I made a mental note to check her out on YouTube. Maïssa was, at a guess, French Algerian. She was wearing a heavily embroidered jacket and loose-fitting trousers. There was a silver stud in the side of her nose and large silver rings on most of her fingers. Her hair had been cut so short that the scalp showed through, although there was enough left to leave a zigzag pattern on one side. Her large, bright eyes lingered on me briefly before dismissing me. There are contemporary poets whose work I love: Jackie Kay, Sia Figiel, Harry Baker. But I already had a feeling that Maïssa and I weren’t going to get on.

A waiter arrived with the food and drink: coffee, tea, a salad and a plate of meze, a green tea for Maïssa and a pint of bitter for Marc. We had an hour until the plane left. A few moments later, Marc’s assistant, Kathryn, came back with the extra drinks that Hawthorne and I had ordered. She added the bill to the one left behind by the waiter and sat down next to me.

‘So you are a writer also?’ Maïssa asked Hawthorne.

‘Not me, love.’ Hawthorne smiled. ‘I’m a detective.’

‘Really?’ Her eyes widened. ‘What is it then that you do in Alderney?’

‘He’s written a book about me.’ Hawthorne pointed in my direction. ‘He’s going to talk about it. I’m just here for the ride.’

‘What do you investigate?’ Anne asked.

‘I’m more of a consultant now. Financial crime. Domestic crime. Murder.’ He let that last word hang in the air. ‘Whatever comes my way.’

There was a long silence. It struck me that all four of our new acquaintances were a little nervous.

Marc changed the subject. ‘I’ve never got the point of smashed avocado,’ he announced, scooping some onto his pitta bread. ‘And I hate that word – smashed. That’s typical bloody Jamie Oliver. Just slice it up with a sharp knife and that’s good enough for me. Preferably with some crispy bacon on the side.’

‘Would you like me to get you some, Marc?’ Kathryn asked. She had ordered a cheese salad for herself.

‘No, no. What I’m saying is, it’s just another of these modern food fads. When I was growing up, nobody had heard of the bloody things. They used to call them avocado pears and no-one knew what to do with them. There was one geezer even tried to serve them with custard!’

We continued to chat, weighing each other up. Marc ate most of the meze, including all the avocado, and finished his beer. Finally, Kathryn looked at her watch. ‘It’s forty minutes until the plane leaves,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we ought to go through.’