The Tasting Menu

Course 1 But a Mermaid Has No Tears

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

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.”