Death at the Sawney Bean (1/3)

If you want to know about the grisly business at the Sawney Bean Hotel, I’m your man from amuse-bouche to le Crémeux du Mont Saint-Michel. I was there when it happened and even played a small part in unveiling the secret of the murder, so can tell you all about it.

Before going too far into this, I should introduce myself. My name’s Gordy McAllister and ever since I was a wee lad I’ve wanted be a celebrity chef like Paul Bocuse or Wolfgang Puck. I come from a long line of Glaswegian publicans so this must have seemed mad to my folks but they were generous enough to encourage my dreams. While still a teenager I won a place in Le Cordon Bleu and then sweated my way into some top kitchens on the continent. About twenty years ago I came home, gutted the family pub and transformed it into one of the country’s premier fine-dining destinations called Bòrd.

This occasion at the Sawney was a retreat for the top cooks in Europe. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to one of these things? The idea is that you spend a weekend talking about your hobby horse with those similarly afflicted. Just as there are retreats for accountants, nurses and scholars of Early Renaissance skin diseases, there are also retreats for top chefs. It’s usually held in a hotel where there’s nothing else to do but admire the view so you might as well go downstairs and talk shop (i.e. gossip, flirt and gripe).

The view on this occasion was one of Loch Lomond. Very nice it was too—atmospheric mist, shining lake, muted-nature tones, tuneful waterfowl, et cetera--but to someone like me, the fascination of a view is limited. I prefer to be where the people are.

The gimmick of this retreat was that each chef would be responsible for preparing one meal over the course of the weekend. This cocktail party was going to be held by the most glamorous member of our group, Wilhelmina ‘Billie’ Prendergast. She was reportedly a not-too-distant relative of the royal family and lived in a terribly posh part of Buckinghamshire. Her TV program was wildly popular all over the world. This was largely thanks to her sex appeal, which I couldn’t initially see--the blonde and buxom matron isn’t my type. That said, even I fell under her spell that night when I went down to the party and saw her in a rose-pink cocktail gown.

“Gordon! Gordon McAllister?” she squealed and bustled over to me like an exotic pink pigeon. “My goodness, I’ve been looking forward to this moment forever!” I won’t lie, it is pleasant to be greeted in such an enthusiastic way by a pretty and famous woman. Soon enough we were getting along like a house afire.

“Gordon, you must try my duck wraps.” A waiter approached with a silver platter on which were arranged large ceramic spoons, each containing an attractive morsel. She took up one of the ceramic white spoons and personally fed me a mouthful of heaven. I was stunned. Part of it had nothing to do with the food, of course. There was an enchantment about the proximity of those bright-red talons, the sparkle of her diamond rings, the pink sequins of her dress, the blinding white of her teeth—it was so sensorily overwhelming that I closed my eyes to focus on the issue at hand. That’s when I could really focus on the taste…my God how marvellous.

“What on earth is in this?” I said, slavering.

“That would be telling,” she smiled and touched the side of her nose with one of those talons.

“I’m in love!” I exclaimed, only half joking.

The other chefs were equally stunned by the exquisite flavours. We spent a good half hour trying to deconstruct the ingredients judging from the clues lingering like the reverberation of bells on our palates. The consensus was that it was a succulent piece of marinated duck that had been filled with an ingenious blend of thick cheese and some kind of smoked meat. Ham? Sprinkled at either end were the crumbs of some sweet malty biscuit.

Despite our pleading, Billie refused to spill the beans. Instead, she said she had something even more wonderful planned for the Sunday evening dinner. For some reason, possibly her massive celebrity, she had been allowed to be responsible for two dinners instead of one.

As I mingled with the others, I noticed that one of the other chefs was not nearly so enthusiastic as the others. Andrea Caballero, a dark-eyed woman who favoured Monserrat Caballe, was a native of Barcelona and ran the best restaurant in that city. As we heaped praise on Billie’s skills, she scowled with savage intensity. Strangely, I noticed she’d wrapped one of the snacks in a napkin and tucked it into her handbag.

We were pals—she’d hosted me at her hacienda many times—so I teased her about it.

“Keeping it for a midnight snack?” I joked, after coming up behind her.

She jumped a little but then gave me a mysterious smile.

“No. It is only that I may analyze it.”

“Ah, I see,” I said. “Going to see you if you can reverse-engineer it?”

“By no means,” she grimaced. “I take it to see, for my curiosity.”

I didn’t think about this much until afterwards.

The next morning I got up early to prepare the breakfast. I made a buffet featuring (among other things) spiced oat porridge, neep-and-tatie hash browns, whisky-and-blaeberry sausages, potato scones, rollmops, salmon and fife bannock with cranachan spread. It was a rare pleasure because, me being a Glaswegian boy, I was itching to show off the local treasures. Make no bones about it, I’m a Scottish patriot born and bred. The tables, if I may say so, were looking fine with their rose-and-thistle floral arrangements.

I wanted it to be a casual affair so the guests could come and go as they pleased. I noticed after an hour, though, that Andrea had not come down. It annoyed me. I’ll be honest: I have a temper. My friends will all tell you I’m a crabbit auld bastard. I knew how long she took over getting ready in the mornings, putting on makeup and doing her hair and all that faff. How dare she fiddle over that instead of trying the bangers, which I’d made with her in mind. I decided to go up to her room and have it out with her.

I knocked loudly. No answer.

“Andrea, hen! For sakes, what are ye doing? The breakfast is getting cold as a narwhal’s bawbag!”

Nothing.

For all her primping, Andrea was not really one to miss her meals. And she was definitely not the type to freeze you out. Fly off the handle and shout in your face? At the drop of a hat. The silent treatment? Never.

At that moment a cleaner hove into view, pushing her trolley of supplies. I flagged her down and said that my friend wasn’t answering—could she open the door please? The cleaner, a young woman, took out a keycard and opened the door.

The room was empty. The bed had not been slept in.

My first thought was that Andrea must have hopped into bed with one of the other chefs, and was now sleeping off the hangover induced by her orgy. She was a single woman and she liked her asuntos as much as she liked her food. So, even though it seemed out of character, I decided that she had rather rudely decided to sleep in without telling me and it couldn’t be helped.

I returned to the breakfast hall—after all, it was my responsibility—and forgot about Andrea for the time being. The others were very nice about my breakfast and gave me so many compliments that I was well and truly puffed up with the sin of pride. Billie Prendergast, who was looking fresh and lovely in a yellow dress, was particularly enthusiastic.

“So refreshingly simple, Gordon,” she said. “And filled with the Scottish spirit. I can almost see Robbie Burns tripping over the heath in his kilt when I sink my teeth into these taties.”

The whole thing was rather exhilarating and put heart in me. I thought, rather vengefully, that Andrea had dropped the ball this time and would regret it when she heard reports from her new enamorado. I’d gloat over it at lunch.

But before lunch came around, we heard the scream.