The Tasting Menu

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

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...