The Tasting Menu

Course 4 Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum

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

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.”