Both Sam and the Chicagoan went over to the boat, and the captain helped them aboard.

"You'll be the last two then," he said. Ruddy-cheeked, bushy-sideburned, twinkly-eyed, he was the living epitome of a salty old fisherman.

"If you say so," said the Chicagoan. "How many others have there been?"

"Ten all told. Three trips I've done today, there and back. Why you couldn't all come at once I don't know. But then what do I care? I'm getting paid by the journey, and good money too!"

He started up the engine, brought the boat about, and soon they were pulling out of the harbour, onto the open sea.

Other than the wheelhouse, which had room for the captain only, there was no cover on deck. Sam sat on an upturned plastic crate while the Chicagoan stood, hands in pockets, peering ahead to the horizon. He looked at ease, comfortable despite the smack's dipping and yawing, his legs bent slightly to help him ride the swell.

Eventually he turned to Sam.

"'Bout time we met," he said. "Can't go on ignoring each other for ever." He stuck out a hand. "Rick Ramsay."

"Sam Akehurst."

They shook. His grip was tough, gnarled, tight.

"I noticed you on the train," he said.

"You did?" She couldn't mask her surprise.

"You're hard not to notice." His eye roved; returned. "When I was buying that goddamn awful sandwich made of cardboard and rubber. How do you Brits eat that stuff?"

"We don't," Sam replied. "Only tourists are daft enough to try."

Rick Ramsay grinned, dazzlingly. "Touche. That's when I spotted you, anyways. And you did your darnedest to ignore me."

"In your dreams, Casanova."

"Whatever. So what's going on? What's your take on all this?"