His parents had retired from their fish and chip shop shortly after he’d left and he’d recently bought them a bungalow in the countryside. They rarely went back to the village now, but had told him it was on the way up, especially since the food festival had become established. His team had done their own research, of course, because Gabe was thinking of buying the restaurant premises, but now he was here, he could see with his own eyes. The old library, where he’d borrowed lots of books about food, had been divided into flats above a bookies and vaping shop. On the upside, new cafés and galleries, a bike hire centre, bakery and beauty spa had sprouted up in the back streets, he’d spotted them as he’d driven down the hill.

Porthmellow really was on the way up … unless you wanted to borrow a book.

He fumbled in his pockets for some extra change then scrutinised the sign again. There was no option to pay by mobile: the council hadn’t got that far yet, and he was fifty pence short of the required fee. He would have paid with notes but it only took change, which meant he’d have to run to the nearest shop – the newsagents – and get some coins.

‘Shit,’ he muttered. He’d better get a move on because if a warden spotted his fancy 4X4, he’d be sure to slap a ticket on it faster than Gabe could fillet a Dover sole.

‘Gabe? Gabe Mathias? I’d recognise that mane of hair anywhere.’

Gabe turned to find a gnarled old guy stood behind him, showing a set of yellowing teeth, one of which was gold. He recognised him immediately as Troy Carman, who worked for the harbour, or certainly used to. He must be over eighty now but he still looked fit. His forearms were corded and his face was as brown as a hazelnut and weathered like a prune. Gabe braced himself.

‘Hello, Troy. How’s things?’ he said.

‘I’m doing fine. I needn’t ask about you. Nice motor.’ Troy cackled and nodded at the Range Rover.

‘Thanks. Sorry, I was just on my way to the newsagents for some coins. Hadn’t realised I’d need a mortgage to park in the village now.’

Troy cackled. ‘Bet you could buy the whole bloody car park. It’s a sign of the times, lad. Mind you, I’ve got a pass, as an official of the harbour.’

‘I thought you’d have retired?’

‘Retire? Not me. No, I still work as part-time for them. They can’t get rid of me, see, on account of these anti-ageing laws.’ He smirked again. ‘How much are you short?’

‘Fifty pence. Better get my cash before I get a fine.’