The Tasting Menu

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

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!”