Most of them were stripped down and tarped up for the winter. They would sit like that, not earning money for their owners for only a couple of months, the worst of the gale season, and be out on the sea again by the end of January.

The bigger boats headed out Nova Scotia way, towards the Grand Banks for trips that lasted four to six weeks. They were fifty- and sixty-foot Sword boats with crews of up to seven, which could sometimes bring in nearly sixteen tons of catch. They were mostly owned by cartels of investors, their skippers and crews on retainers and smaller shares.

The few smaller boats lined up were mostly independent operators that fished nearer home, boats that were owned or part-owned by their skippers and trawled only a few miles out from the coast, up and down the silt banks for only four or five days at a time. They couldn’t afford two months tied up, and fished pretty much all year round.

Chris and Mark climbed out and surveyed the boats.

‘I told you,’ said Mark. ‘You should have chartered from somewhere else. There’s no way we’re going to find a suitable boat down here.’

‘Yeah, looks like you might be right,’ Chris sighed reluctantly. He had gambled on finding a motor launch or a leisure boat. The place was a tourist town as well as a fishing port, after all.

It was going to have to be one of the smaller fishing boats. Halfway along the wharf he could see a single light mounted on the pilothouse of one of them.

‘There, that would do us. And it looks like someone’s home.’

Mark followed his gaze. ‘It’s a trawler, Chris, not some leisure cruiser. You’ll be lucky if they’ll take you out.’

‘I’m sure the rustling of a little dosh will help some.’

‘Dosh?’ asked Mark. ‘Money, right?’

Chris nodded.

Mark looked quizzically at him. ‘Just how much money do you get paid for this kind of assignment anyway?’