Will you keep your bloody voice down?” She stomped back to him, pointing at her face. “You see this? I got jumped by the Bellboy.”

“What, he tried it on?... Sexually?”

A scowl. “No. Not ‘sexually’.” And she was off again.

“Oh, come on, Alex...” He had to jog to catch up. “If he attacked you, we need to tell the Concierge. Get him fired. Prosecuted. Whatever.”

But she just kept on going — deeper and deeper into the woods, past pale ghostly buildings that lurked far from the path. Striding on and on, in grim silence.

They emerged into a clearing five minutes later, on the shore of a wide inlet lined with trees. Water lapped at the lichen-stained rocks, but the moonlight had faded while they were playing Hansel and Gretel — swallowed by thick black cloud that covered the sky. The wind had picked up too, bringing with it a smattering of rain.

But there was still enough visibility to make out the large wooden boathouse, jutting out into the choppy water.

There were other lights out there, glimmering in the darkness, bringing with them the faint outlines of more little buildings, hidden away in the trees. Maybe that was where all the staff lived?

Michael followed Alex to the boathouse, still trying to be the voice of reason. “We need to tell the hotel he attacked you!”

“How can you be so sodding clueless?” She hauled open the boathouse door and slipped inside.

A groan rattled free. Then he went in after her.

It was even darker inside, the air tainted with the twin scents of diesel and furniture polish, as water lapped around the vague shape of a large boat. “Of course I’m clueless. If you want people to follow what’s going on, you have to give them actual clues.”

She clunked the door shut.

“Otherwise you’re just...”

Alex flicked a switch, flooding the boathouse with bright, LED light.

“Sodding hell.” Michael covered his eyes, wincing as the glare stabbed its way through his night vision. Then, slowly, that vague shape turned into a luxury launch, with “AM BÒRD MÒR” and “THE SELKIE’S GRACE” painted across the stern.

Unlike The Happy Mermaid, this boat had a proper, striped awning over the back, providing shelter to twin rows of leather seats. Far swankier than the slippery deck of a smelly old trawler.

Alex waved a hand at The Selkie’s Grace. “Does that look like it’s having engine trouble on the mainland?”

“Well... maybe they fixed it? Or maybe they’ve got a second boat? Maybe this one’s a spare.”

“Then how come the Concierge told us there was no way off the island?”

Ah.

She had a point...

“Maybe it’s knackered too?”

“Oh yeah?” Alex climbed on board. “Then why did this bastard jump me soon as I...” She stopped, on the edge of the seating area. Turning round and round. Staring. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Michael hurried forward. “What’s ‘son of a bitch’?”

“He’s gone. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

From the top of the gangplank, bloodstains were clearly visible on the polished wooden floor. Sill shiny and wet.

Alex pushed past him, down onto the boathouse floor again. “Come on: before the bastard gets back here with his dodgy mates.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Unless they try to pick us off at our rooms first...” She shoved out through the boathouse door.

What?

“‘Pick us off’?”

She really had gone insane.

“Alex, wait.” Michael scurried after her, into the rain. “You sound paranoid, you know that, don’t you? OK, so the Bellboy’s a sex pest, but that doesn’t mean—”

“It wasn’t sexual!” She looked right — back toward the restaurant — then in the opposite direction, where all the little buildings hid in the gloom. “Look, when you’ve been a police officer as long as I have, you pick up vibes, OK? A weird glance, the way someone walks, what kind of coat they’ve got on. It all adds up.” Alex went left, towards the buildings. “He was hanging about in the shadows, after I dropped you off after dinner. I know when someone’s trying not to be seen. Soon as he thought we were out of the way, he hoofed it over to Victor’s room and let himself in for a rummage.”

“He what?”

“So I followed him, through the woods to—”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Because I’m a police officer, you idiot. You don’t pinch a minnow when they can lead you to a whale.” The path turned into a single-track road. “Only he must’ve got wind I was after him, because he lured me into the boathouse and jumped me.” A cold smile pulled at her face. “Turns out he wasn’t nearly as hard as he thought.”

Completely insane.

“Did it actually occur to you just to ask what he was doing in Victor’s room? For God’s sake, Alex, you’re not a cop anymore!”

The first building on the road was some sort of laundry-cum-linen-storage, with steam rising from its chimney, along with the warm camomile scent of tumble-dried towels.

Alex kept going. “While you were busy writing about madey-uppy crime, I was out fighting the real thing. I know when something dodgy’s going on.”

Building number two was a bakery — the baker framed in the glowing window, kneading away at a big dod of dough, already getting ready for tomorrow’s breakfast.

“All right, all right. Suppose we say there is something shady happening here. What are we supposed to do about it? There’s thirty miles of sea between here and the nearest backup.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is? Alex!” He grabbed her arm, outside building number three — a darkened, long white building with what looked like the air vents from a refrigerator unit sticking out through one of the walls.

“We find the Bellboy, and we make him talk. We place him under arrest and demand the hotel call N Division headquarters.” She shook him off. “But first we have to find him.” Alex peered in through the nearest window. “Some sort of butchery and charcuterie operation. We...”

Rain clattered against the slate roof like a handful of gravel as the wind moaned through the trees.

“Alex?”

She stepped closer to the window, doing the hands-making-a-porthole thing, and stared for a bit. Then staggered back a couple of paces. Blinking. Voice so low it was barely a breath. “Mother of fuck...” And she was off, running around the front of the building.

Great.

Michael sagged, head back, staring up into the falling rain. “Completely off her rocker.”

Just in case, he had a peer through the window himself, but there was nothing out of the ordinary inside: cutting boards; knives hanging up on magnetic strips; twin sinks; stainless-steel benches; health-and-safety posters; and a separate, walk-in chiller.

A couple of carcasses were barely visible through the fridge-door window: sides of pork, beef, and venison, waiting to be turned into delicious steaks and tartare and daube and soups and burgers and sausages...

It was the shock, that was all.

The shock, heavily seasoned with guilt for shouting at Victor last night.

She was upset. Perfectly understandable, but really sodding unhelpful.

Running about like a pair of idiots, in the middle of the night, in the thumping rain and battering wind...

Off in the distance, one of those wolves from the rewilding project howled, making every single hair on his arms and neck crawl.

Yeah, sod this.

Michael hurried after Alex.

The front of the butchery featured a half-glazed, black wooden door, and two windows that gazed out into the night like dead eyes.

Alex grabbed the door handle, hauling on it, rattling the thing in its frame.

Locked.

“Alex, listen to me — you need help.”

“Of course I bloody do.” She looked around, then pointed. “Gimme that rock.”

“Alex, please.”

“Fine.” She grabbed the rock herself. “Cover your eyes, in case there’s glass.”

“No! You can’t—”

But she did. A sharp tap in the bottom corner of the glazed panel sent cracks webbing out across the glass. A second, harder swing shattered it into a baggy sheet of glittering little cubes, still held together with some sort of coating. It took three more goes to batter it out of the frame.

Alex reached inside and fumbled about till the lock clicked. She withdrew her arm and pushed the door fully open.

If she thought the minibar was expensive, wait till she got the bill for that.

“For Christ’s sake, you’re acting like a crazy person!”

She stepped inside. “Shut up and keep watch.”

Nope.

Michael followed her. “Please, before someone gets hurt!”

Alex didn’t turn the lights on. Instead she crept across the tiled floor to the walk-in fridge.

“Alex!”

She opened the chiller door and a cold light bloomed into life, spilling out into the butchery with a whoomph of frigid air. “Holy shite...” The words plumed out in a refrigerated cloud, glowing like smoke as she stood there with her mouth hanging open.

He joined her in front of the open door. “If you don’t want to talk to me about it, I can give you Dr Palmer’s number. He’s a really good therapist. Helped me a lot after Cindy—”

Alex’s hand slapped over his mouth, cutting off Cindy’s betrayal.

The other hand came up to point into the fridge.

Storage racks lined the stainless-steel space, some with sausages dangling from hooks, others bearing long cardboard boxes marked “FREE-RANGE CHICKEN” and “RARE-BREED PORK”. And the four carcasses, hanging from the ceiling: one whole deer, skinned and gralloched; a whole leg of beef, dark and heavily marbled; a half lamb, its ribs bright white against the burgundy meat; and...

Michael blinked.

Maybe he was still drunk? All that free booze at dinner, from the other tables to celebrate Victor’s life.

He had to be drunk, because the fourth carcass looked exactly like a human cadaver. Headless, and split lengthways like the lamb. And it couldn’t be a pig, because there was only the one nipple on show. And it was pierced. And, far as he knew, no other animals wore wedding rings.

He tried to swallow, but someone had filled his mouth with dust and sand. “Oh shite...”

Behind them: a foot scrunched on the fallen cubes of shattered glass, then the butchery lights buzzed and flickered on, bathing the whole scene in an antiseptic glow.

The Concierge tutted. “I really wish you hadn’t done that, Ms Raith. It’s so hard to get an emergency glazer out here at short notice.”

Course 10

My, What Big Eyes You Have

To share: an edible Brioche picnic basket, with Wolf pie, Blaeberry compote, Grandma’s Tea, Trifle au Citron, Raspberry tarts, Rhubarb-&-Elderflower jelly, Blood Orange syrup, Vanilla-&-Back-Fat truffles, and tempura Hachinoko

Chef’s Sparkling Jura-16-Year-Old-Diurachs’-Own-&-Ginger Cordial

Bugger...

Michael turned, and there was the Concierge, standing in the doorway, wearing that red cloak of hers, with the hood up — keeping the rain off her hair.

Other members of staff were arrayed behind her. Five or six of them, pointing their big Maglite torches at the butchery’s façade. One stepped forward: a razorblade of a man with a ruddy complexion and veined nose. He was dressed like a clichéd gamekeeper from a BBC sitcom, in green plus-fours with matching waxed jacket and deerstalker hat, a shotgun broken over one arm as he loaded two shells into it.

Michael pulled his chin up, trying not to tremble. “What the crenelated FUCK is going on here?”

Alex moved in front of him, like a human shield. “What do you think’s going on. They killed Victor and served him up for their overprivileged cannibal clientele.”

Victor? The half body hanging in the butchery was Victor?

That meant...

“Oh God... We ate him?”

“You.” Mr Cliché the Gamekeeper clacked his shotgun closed. “Out.”

The Concierge tried a more diplomatic approach: “If you wouldn’t mind joining us outside, Mr Harris, Ms Raith. This is a food-preparation area. It’s not hygienic.”

That shotgun came up to point at Alex’s face. “Now.”

She stood there for a moment, then nodded. Exiting the butchery as the Concierge moved aside.

Michael licked his lips, eyed the collection of butcher’s knives hanging on their magnetic strips, then at the unwavering barrels of the Gamekeeper’s shotgun, stuck his hands up, and followed her.

The crowd of hotel staff were partially obscured behind their torches’ glare, but Brother and Sister Waiter were both there, along with Cameron and the Bellboy — who’d developed a broken nose since the last time Michael had seen him, and was working on two black eyes to go with it. And off to one side, a tall man dressed in chef’s whites, with surgeon’s fingers and a prominent nose. Rain made his shaved head glisten, misting his narrow architect’s glasses.

Everyone’s torch turned to spotlight Michael and Alex.

Alex was perfectly calm and still.

Michael, on the other hand, was not. “YOU MADE US EAT OUR FRIEND!”

“Oh, no.” The Concierge looked shocked and offended by that. “No, no, no, Mr Harris, we would never be so insensitive. Tonight’s repast was provided by the Misses Selkirk-Prentice. Mr McAllister bought them a drink last night by way of thanks, remember?”

Alex narrowed her eyes. “But that was...” She pulled her chin in. “It wasn’t marmalade in that suitcase, was it. It was...” Jabbing a finger at the butchery. “Him... Oh for...” She curled up, fists pressed against her forehead. “Bastard. And I helped carry it!”

“That was very kind of you, Ms Raith. The Misses Selkirk-Prentice aren’t as spry as they once were, bless them. But if it’s any consolation, they do make the most miraculous marmalade. You had it at breakfast, I believe.”

“Urgh...” Alex straightened up. “But why?”

The Chef beamed. “It’s the bergamot. Gives a delicious tangy edge to the—”

“I think Ms Raith is referring to the contents of the walk-in chiller, Stephen.” The Concierge smiled. “I don’t know if you remember a serial killer called ‘The Flesher’? First surfaced back in the late eighties, butchering people and slipping the meat into the local food chain? It was a huge scandal at the time; there was even a lurid crime novel based on the murders.” She tucked her hands into her cloak’s pockets. “At this point, Am Bòrd Mòr was toying with the notion of going vegetarian...”

The assembled staff grumbled in disapproval.

“It was all the rage at the time, and the restaurant’s fortunes were sadly on the wane in those days. But then, some of our wealthier patrons wondered if they’d ever unknowingly eaten human flesh.” She shrugged. “To have missed the opportunity to savour such a unique taste prepared by a master? To just wolf it down, believing it to be something else? Well... it hardly bears thinking about.”

“We ate people-meat...” Michael’s stomach lurched and gurgled. He slapped one hand over his mouth, the other over his rebellious belly. “Oh, God. I’m a cannibal!”

“Don’t look so horrified, Mr Harris. You enjoyed your meal tonight, didn’t you? And your lunch? The liver pâté is one of Chef’s specialities. And the bone broth that accompanied it was quite superb.” She kissed her fingers as the Chef shrugged modestly. “The devilled kidneys and sausages at breakfast? Several dishes last night...? Were they not delicious?”

Definitely going to be sick, now.

Because she was right — they were delicious.

Alex pulled her shoulders back. “You won’t get away with this.”

“My dear Ms Raith, Am Bòrd Mòr’s faithful clientele features heads of state and captains of industry. Senior figures in the security services, and armed forces. Chief Constables...”

“Well, that ends tonight.” Alex pointed at the gathered staff. “You’re all under arrest!”

The rain fell.

The bushes shivered in the wind.

Then Cameron snorted. Sister Waiter sniggered. And a ripple of laughter washed through the crowd.

“While we appreciate your enthusiasm, Ms Raith, I must point out that we do things differently on the islands. And there are far more of us than there are of you.”

“I’m not—”

“Actually,” Michael put a hand on Alex’s shoulder, “when you think about it, it’s kinda not that bad, really. Perfectly reasonable.” He pulled on his best smile. “I’m sorry. We overreacted a little when we found... you know. Just hanging there. Bit of a shock, coming on it unprepared like that. And the food here is very, very good.”

The Concierge raised an eyebrow.

“And we promise not to tell anyone about... anything. Ever.” He nudged Alex. “Don’t we.”

No reply.

Another nudge. “Right, Alex?”

She lunged forward, grabbing the Gamekeeper’s shotgun, wrestling him for it as everyone stared. “Don’t just stand there, you idiot, RUN!”

Yes. Right.

Michael barged the Chef and Cameron out of the way and legged it.

OK, so you might expect a middle-aged, balding, hairy Scotsman, with an extremely sedentary job, to be a bit slow on the pins, but Michael was off — belting away down the path, in the opposite direction from the boathouse and the hotel. Not out of any cunning plan, just because there were fewer members of the mob blocking the way.

Behind him, the shotgun roared, but he was not stopping to see why.

Trees flashed past on either side. Then another little outbuilding. Then more trees.

The Concierge’s voice faded into the distance. “Magnus, Isabel: hold her! Gordon: get the dogs. Everyone else: after him!”

Michael put his head down and ran.

Through the woods. Knees and elbows pumping.

Running as if his life depended on it.

Which it probably did.

The sound of feet on the road clattered out behind him as the staff gave chase.

Michael jinked off to the left, abandoning the smooth tarmac for the trees. Heading downhill, high-stepping to avoid the fallen branches and clumps of soggy bracken. Fighting his way between the trees as sharp-fingered coils of bramble snatched at his legs. Leaping toppled tree trunks. Getting the hell out of there...

Slivers of moonlight struggled through the heavy cloud, doing little to illuminate the rugged stretch of coast as Michael hurried between rocky outcrops and knots of jagged gorse.

Off to the right, waves hissed and boomed against the cliffs — far too rough to risk swimming for it. And even if the sea didn’t smash him to a pulp, or sweep him out to drown in the Minch, where would he swim to? The rewilded island covered in wolves?

Sod that.

The crashing sounds of pursuit weren’t too far behind, led by the howl and yammer of the Gamekeeper’s dogs. Hunting him through the gloom.

Baying for blood.

Bloody sodding tussocky bastards...

Michael scrambled across the rainswept moor, through scratchy heather, needle-tipped reeds, and ice-cold water. Over pointy rocks, through stunted birch and snarls of twisted nettles.

Thankfully, the hunt’s din had fallen behind a bit, because he was sodding knackered. Breathing like a ruptured pig. Sweat trickling down his ribs and spine.

He staggered up a short bank, and onto the first bit of flat ground he’d seen in over an hour. A track, stretching away into the distance, crossing the blasted heathland.

Thank God for that.

Michael folded in half, grabbing his knees, every tortured breath making a private fog bank around his head.

Sheet lightning crackled overhead, turning the landscape into a flickering monochrome. And, there — up ahead, through the sheets of rain — was a wee humpbacked bridge. Something to hide under for a bit, to rest out of the bastarding rain.

He straightened up and staggered over there. Huddling into its dark embrace.

Surely he’d be safe here for a while...

Every single step ached. His shoes squelched. His trousers clung to his legs. His leather jacket was made of soggy lead sheets. But Michael kept on limping, between the twisted trunks of old, gnarled trees. Heading downhill again.

The dogs were getting closer, their barks echoing through the woods, bringing the hunters with them.

Finally, he broke out from the trees, onto the gravel track beside the jetty. Where they’d kicked off this stupid, horrible, deadly, culinary adventure thirty-six hours ago.

Either the hotel staff had removed all the swanky touches from the landing area, or the storm had ripped them away, because there was nothing but bare wood left.

Michael lurched to a halt, blinking at the choppy water and rain-slicked dock.

No boat.

Of course there was no sodding boat — The Selkie’s Grace was still in the boathouse, wasn’t it.

And there was no telephone to call for help, either.

There was nothing here but raging water and howling wind and yet more bloody driving rain.

There wasn’t even anywhere to hide...

He sank to his knees, forehead resting against the jetty’s handrail, and had a wee sob.

Because what else was he supposed to—

“What the hell took you so long?”

He looked up and there she was — hurpling out of the gloom, one arm held against her chest.

“Alex!”

Her top was ripped, and one knee of her jeans was torn and stained with blood. The scrapes on her face, from before, were already scabbing over, but a fresh network of little red scratches had joined them.

Michael scrambled to his feet and wrapped her up in a great big hug. “I thought they’d got you!”

She freed herself. “Takes more than a bunch of fruity restaurant types to put an ex-detective inspector down.” Flexing her battered knuckles. “Those waiters are going to be taking their staff meals through a straw for a couple of months.”

Then Alex slapped him on the back, and hobbled up the flagstone path to the gravel track. But instead of following it, she lurched straight across — and into the woods again.

Michael lumbered after her.

From the jetty, it had looked like a forest track, but it was actually a proper tarmac road, surrounded by the rigid symmetry of Forestry Commission pines. Standing there like a silent army.

Here, beneath the canopy of sharp little needles, it was almost completely dark.

“We need to phone the cops.”

She nodded. “Where do you think we’re going? There’s only two places here with an external line: the Manager’s office, and the communications shed. We break in, call the cavalry, then find somewhere to hide out till they get here.” A frown. “Should probably sabotage that boat as well, so no one can do a runner.”

“Sabotage it? Are you insane? We need to sneak on board and steal the bloody thing. Get the hell off this island before they catch us!”

Alex scowled. “Not till every single one of these bastards is in custody.” She came to a sudden halt, one hand held up in a clenched fist. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “OK, need to be really careful from here.”

“But—”

“Shhh...!” She crept forward, around a bend in the road, sticking to the grass at the side of the tarmac, close to the trees.

OK...

Michael followed in her footsteps, creeping through the shadows. Then freezing when she did — peering around the trunk of a sentry pine. “Son of a bitch...” There was the butchery, and the baker’s and the sodding laundry. “That horse-and-cart ride—”

“Takes you all the way round the outside of the island. Now — shhh...!”

All that running around, through the trees, and the seashore, and the blasted heath, and more woods... When it was less than a five-minute walk from the bastarding jetty.

Oh, that was just perfect.

Alex was on the move again, sneaking along, three or four trees in from the road, keeping low. Leading the way behind a handful of huts and outbuildings, then off at an angle, deeper into the woods.

And deeper.

And deeper.

Till eventually they came upon a little clearing, surrounded by twisted brambles, with a circular cottage in the middle. It had a conical slate roof, like a witch’s hat, and no lights on in the small, high windows.

Off in the distance, the dogs howled.

Alex signalled another halt, making him keep his head down while she checked to make sure no one was following. “This is us. You keep an eye open, I’ll pick the lock.” She scurried over there, dropping to one knee in front of the “cottage” door. Produced a couple of Kirby grips from her hair and wiggled them into the lock.

Michael inched forward. “Where did you learn to pick locks?”

“Shift sergeant in B Division showed me. You any idea how much time it saves when you’re checking on a vulnerable adult and no bugger can find the key to...” The lock clicked. “Bingo.” Alex turned the handle, then slipped inside.

Great.

Phase one of the plan was a success.

Now all they needed was to call for help, then find somewhere to hide. Which would be easier said than done, with those bloody dogs sniffing about. Mind you, wasn’t being a sniffer dog something you had to train them for? If these were regular gun dogs, they might be crap at it. Maybe that’s why they hadn’t found him?

Michael shifted from foot to foot, staring out at the forest gloom.

What the hell was taking her so long in there? Was she ordering pizza?

He tiptoed up to the door. “Alex? We going to be much longer?”

Nothing.

“Alex?”

Still nothing. So he raised his voice to a whisper-shout hybrid. “Alex!”

Oh... bloody hell.

Deep breath, then Michael eased the door open and stepped into a dusty, mildewy room.

It was darker in here than outside, but eventually his night vision caught up, resolving the shapes from the gloom — a handful of deep alcoves lined one side of the building, opposite three heavy wooden doors.

“Alex?”

Deep breath, then Michael tried the first door: locked.

The second one wasn’t, only when he pulled it open it wasn’t full of telecom equipment, and computers, and wires. Instead, there was a row of thick iron bars, reaching from floor to ceiling.

Something moved on the other side of the bars, but it was too dark in here to see what.

Michael flinched back.

OK, this wasn’t right.

This wasn’t right at all.

“Alex?”

The Concierge’s voice cut through the musky air. “Ah, Mr Harris. So nice of you to finally join us.”

Michael spun around as a torch clicked on, catching him right in the face, the beam dazzling after all the darkness. “ALEX! RUN!” He lunged for the door, but a figure stepped out of the gloom, blocking his way.

It was Alex, one hand raised, police-style. “That’s far enough.”

He stared. “What the hell are you—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, how do you write crime novels and be this thick? Come on, even you should be expecting a double-cross in the third act!”

Course 11

The Witch’s House

Gingerbread Rubble with Maple-Candied Crackling and Honey-&-Sea-Salt Ice Cream

Inniskillin Sparkling Vidal Icewine, 2019

The Chef emerged from one of the gloomy alcoves and opened the third door, revealing an array of bars, like the other cell.

But Michael just stared at Alex. “How could you?”

The Concierge shook the rain from her scarlet cloak. “Ms Raith is Am Bòrd Mòr’s new head of security. As she says, this... unfortunate incident has clearly demonstrated the need for one.”

The Chef twisted a key into the lock and swung open the bars.

Alex cleared her throat. “See, I realised something — why should people like you and Victor get all the nice things in life? The book deals, the luxury trips, the fame, fortune, flash cars, and fancy holidays? What do I get: a pitiful pension and a lonely old age?” She looked away. “Besides, what was I supposed to do? I’m not going in the cooking pot, Michael. Not for you, not for Victor, not for anybody.”

The Chef put a hand on Michael’s chest and pushed him backwards, into the cell.

“But... You can’t eat me! I’m an international bestseller...”

The bars clanged shut.

The lock clicked.

“Hmmm...” A frown from the Concierge. “That is true. Even a minor celebrity such as yourself can’t just disappear.” She paced to the main door, then back again. “Ms Raith tells me you drove up from Edinburgh in an electric car? I understand those are, most regrettably, prone to catching fire. Especially after losing control on our winding Highland roads.”

Alex nodded. “Wouldn’t even hurt if you were blootered.”

A nod. “Then it’s settled. Burnt to death in a fatal traffic—”

“Wait!” Michael lurched forward, grabbing the bars. “It... What... Erm... How about a compromise?” Come on, think! “Erm... What if I kill the next person you’re going to eat? You can film me doing it, so you’ll have that and all the forensic evidence tying me to the crime, right? No publisher would touch me with a stick if that came out. Not to mention getting banged-up for twenty-years-to-life.”

Which sounded ridiculous, when he said it out loud — but, to be fair, he was lifting it from a weird crime novel he’d been sent to blurb a couple of years ago. So it wasn’t really his fault.

No one moved.

He licked his lips. “Come on, you know it makes sense! You’d have me in your pocket. And I... I could bring you, like, an endless stream of publicists! There’s thousands of them working in publishing; no one would miss two or three a year...”

The Concierge peered at him for a bit, with her head on one side. Then, “I shall present your proposal to the Manager. In the meantime...” She pointed at the Chef, who thumped the heavy wooden door shut, cutting off the torchlight and leaving Michael in darkness.

“ALEX? TELL THEM IT’S A GOOD IDEA, ALEX!” Michael pounded on the bars. “TELL THEM THEY CAN TRUST ME!”

Her voice was muffled, but you couldn’t miss the sadness in it. “Bye, Michael.”

“ALEX!”

There were some scraping noises, then the outer door thunked, then silence.

“Alex?”

They’d gone.

Michael slumped against the bars and had a damned good cry.

Sunlight poured in through the high, barred window, which did little to cheer up the horrible little cell — with its single mattress on the straw-strewn floor, composting toilet, and a little table that looked as if it came from a child’s Wendy house. A plastic plate sat on top of it, bearing a congealed portion of eggs Florentine. Untouched. Because he wasn’t an idiot.

The fingernail marks gouged into the rough plaster walls didn’t exactly lend a festive atmosphere.

The only other piece of furniture in here was a plastic lawn chair — presumably because if they gave you a wooden one, you could snap the legs off and use them as weapons.

Michael wedged it against the back wall and clambered up onto the seat, then wobbled his way up onto the back, reaching for the window’s bars. But the sodding things were just... out... of... reach...

A clunk came from the cell’s outer door, and when it opened, there was the Concierge. Smiling at him through the bars, with the traitorous Alex standing at her shoulder.

Michael scrambled down from the shaky seat. “I was just—”

“Congratulations, Mr Harris, the Manager has graciously accepted your proposal, so...” Creases marred the Concierge’s forehead. “You didn’t touch your breakfast. Chef will be most upset.”

“How do I know you didn’t put drugs in it?”

“And waste perfectly good food?” The Concierge seemed genuinely offended by the suggestion. “No, Mr Harris. No, no, no, no, no.” She unlocked the bars. “It’s time for you to uphold your end of the arrangement.” A curt nod, then she swept from the building.

Michael brushed the straw from his muddy trousers, keeping his voice low so only Alex could hear him: “This is all a big fake-out, right? You’re only pretending to be on their side till we can make our big escape and—”

“It’s too late for that.” Alex shoved the bars open. “Now, don’t make me drag you out of there.”

Bugger.

Michael took a deep breath. Bit his lip. And stepped out of his cell.

The next-door cell was open too, with the same decor as Michael’s, only whoever was in there had gone. But they’d been bright enough not to waste their eggs Benedict.

And now Michael was probably going to have to kill them on an empty stomach.

He straightened his back, trying not to tremble as he marched into the morning light.

At least they had a nice day for it — the wind and rain had vanished at some point during the night, replaced by sunshine and high fluffy clouds.

Looked as if he was getting a wee guard of dishonour to accompany him to the execution. There was the Bellboy with his battered face; Cameron sported a shiner too, but the Gamekeeper seemed to have survived the battle unscathed. He still carried that shotgun, but now a pair of enormous dogs sat at his feet, like some sort of Alsatian/wolf hybrids. All teeth and lolling tongues.

The Concierge waved a hand back towards the boathouse. “This way, Mr Harris.”

They all set off, the wolves padding within mauling distance of Michael’s backside.

He shuffled closer to Alex, lips barely moving as he hissed the words out the corner of his mouth: “There’s still time to—”

“Shut up.” She shoved him forward. “Walk.”

No one said a word, all the way past the boathouse, through the woods, and out the other side.

Up ahead, something resembling a half-arsed village fete had been erected by the lochside, with bunting and deckchairs and a buffet table. But pride of place was given to a large wooden gallows.

In addition to the hotel staff, in their familiar black-and-red uniforms, a bunch of older men and women were gathered around, sipping morning champagne and laughing — dressed in the kind of casualwear you had to be worth a fortune to afford. Brother Waiter oiled his way through the crowd of just over a dozen, topping up glasses, while Sister Waiter cruised by with canapés on a silver tray.

The Misses Selkirk-Prentice raised their glasses — toasting Michael as he was escorted towards the gallows.

Someone else was already there, slumped back against the thick wooden upright, dressed in a hotel dressing gown and hotel slippers. Bare hairy legs showing off that Costa del Crime tan.

“VICTOR!” Michael shoved his way past Cameron and the Bellboy. “We thought you were dead!” Kneeling beside Victor. “They told us you were dead!”

Bruises and welts marred his face, a track of dried blood meandering out from one ear. “Hey, Mikey.” He sounded old. Tired. “They told me it’d be you.” A nod. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

Michael gave him a hug. “Hang in there, I’ve got a plan.” Then stood, squaring up to the Concierge. “You can’t eat him.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “Oh, aye: that’ll do it.”

“I understand it must be difficult for you, Mr Harris, but this is the agreement you brokered. Mr McAllister is here to pay a debt, and that debt must be paid.” She held her arms out. “Our patrons understand that an establishment like this isn’t cheap to run. We use only the finest ingredients, the best wines, employ one of the world’s top chefs. The services we provide are both exclusive and expensive.” Gesturing at the crowd. “Some of our patrons choose to settle their bills with cash. Others pay in kind.”

The Misses Selkirk-Prentice gave a cheery little wave.

Muriel grinned at him. “It’s awfully sporting of the Jehovah’s Witnesses to keep sending people round for a chat. They’re frightfully polite, well dressed, and jolly tasty to boot!”

Her sister nodded. “And no one ever seems to miss them.”

The Concierge tipped an imaginary hat at the ladies, then turned back to Michael. “Which is why Mr McAllister’s associate, Mr MacDougal, arranged for your visit here this weekend. Mr MacDougal has eaten most splendidly at our table, and now it’s time to settle his account.” She held out a hand and the Bellboy passed her a huge carving knife with a fat blade — at least fourteen inches long.

Victor wheezed out a grimacing laugh. “The sneaky old bastard...”

“Screw him.” Michael stuck his chest out. “Let ‘Bonecracker Bill’ MacDougal pay his own bloody debts!”

Her smile cooled. “You three have also eaten most splendidly, have you not? Mr McAllister represents your first down payment.” The Concierge clapped her hands. “Cameron, if you would be so kind as to assist Lachlan. It’s time to prepare Mr McAllister for slaughter.”

Cameron reached beneath the buffet table’s white linen cloth and hauled out a big tin bath. Hefting it by the handles so he could waddle over to the gallows.

The Bellboy produced a set of leather shackles and a coil of rope with a hook on the end. “Don’t worry, Mr McAllister, it’ll be nice and quick. We fasten these around your ankles, hoist you upside down, then Mr Harris will slit your throat. I’ve sharpened and sharpened and sharpened the knife. You won’t even feel it. Be over in an instant.”

Cameron shuffled the tin bath into place, beneath the gallows. “And I promise nothing will go to waste. It’ll be scallops and fresh black pudding for starters tonight, with lemon caviar, apple emulsion, calvados foam, and a petit-pois-and-sorrel sorbet.”

“Doesn’t that sound delicious, Mr Harris?” The Concierge handed Michael the knife. “We find a nice confident stroke, from just below the left ear, round to the right, is most humane.” Then she pulled out a smartphone and fiddled with the screen. Held it up with the rear camera pointing right at him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Victor struggled to his feet. “Can a man at least have a drink before he goes?”

“Of course. Magnus?”

Brother Waiter appeared alongside them, with a fresh champagne flute and a bottle of something fizzy. “Dom Pérignon, Brut, 2013.” Half filling the glass before holding it out.

Victor accepted it with a raised eyebrow. “Bit late for short measures, son.” He plucked the bottle from the waiter’s hand and topped his drink up till foam spilled down the side of the glass. Then toasted them all with it. “I’m gonnae kill every last one of you bastards. Hope you choke.”

The Bellboy knelt by Victor’s ankles, getting the shackles ready as Cameron hoisted the hook-end of the rope up and over the gallows’ arm.

This wasn’t how the weekend was meant to end...

“Wait! Wait!” Michael rushed forward. “You can’t eat him, he’s riddled with cancer!”

The Bellboy and Cameron froze, gazing up at Michael with horror. The guests all did the same, then a smattering of outraged muttering filled the fete.

“Cancer?” The Concierge’s face darkened. “You never mentioned cancer on your medical history, Mr McAllister! This is simply unacceptable!”

“See? So you can’t eat him.”

“Certainly not.” Nose in the air. “We refuse to serve up substandard produce to our honoured guests. But a debt is a debt, and as Mr McAllister is no longer acceptable payment, that burden falls on your shoulders, Mr Harris. Minor celebrity or not.”

Michael swallowed. “Oh fuck...”

Victor tutted. “Aye, you’re a silly bastard, right enough.” Then he took a big gulp of champagne, burped, and tossed the flute straight up, high into the air.

Brother Waiter scrabbled to catch it, which was a mistake. Because while he was distracted, Victor flipped the heavy champagne bottle over and swung it like a tennis racket, catching him right in the face with a splintering crunch.

Tipping over backwards, leaving a spurt of blood behind, Brother Waiter splashed into the loch. But before he’d even hit the water, Victor was swinging the bottle again — crashing it down on the back of Cameron’s head, making a deep dent in the man’s skull. Leaving him sprawled across the grass, twitching.

By which time the champagne flute had returned from its vertical round trip.

Victor caught the thing and slashed it sideways into the Bellboy’s cheek. Shattering the glass. Leaving the stem, sharp as an ice-pick, to rip the eyeball clear out of the guy’s head.

He went down screaming, clutching the ruined, bloody mess. And now that he’d let go of the rope, the hook clattered to the ground.

Sister Waiter reached for her brother’s sinking body, but Victor’s hand jabbed out, burying the flute’s broken stem in her neck. Leaving her choking and gurgling as scarlet bubbled out between her lips. Painting the lochside bright, bright red.

Victor threw his shoulders back. “OH YEAH! I’M A FUCKING ANIMAL!”

Holy shit.

Michael backed away. The whole thing had taken less than a minute.

Sixty seconds, and three people were dead.

The Gamekeeper released the dogs. “Donner, Blitzen: vorstoßen!”

They surged forward, teeth snapping, straight past Michael — standing there like a varnished turd — and making for Victor. The first dog leapt, and the champagne bottle struck again, cracking down on her skull and sending her tumbling into the loch, like a hairy sack of tatties. The other one danced out of reach of the flute’s jagged stem, snarling and barking as she lunged.

The Concierge lowered her phone. “Somebody do something!”

But her new head of security just stood there, with her mouth hanging open, staring at the carnage.

“ENOUGH!” The Gamekeeper raised his shotgun and fired a round into the air.

Which was obviously meant to subdue everyone, but Michael wasn’t as thick as he looked.

Instead, he grabbed the fallen hook — still tied onto the end of its rope — and charged, swinging the thing overhead like a lasso, aiming the sharp lump of metal at the Gamekeeper’s face.

The Gamekeeper batted it away with the shotgun’s barrel, setting both ringing. Then snapped the gun down to shoot Michael in the chest. Only Michael’s momentum kept carrying him forward, so when the bloody thing went off, he was just far enough past the shooty end not to get his guts spread all over the heather. Something slashed across his ribs, though. Taking a chunk of leather jacket and T-shirt with it.

He smashed into the Gamekeeper, the pair of them tumbling onto the tussocky lochside. Fighting for the gun. Snarling and kicking and punching and biting.

Over by the buffet table, one of the richer-looking guests’ eyes bugged as a deep-red stain spread across his chest. Then down he fell, face first into the grass.

Which is when the screaming started and the hotel guests scattered — getting the hell out of there before “friendly fire” claimed another victim.

Somewhere, near the gallows, Victor howled in pain.

Michael and the Gamekeeper struggled, turning over and over, trying to land blows, or find something fleshy to sink their teeth into, down the loch’s bank and into the peaty water. Where everything went horribly wrong, because the Gamekeeper was on top. Ready to play “Drown The Crime Writer” — hands wrapped around Michael’s throat, pushing him down beneath the surface and holding him there.

Michael tightened his grip on the hook, using it to hammer against the bastard’s head as the world began to fade and yellow spots swirled at the edges and his lungs screamed and the sky darkened and every single cell in his body begged for just one more breath.

Hammering away, again, and again, and again, the hook twisting with every blow.

And then something horrible happened.

The hook’s pointy end swung far enough around to meet the Gamekeeper’s temple — with enough force behind it to punch straight through skin and bone, and into the grey matter beneath.

Slack-jawed, the Gamekeeper pitched over sideways, disappearing into the loch as Michael flailed his way to the surface, coughing and spluttering, wheezing and choking. Hauling in great tortured lungfuls of air.

He’d killed someone.

“Oh Jesus...”

He’d actually killed another human being...

A high-pitched yelping burst out from the lochside, and the second dog scarpered away into the distance with her tail between her legs.

Then a hand thumped down on Michael’s shoulder, dragging him upright.

It was Victor — bleeding from a brand-new collection of dog bites, breathing hard, but grinning away like this whole thing was a great adventure.

Michael wiped the water from his eyes and squinted out at what was left of the fete — out of focus now, because his glasses had disappeared somewhere during the fight. All the guests had scarpered, leaving their dead friend behind. Brother Waiter’s body bobbed at the water’s edge, his sister on the shore; Cameron, crumpled by the gallows. No sign of Alex, the Bellboy, or the Concierge.

Hold on — there they were, hoofing it around to the far side of the loch, making for Am Bòrd Mòr’s main building.

The Gamekeeper’s corpse slowly rotated in the water — showing off the big metal hook sticking out of his head — till it was floating face down, tendrils of bright red twisting out into the peaty water.

Michael flinched. “I... I’m sorry.”

Victor thumped him one. “Why didn’t... you just stab... the bastard?”

Stab?

Oh yeah — he still had that dirty-big butcher’s knife clutched in his other hand. “Ah...”

“Amateur.” Victor dragged the Gamekeeper’s corpse back to the shoreline and rummaged through his pockets. “Tell you, I might be dying... but man, I feel more alive... than I’ve done in bloody years.”

“I can’t believe I killed someone...”

“Was him or you, right?”

“But I killed him!”

Victor flipped the body over and went through the back pockets too. “Aye, well, think of it as research and stick it in the next book. Till then, stop whining. Aha! Here we go.” He pulled out a handful of shotgun cartridges. Water dribbled from the puckered plastic ends, but he seemed happy enough to give them a shake and slot a couple into the shotgun before pocketing the rest.

He hobbled his way up the bank to what was left of the buffet table. Every scrap of food was spilled and trampled into the ground.

“Here.” Victor plucked something from a mass of meringue and cream, and held it out.

Michael’s glasses.

Sod.

They were all greasy now.

“Thanks.” Michael popped the knife on the table, freeing up both hands to wipe pavlova from the lenses, then polished them on his soggy, bloodstained T-shirt. Turned out, that shotgun blast had removed a chunk of skin as big as his palm. Probably going to sting like a bastard when the adrenaline rush was gone.

Victor sniffed. “Don’t know about you, Mikey Boy,” he clacked the shotgun shut, “but I’m feeling a mite peckish.”

Vision restored, Michael picked up the big knife. Wielding it like a machete. “Oh, I’m starving.”

Because that’s what he got for skipping breakfast.

A big, evil smile. “Let’s go eat.”

Course 12

Three Blind Mice

Selection of artisanal Cheeses, nitrogen-frozen Sable Grapes, Wholemeal crackers, Morello Cherry butter, and Fig-Apple-&-Habanero chutney

Quinta Da Boeira 40-Year-Old Tawny Port

Victor lumbered along the path, making for the restaurant. Shoulders hunched, shotgun pulled against his chest. Blood oozing from half-a-dozen wolf bites on his legs and bum.

Michael limped along behind him. “What’s the plan?”

“Why’d we need a plan?”

“They want to eat us, that’s why!”

“Nah, they want to eat you. I’m all cancery, remember? ‘Substandard produce’.” He led the way up to the main building, then down the side. Past the empty dining room. “Besides, half these rich pricks will be barricading themselves in their rooms, waiting for someone to fix the problem for them. The other half’ll be in the Manager’s office, queueing up for a go on the satellite phone, so they can call in whatever private security firm they’ve got on retainer. Place is gonna be swarming with mercenaries and ex-cops before you know it.”

“Then we should be heading for the boathouse! Nick their launch and sod off out of here.”

A snort. “Oh, aye? And how we going to start it without the key?”

“You’re a career criminal: HOT-WIRE THE BASTARD!”

Victor shuffled to a halt, outside a set of glazed double doors. “You ever hot-wired a fancy-arse boat? Cause I haven’t. Wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, they’ll come after us. This type always do. And they’ve got those private security firms, remember?”

Sod...

“So, what’s — the — bloody — plan?”

A shrug. “I was thinking something like this.” Victor raised his boot and slam-kicked the doors wide. They bounced off the walls, booming and rattling as he marched inside.

Bloody hell.

Michael hurried in after him, palm sweating on the knife’s grip.

Paintings hung on the corridor wall, interspersed with floral arrangements, four doors leading off: one at the end was marked “RECEPTION”; one on the right, “DINING ROOM”; and a matching pair on the left, “KITCHEN — IN” and “KITCHEN — OUT”.

Michael tried not to sound absolutely terrified. “What if they’re gathering the rest of the staff?”

“Course they are. Wouldn’t you?” Ever the rebel, he shoved his way in through the “OUT” door, shotgun at the ready.

It was a large, well-equipped working kitchen, bustling with activity as the Chef and his staff prepped for lunch. Some sort of classical music wafted out from hidden speakers, all lilting woodwind and strings, because apparently this wasn’t the sort of sweary-shouty culinary battleground you saw on TV.

A wall-mounted board sat on the wall, above the prep area, with a ten-by-two grid on it. Four of the squares were blank, but the other sixteen each contained the photo of a guest, their name, and any dietary requirements. A young man in chef’s whites was up on a chair, taking down Victor’s picture, while everyone else chopped and sliced and whisked and simmered...

The kitchen brigade came to fourteen in total: a mix of male and female, all wearing Am-Bòrd-Mòr-branded whites with their name and position embroidered on the chest. The only things missing were the stupid soufflé hats.

The Chef stood in the centre of his kingdom, thinly slicing raw meat. Could be beef tartare, could be carpaccio of Jehovah’s Witness. With this place, who could tell?

And nobody seemed to have noticed that two bloody and dishevelled, weapon-wielding — and in Michael’s case, dripping-wet — middle-aged men had just staggered into their domain.

That is, until an electronic chime sounded from the speakers, and the music fell silent.

It was replaced by the Concierge’s voice: “Valued colleagues, I’m sorry to say that the unthinkable has happened and two of our guests have made a mockery of our hospitality and become violent.” A long-suffering sigh crackled free. “If you see either Mr Harris or Mr McAllister, please consider them to be extremely dangerous. Especially Mr McAllister.”

With that, the music swelled again, and every head in the place turned to stare at Victor and Michael.

The Sous Chef grabbed herself a meat-tenderising hammer; the Friturier a paring knife and a frying pan; while the Plongeur satisfied himself with a heavy-bottomed saucepan from the pot sink, still dripping with soap suds. The three of them advanced through the maze of stainless-steel worktops.

The Chef put down his knife. “Now, now, let’s not have any trouble. Put the gun down, Mr McAllister.”

Victor’s jaw clenched. “You wankers was gonna cook me.”

The Sous Chef edged closer. “Nothing personal, Mr McAllister. And we’ll make you very, very tasty.”

“Oh, definitely.” A smile from the Friturier. “Sweetbreads in tempura batter. Maybe a nice sour-cherry béarnaise to go with them. Delicious.”

Michael shifted his feet on the white tiled floor. Keeping his voice low. “What are we going to do?”

Victor raised the shotgun. “Hands up, any fucker wants to get in the walk-in and live.”

No one raised their hand.

“Ah well, can’t say I didnae offer.” And just like that, he shot the Sous Chef in the chest.

She flew backwards over a workstation, sending a Commis Chef’s chopped veg exploding into the air — a brunoise of carrots, onion, and fennel mingling with the mist of blood.

The thundering BOOM echoed back and forth between the metal-lined walls.

Victor waited for it to fade away, then sniffed. “Let’s try that again. Hands up, any fucker—”

The entire brigade grabbed their nearest weapon and charged.

Victor’s second shotgun blast took the head clean off the Plongeur, bright red fountaining up to the ceiling as his heavy-bottomed pan clang-clattered down against the floor.

The Friturier must’ve slipped on the spilled washing-up foam, because she went over backwards — her skull bounced off the floor with a sharp crack.

A berserker’s howl tore through the classical music, and the Saucier leapt over the Plongeur’s headless corpse, swinging a big bottle of sherry vinegar. Victor didn’t even have time to break the shotgun, never mind reload. So he used the thing as a baseball bat — the gun’s butt smashing into the Saucier’s face, sending him spinning like a top. And down he went.

“YOU’RE RUINING LUNCH!” The Poissonier hurdled the fallen bodies, wheeching a filleting knife around her head like a bendy-bladed samurai sword.

Victor grabbed her arms, but she was a big lass — pushing him against the worktop, bending him over backwards. The blade inched closer and closer to his eye. “Little help!”

Michael blinked at the dirty-big butcher’s knife in his hand, then at Victor. Yeah, no way he was ready to stab anyone. But he couldn’t just stand there, doing nothing, while she filleted Victor...

So Michael grabbed the Plongeur’s fallen, soapy pan and whanged the Poissonier in the face with it. Teeth and blood sprayed out across the stainless-steel surfaces, but she stayed upright. A second blow took care of that.

Yeah! That was more like it.

He could do this.

Michael surged forward as Victor reloaded, parrying the Boucher’s cleaver with the pot.

The Boucher snarled and swung again, but Michael ducked — only just in time, because the blade lopped an inch off his hair, before embedding itself horizontally across the Commis Chef’s face. As if he’d just grown a metal shelf in the middle of his head. Eyes wide, the Commis Chef slumped forward into a hot frying pan and stayed there, sizzling.

“Now look what you’ve done!” The Boucher lunged for another knife, but Michael shoulder-charged him — sending the big bastard stumbling forward. Bringing his reaching hand into contact with the bacon slicer. Bits of finger bounced off the worktop as screams ripped free and bright scarlet spurted all over the splashback.

Victor’s shotgun roared again, and the Boulanger parted company with her lower jaw.

A narrow-faced, muscly bastard advanced on Michael, Frankenstein-tall, with a red beard and “RÔTISSEUR” embroidered on his chef’s whites. He held a big metal roasting tin in his left hand, while the right clutched a meat thermometer like a stainless-steel stiletto — the metal spine flashing forward, straight at Michael’s face.

Blood sparked from Michael’s cheek, swiftly followed by stinging, searing pain. He retaliated with the pan, but it clanged against the Rôtisseur’s roasting-tin shield.

The meat thermometer stabbed again, catching the sleeve of Michael’s jacket, jabbing straight through the soggy leather, inflicting what had to be terrible damage to his arm, then out the other side.

Michael screamed and flailed his mortally punctured arm, tearing the thermometer from the Rôtisseur’s grasp as the big pot skittered away across a workstation.

The Rôtisseur grabbed him by the face, shoving him along the stainless-steel surface towards the built-in deep-fat friers and their roiling tanks of scalding fat.

No...

Another BOOM rattled around the kitchen, red mist tainting the air with copper and salt as the Entremetier lost a big chunk of his chest.

The friers loomed closer.

OK, Michael was officially ready to stab someone.

But the butcher’s knife just bounced off the Rôtisseur’s shield.

A snarl and the big bastard slammed the roasting tin down on Michael’s hand, sending the blade clattering off to join the heavy-bottomed saucepan. Then he went back to dragging Michael towards his deep-fried doom.

There had to be something...

Michael’s fingers latched on to what looked like a turkey baster. But jabbing it into the guy’s neck achieved bugger all — the bloody thing wasn’t even sharp enough to break the skin.

A smile ripped across the Rôtisseur’s face. “Just be glad I didn’t panné you first!”

Jesus, buggering, wankfuck...

The Rôtisseur reached out and cranked up the temperature on the friers, setting the hot fat crackling and spitting. “I think... medium rare.”

Ah!

Michael thrust the turkey baster’s nozzle into the boiling oil, squeezed the bulb, then let it swell with an in-rush of grease. He snatched the thing up, bringing the nozzle an inch from the Rôtisseur’s eyes, and crushed the bulb again. Turning his own head away, covering his face with a leather-and-temperature-probe-clad arm as the scalding splashback rained down.

There was a moment of shocked silence, a hard intake of breath, and the Rôtisseur howled. Rearing back, both hands over his freshly cooked eyes. Screaming and screaming and screaming.

The shotgun barked again, and this time everyone... sort of shuffled to a halt. Well, everyone who was left: only the Pâtissier, the Garde Manger, the other Commis Chef, and the Chef himself were still standing. The rest of la Brigade de Cuisine were either unconscious, screeching in pain, or dead.

“Last chance.” Victor reloaded, then aimed the gun at the Chef’s bald head. “‘Hands up, any fucker who wants to get in the walk-in fridge and live.’”

One by one, the survivors raised their hands.

“Aye, I thought as much. Mikey, get the door.”

Clutching his punctured arm — and being really brave, because that was clearly a life-threatening injury — Michael limped over to the walk-in and opened the door.

Victor nodded at the remaining staff. “In. And take these bastards with you. Even the deid ones.”

Took a while, but eventually they dragged their fallen comrades into the walk-in fridge, then went back for the walking wounded. Including the Rôtisseur, whose eyes now looked like soft-poached eggs in his bright-red, blistered face. No tears, though. Either because he was phenomenally stoic, or because Michael had cooked his tear ducts...

Soon as they were all inside, Michael slammed the heavy door shut and secured it with a sharpening steel through the hasp. They were going nowhere.

Victor picked the big knife off the workbench and held it out. “You OK?”

Seriously?

“No!” Michael held up his arm with the temperature probe sticking through it. “Look at me! HOW COULD I BE OK?”

“Hud on.” Victor hooked two fingers around the display and yanked the whole thing free. “Better?”

Michael screamed — scrambling out of his leather jacket to expose the pumping fountain of arterial blood that painted the... Hold on. A teeny red welt snaked across his bicep.

“Oooo, nasty. We may have to amputate.” Victor flipped the cover off the walk-in fridge’s controls and poked at the buttons, sending the numbers on the display tumbling down from four degrees centigrade to one. But no matter how many times he prodded, it wouldn’t go any lower. “With any luck the bastards’ll still get hypothermia.”

Michael grabbed a handful of J Cloths and wiped the grease from his face. Or at least spread it around a bit. “What now?”

“Now we get ourselves a wee insurance policy, then we nick the boat keys, and then we do a runner, before the professional vicious bastards arrive. OK with you?”

“Bloody wonderful.”

Michael limped back out into the corridor, the skin on his neck and the top of his head beginning to itch where the boiling-fat splashback had hit. Because he wasn’t sore enough already. With his burning throat, throbbing knees, and aching fingers. Hair was greasy as hingin’ mince too.

Victor hurpled along behind him, taking bites out of a chicken leg he’d found in the kitchen. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“Lost my appetite.” What with all the bloodshed and destruction.

“Shame, it’s got a chimichurri sauce that’s really...” He stopped dead as the door at the end burst open and two small figures leapt into the corridor, both dressed in grey-and-black housekeeping uniforms with red pinnies on over the top. One male, one female, with delicate, doll-like features and identical haircuts — like the waiters. Only shorter.

They glared at Victor and Michael, then launched into a whirling display of martial-arts punches and kicks, sweeping legs and arms, ending the display poised like cobras, ready to strike.

Michael swallowed and tightened his grip on the dirty-big knife.

Hadn’t they been through enough?

And this pair looked really sodding dangerous, so, maybe—

Victor’s shotgun bellowed, and blood Jackson-Pollocked across the white walls. The woman stared at her fallen comrade/brother, then bared her teeth and charged. The shotgun roared again. One more scarlet painting added to the hotel’s collection.

Michael frowned at the fallen bodies, then at Victor. “Alex said you were just a bagman. A glorified bean counter.”

“Did she?” He broke the shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridges, and slotted two more into place. “That’s nice.” Clack. He stepped over the housekeepers and shoved through the door into Reception.

No sign of anyone, but a smear of dark red marred the desk’s polished surface — the only hint that things might not be OK in Hotelworld.

Victor marched round behind the desk and kicked the Manager’s door open. Shoulders back, shotgun up. Glowering at whoever was inside. “Aye, I want to complain about my room last night!”

Michael limped in after him, knife at the ready.

It was a large office, with a tartan carpet and lots of hunting prints. A leather-button sofa sat beneath an array of Scottish mountaintops, a pair of matching armchairs bracketing an olde-worlde coffee table, while a row of filing cabinets sat against the opposite wall.

An ugly modern desk looked very out of place at the end of the room, topped by a slim laptop, an ashtray, and a United-Nations-style microphone with two red buttons. And the whole place was bathed in the sweet, leathery scent of cherry pipe tobacco.

The Concierge leaned against the windowsill, still dressed in her cloak, the hood thrown back. No sign of the Bellboy or Alex.

A man sat behind the desk: thin, with gravestone features; shoulder-length grey hair; a tweed three-piece suit; and a clipped public-school accent. “Ah, Mr McAllister. I understand you’re unhappy with your stay at Am Bòrd Mòr?”

“‘Unhappy’?” Victor’s eyes bugged. “THESE BASTARDS TRIED TO KILL AND EAT ME!”

A small sigh slipped free. “I understand Elizabeth has informed you of Mr MacDougal’s intentions in sponsoring your visit here? If you’re unhappy with the arrangements you really need to take it up with him.”

The shotgun pointed right at his grey face. “How about I take it up with you?”

Michael hobbled over to the filing cabinets and tried a drawer. Locked. “Bet you keep all sorts of files in here, don’t you. On your ‘guests’.”

“That information is confidential under the Data Protection—”

A rattling BOOM ripped the air apart, and a watercolour of the Aonach Eagach ridge exploded, raining glittering shards of glass and splintered frame onto the tartan carpet. A trio of bright-red dots appeared on the Manager’s face, welling up then weeping blood down his cheek. He didn’t even flinch.

The Concierge stepped forward, fists clenched.

But the Manager waved her back again. “Really, Mr McAllister, this kind of melodrama is beneath us both.” He reached for his pipe, setting a match to the bowl as he puffed. As if baldy gangsters blowing paintings off his wall was an everyday occurrence. “I’m sure we can come to some form of understanding.”

They could indeed.

Michael banged a hand down on top of a filing cabinet. “We want the keys to these, and the boat.”

“That wasn’t the ‘understanding’ I was thinking of.” Puff, puff, puff. “How about we guarantee you safe passage to the mainland? Mr MacDougal will have to find alternative arrangements to settle his account.”

Victor shrugged. “And how do we know you’re no’ gonnae come after us?”

“A man’s word is his bond, Mr McAllister.”

He chewed on that for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, I suppose it is.”

Which is when the Concierge made a lunge for the gun.

Too slow, though — Victor snatched it back out of reach. “Naughty.”

She shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for try—”

The blast punched a hole where her eyes and nose used to be, making the back of her head pop like a San Marzano tomato.

The Manager sat there, lips pursed, as brains and blood spattered down all around him — filling the room with the scent of raw meat. Which actually went quite well with the sweet cherry tobacco. He brushed a clot of glistening bits off his desk. “That was... regrettable. Good help is terribly difficult to find these days.”

Victor reloaded.

Michael banged the filing cabinet again. “Keys. Or you’re next.”

Another long-suffering sigh. “Mr Harris, you seem to misunderstand the gravity of your situation. You and your friend have now killed five members of my staff and mutilated a sixth.”

Michael glanced at the shotgun. “Yeah... The number might’ve gone up a teeny bit since—”

“Which would be bad enough, but your actions also resulted in the death of one of our most honoured guests! I shudder to think what the American Embassy will say when they find out. They can be most... vindictive.”

Victor sniffed. “You wanna see vindictive, son? I once skinned a man with a Stanley knife. Now give us them keys.”

“You’d be wise to accept my offer, Mr McAllister, because if you don’t, I guarantee you’ll spend the rest of your life—”

The shotgun bellowed.

“Oh...” The Manager raised both eyebrows, then slumped forward, forehead banging down against the desk.

“That’s the thing about stage-four cancer — rest of my life’s no’ that long.” Victor hurpled around behind the desk, and rummaged through the drawers. Then tossed a set of keys to Michael, on his way to the door. “Grab what you can, but be quick.”

“Where are you going?”

“Sort out a couple wee things.” Victor pointed at the Manager’s body. “Like the deid guy said: a man’s word is his bond.” And he was gone.

“OK...” Michael stood for a moment, blinking at the two corpses, then gave himself a shake. Weird how quickly you became accustomed to this kind of thing.

Anyway: files.

He worked his way through the keys, and unlocked the first cabinet — scooping out folders and piling them on top. Which was no sodding use. Not without something to put them in.

A holdall would be nice.

But there was nothing like that in the Manager’s office.

Unless...

Michael grabbed the seat cushion from the sofa and turned it over. OK, so it didn’t have a zip, but the dirty-big knife sliced through one end easily enough, meaning he could dig out the stuffing. Then replace it with the files.

Took a bit of doing, but eventually the thing bulged like a leathery testicle.

He unlocked the next cabinet and went to work again.

Ten minutes later he had three overstuffed cushions, which weren’t exactly easy to carry. But with a bit of awkward fiddling, he got them all picked up. Just.

Time to go.

He’d almost made it to the door... then hurried back to the desk, doing his best not to step in any lumps of Concierge.

Michael grabbed the microphone.

Those two buttons were clarted with gore, but the labels were still readable: “INTERNAL” and “EXTERNAL”. He flicked away a nugget of skull and pressed both. “Attention all guests and staff.”

His voice echoed back at him through the open office door — so that was working.

“We’ve got proof you’re involved in this whole cannibal horror show. And if you try causing trouble for us, or come after us, or any of that shite, it’ll hit the internet faster than a D-list celebrity’s sex tape.” That should do it.

Bit rude, though.

Michael pressed the buttons again. “Thank you for having us.”

Much better.

He gathered up his sofa cushions and legged it.

It should’ve been nice and warm, standing in the sun, but somehow... wasn’t. The longer he stood there — on the far side of the loch, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for Victor to finally show — the more ice spread through Michael’s bones.

Maybe he was coming down with something?

Pfff...

Wonder if you could get tetanus from stainless-steel temperature probes?

Surely a professional kitchen would clean and sterilise things like that.

Wouldn’t they?

Finally, Victor lumbered up the path, shotgun held across his chest. “Had to check for wee dogs.” He bustled straight past Michael, heading for the woods. “Shall we?”

“It’s OK, I don’t need any help!” Michael gathered up the file-stuffed cushion covers before hobbling after him. “Wait, ‘wee dogs’? Victor? What did you do?”

No reply — he didn’t even slow down.

“Victor? Victor!”

Michael hauled the boathouse doors open, revealing the inlet’s sun-sparkled waters. High overhead, a sea eagle circled in the pale-blue sky. But he was sore and tired, so it could fuck off.

He was just getting the second door locked back, when the boat’s engine growled and gurgled into life.

Victor’s head poked out of the wheelhouse. “Cast off!”

Took a minute to figure out how to do that, but eventually Michael got the ropes untangled and clambered aboard. Collapsing into one of the nice, upholstered seats.

Victor piloted them out of the boathouse. He’d found a yachting cap from somewhere, and it perched atop his bald head at a jaunty angle as The Selkie’s Grace puttered away from the shore. Off in the distance, a thick pall of black smoke reached up into the air. More or less where the hotel should be.

Michael sat upright. “You didn’t...?”

“Didn’t I?”

Then a flash of brilliant white lit up the dark plume from below, tearing the smoke apart as a huge ball of flame appeared, followed by a muffled crump. A couple of Calor Gas canisters seared up into the sky, leaving brown contrails behind. One of them splashed down in the water ahead of the boat.

“Jesus...” Michael ducked, staring as the fireball faded and the smoke thickened once more. “At least tell me you let the kitchen staff out the fridge first!”

“Knew I forgot something.” A wink. “That’s the trouble with dementia, Mikey: makes you a wee bitty absent-minded.”

The inlet swept around a bend, and there — straight ahead — was open sea.

Off to the left, a figure staggered out of the forest, onto the clifftop.

Bloody hell, was that Alex?

It was! Looking more than a little singed, as if she’d just escaped from a burning building moments before it blew up. She stared out at the launch, then rushed towards them, waving her arms. “HEY! OVER HERE!”

Victor curled his lip. “Can you hear anything?”

Michael scowled. “Maybe it’s the wind.”

“COME ON, YOU KNOW I WAS ON YOUR SIDE ALL ALONG, RIGHT? IT WAS A TRIPLE-CROSS! THEY THOUGHT I WAS WORKING FOR THEM, BUT I WAS UNDERMINING EVERYTHING THEY DID!”

Bollocks.

“WHERE DO YOU THINK I’VE BEEN THIS WHOLE TIME? BREAKING INTO THE COMMUNICATIONS SHED AND CONTACTING THE AUTHORITIES!”

“You listening to this, Mikey?” Victor stuck his head out the wheelhouse window again. “FUCK OFF, YOU TRAITOROUS SHITEWANK! THEY TRIED TO KILL US, AND YOU HELPED THEM!”

“MICHAEL? COME ON, MICHAEL, YOU DON’T BELIEVE THAT, DO YOU?” She was struggling to keep up now, moving slower. “I SABOTAGED THE PHONE LINES, SO THEY COULDN’T CALL IN THEIR BLACK-OPS TEAMS! THE BLOODY HELICOPTERS WOULD BE ON THEIR WAY NOW, IF IT WASN’T FOR ME!”

Maybe she had a point.

Michael limped his way to the railing. Cupped his hands around his mouth to make a loudhailer. “ALEX!”

Her smile flashed out like a lighthouse beam. “MICHAEL!”

“YOU DON’T GET TO REWRITE THIS SO YOU’RE THE HERO. YOU’RE JUST A BIT-PART MINOR VILLAIN!” Then he turned around, dropped his trousers, and mooned her with both cheeks.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Victor opened the throttle and The Selkie’s Grace surged forward.

“HEY!” Alex started running again. “COME BACK HERE, YOU BASTARDS! HEY!” Stopping at the cliff edge, swearing and swinging her fists about as they roared away.

Victor grinned. “Where we gonna stop for lunch?”

“After all we’ve been through?”

“Life’s short, Mikey Boy, you gotta take your opportunities for a good feed wherever you can.”

On the shoreline, a bunch of hotel guests were gathered together in a shell-shocked clump, still wearing their execution-party finery, with that column of smoke rising behind them. Staring after the boat.

Michael pulled his trousers up again.

“Mikey, did I ever tell you about this guy I used to know, called French Bob? The MacDougal brothers told him to get rid of a bunch of gypsies parked up on a mate of theirs’ land?”

Michael forced a smile. “Nope, never heard that one before.”

“Ah, cool. Right, so, French Bob’s not the sharpest spoon in the cutlery drawer, and he figures the best way to shift the gypsies on is burn down a couple of their caravans, only the silly bastard doesn’t know that there’s this wee dog in one of them, see?”

After all, what was the harm in listening to the same old story, if it made Victor happy?

He’d earned that.

And then some...

Tea/Coffee and Petit Fours

It was always nice to get a good long queue. They stretched from Michael’s signing table at the back of the store, along “CHILDREN’S”, past “RELIGION & POLITICS”, via “CRIME & THRILLER”, and all the way out through the front door. Where the punters could amuse themselves while they waited by taking selfies in front of a very impressive window display featuring a big poster screaming “INTERNATIONAL #1 BESTSELLER M.D. HARRIS SIGNS HIS NEW BLOCKBUSTER THRILLER: THE TASTING MENU!”, stacks of books, and the cannibal dinner party one of the booksellers had mocked up out of papier mâché and a ton of red paint.

It was a good queue for Aberdeen — lots of excited chatter in the ranks as they waited to meet their literary idol and get their books signed.

His new publisher had even sent a publicist along to hold his hand, buy him dinner, and keep the more-obvious nutters at bay. Which made a nice sodding change. She prowled the queue with a packet of Post-its, making sure each book had a clearly printed note of who it was meant to be signed to. Didn’t hurt that she was young, blonde, and really rather pretty — in a spotty-dress, high-boots, and gleaming-smile kind of way.

Michael looked up from the table, Sharpie in hand as the latest in a long line of readers fawned all over him.

She must’ve been one of the regulars, going by the crime-book-festival sweatshirt clarted in cat hair. “I have to say I love your work! You’re just the best. Absolutely wonderful. I was up all night reading it!”

Michael gave her a modest little nod. “That’s very sweet of you to say so.” He flourished his Sharpie. “Who shall I make it to?”

The larger of the two could barely contain herself, clutching her copy as if it was a hot-water bottle on a cold winter’s night. “God, and when they said it wasn’t going to be a gangster book, I was kinda disappointed, but wow!” She pulled a face and bounced a bit, setting everything jiggling beneath her lunch-break-from-the-office clothes, lanyard flapping.

Her identically dressed friend nodded. “Wow!”

“Is it true Ewan McGregor’s going to play the writer? That’s so cool.”

Her friend whipped out a phone. “Can we get a selfie?”

“Yeah, can you make it out to my nan, Barbara?” The boy couldn’t have been a day over sixteen: slack of limb, round of shoulder, and bored of face. With a haircut that made him look like a massive twat. “She likes books and that, but I’m more Grand Theft Auto, you know?”

It was entirely possible that if the woman in the bank teller’s uniform blushed any harder, her head would pop. She stared at Michael, wide-eyed and trembling. Going “Eeep...” from time to time.

At least she’d brought a friend along to translate — a wee round woman with lots of tattoos, a biker’s jacket, pink hair, and Doc Martens. “Nah, she loves your books, don’t you, Madge?”

“Eeep...”

“I mean, a cannibal restaurant on a teeny island off the coast of Scotland’s right up her street, isn’t it, Madge?”

The blush got even darker, but her head didn’t pop. “Eeeeeeeeeep...”

“Yeah. She loves all that dark, gory stuff, don’t you, Madge?”

“Eeep...”

It was kind of sweet, really.

Michael’s publicist paced the bookshop floor, on her phone, a wee crease between her perfectly groomed brows. “Depends: how many Michelin stars has it got?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh... Look, Mr Harris is happy to be interviewed, but you can’t just take him to Burger King, OK?”

The queue had finally gone, leaving Michael with nothing left to do but sign a bit of stock before the driver wheeched them up the road to the warm embrace of Elgin Waterstones. He scrawled his way through half a dozen hardbacks, then checked his phone again.

Still nothing new from Victor. Just the short exchange from yesterday.

VICTOR:

We still on for Monday night?

ME:

Course we are. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

VICTOR:

Cool. Got us an invite to a VERY exclusive supper club in Portobello. BYOB!!!

ME:

AAAAAARGH! Remember what happened last time?!?!?!

Everything after that was just Michael texting into the void...

ME:

My agent says the TV people are after another true-crime series. You up for it?

ME:

Cat got your tongue? Or have you had another relapse?

ME:

I fancy sushi before the event — what do you think?

ME:

Victor, are you OK? Drop me a text to let me know.

“Is everything all right, Mr Harris?”

Michael looked up from his phone to find an earnest young man with a big beard, a ponytail, and a Waterstones lanyard. Not quite hipster material, but not far off it.

“Would you like another tea?”

“No, I’m good.” Throwing in a “Thanks”, because only arseholes and idiots were rude to booksellers.

“Excellent. Great. Look, I know we’re officially way past the official signing, but there’s a couple more readers who’d love a book dedicated, if that’s all right?” Looking hopeful.

“Course it is.”

A smell, like oranges and washing-up liquid, coloured the air, and when Michael turned, Sharpie and smile at the ready...

Oh shit.

It was the little old lady. From the boat. And the island. What was it. Olive? No: Olivia.

She beamed at him, clutching a copy of The Tasting Menu, with the receipt poking out the top. “Mr Harris! It’s so lovely to see you again! Isn’t it, Muriel?”

Oh God, there were two of them.

The taller, jolly-hockey-sticks sister loomed over the table. “Got to say: this?” Waggling a copy of her own. “Bloody loved it. Especially the gruesome bits.”

He stared. “It... You...”

“Luckily, Olivia and I were out of the way when the place went kablooey. Dear Lord, the mess! Bits of kitchen and building and people everywhere.”

Olivia nodded, setting her jowls quivering. “Quite distressing really...”

“And what should we see, in the rubble, but the hotel safe. Cracked open like a walnut! Well, we jolly well got in there before any other bugger thought of it.” She plonked her book on the table. “Can you make it out to ‘My good friend Muriel: happy eating’?”

“Are you all right, Mr Harris? You look a little unwell. Doesn’t he, Muriel?”

“Tell you, there was quite the to-do when the emergency services finally showed up. Bit of a pissing contest between them and the private-security chaps, eh? But it’s amazing how quickly the bigwigs running the country can make things go away when they want to.”

“We had dinner with a crown prince and a prime minister, once.”

“Lovely table manners for a politician.”

Muscle memory finally kicked in and Michael signed her book.

“And now we’re opening a hotel of our own. Isn’t that something? Which reminds me...” Olivia dug into her handbag and pulled out an envelope. “Here. We’re having a grand opening! And it would mean so much to us to have you there.”

Michael stared at the invitation, then the old ladies, then the invitation again, then the old ladies...

He blinked.

Fuck.

His trembling finger pointed towards the front of the shop. “Is that...?”

Muriel checked, then nodded. “Hang on, I’ll call her over.”

It was Alex: dressed in a sharp black suit, red shirt, and white tie, carrying a hessian bag-for-life. She’d changed a bit since he’d last seen her on the clifftop — the new pixie cut suited her, but the eyepatch was a bit alarming.

She marched over as Muriel waved, coming to rest about six feet away from the signing table, by a display of Roald Dahl rip-offs “written” by functionally illiterate celebrities. Her voice was cold as a walk-in chiller. “Michael.”

He swallowed. “Alex.”

Muriel scooped up the signed book. “Miss Raith is our head of security now. Well, after what happened at Am Bòrd Mòr, we thought it would be best to hire one. Head off any trouble before it happens, eh? Not wait till half the staff are dead and the place is about to explode.”

“Ladies.” Alex performed a small bow. “The car’s waiting, and there’s a new intern for you to interview. A nice, young, fit, vegetarian one.”

“Ooooh.” Olivia bounced in place, eyes wide as she clapped her palms together. “We better not keep them waiting. Don’t want to seem rude.” She beamed at Michael. “It’s been lovely seeing you again, and we do hope you can come.”

A nod from Muriel. “Mr Harris.” Then she offered her sister an arm, and together they hobbled away. Leaving him alone with Alex.

Michael cleared his throat. “How’ve you been? You know, after the thing.”

The chiller’s temperature dropped to well below freezing. “Oh, I’ve been just... dandy since you abandoned me on that bloody island.”

“You screwed us over first.”

Silence.

Over in “HEALTH & WELLBEING”, somebody coughed.

Alex checked her watch — a chunky gold Rolex. “Did you hear? Victor went walkabout from the care home last night. Just... disappeared.”

What?

She smiled. “People with dementia are like that, though, aren’t they. Never know what they’re going to do next. I do hope nothing bad’s happened.”

Michael scraped his seat back and stood, fists clenched. “What did you do, Alex? Where’s Victor?”

“Here: for old times’ sake.” She dug into her bag-for-life, coming out with a clear plastic bag of what looked like sausages. Not the antiseptic, supermarket, comes-in-a-plastic-tray kind of sausages, but proper butcher’s snorkers.

Alex dumped the bag on the table. “You should come to the grand opening. You’ll love it.” A pause. “To paraphrase the great Hannibal Lecter, ‘We’re having friends for dinner.’” She gave Michael a mocking salute, then sauntered out of the bookshop, disappearing into the shopping-centre crowd.

He licked his lips, blinking down at the sausages. Then picked them up with trembling hands. Cold and slithery.

Michael dropped them as if they were poisoned.

Wiped his hands on his shirt.

Then grabbed his phone.

Yes, but who to call?

The files he’d nicked from the Manager’s office were liberally sprinkled with senior police officers, high-ranking politicians, newspaper tycoons, and the boards of several major broadcasters. Most of whom were probably involved in covering up the massacre at Am Bòrd Mòr, and might not be too keen on him opening that particular tureen of worms. And—

His phone rang, buzzing in his hand. Making him flinch so hard he had to scramble to catch the thing before it hit the carpet.

“JESSICA CAVENDISH” glowed in the middle of the screen.

He poked the icon. “Jessica, now’s not really a good—”

“Michael! How’s my favourite client?” Not waiting for an answer. “Great. Look, I’ve got a bidding war going on for the next book, and it would make my life so much easier if you actually told me what it’s going to be about.”

“It... I...” He stared at the glistening bag of unspeakable sausages. Shuddered. Swallowed. “Think I’ve just had an idea for a sequel to The Tasting Menu?”

“How wonderful, darling!” A purr of satisfaction came down the line. “We’ll make a killing...”

Content

Stuart MacBride
The Tasting Menu

Amuse-Bouche Three Billy Goats Gruff

Course 1 But a Mermaid Has No Tears

Course 2 A Princess’s Kiss To Break the Spell

Course 3 White As Snow

Course 4 Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum

Course 5 I’ll Huff and I’ll Puff...

Course 6 The Sky Is Falling In

Course 7 Into the Deep Dark Woods

Course 8 You Shall Go To the Ball

Course 9 To Sleep for a Hundred Years

Course 10 My, What Big Eyes You Have

Course 11 The Witch’s House

Course 12 Three Blind Mice

Tea/Coffee and Petit Fours