The factory was situated on the north side of the small industrial estate through which Dan and Katie had driven earlier in the day. It was longer than most of the other buildings but still constructed in similar prefabricated fashion. At one end of the shed, next to the main road, a paling fence did rather an ineffectual job of hiding from view a motley line of rusty containers that were jacked up on metal supports, and most of the car parking space was taken up with stacks of empty pallets and blue plastic boxes. Dan waited for a small forklift truck to buzz backwards at speed across the forecourt before pulling into a parking space in front of an insignificant door marked Office. He switched off the engine and got out of the car, and immediately could tell that Patrick’s factory was partly responsible for the all-pervading smell of fish that emanated throughout the area.

Dan walked around to the passenger side and held the door open for Patrick. “Can you manage?”

Patrick replied as Dan thought he might. “No problem.” He shifted his legs manually out of the car. “Listen, I’ll tell you what you can do. See that shed over there?” He pointed to a wooden building wedged in between the paling fence and the nearest container. “You’ll find a wheelchair in there. I hate using the bloody thing, but the floor in the factory is always soaking wet, and that’s lethal for me.”

Dan made his way over to the building, located the wheelchair, and brought it back. Once more Patrick refused his help as he shifted around on his sticks and thumped himself down into the chair.

“Right!” he said. “I’ll start the explanation here. The lorries pull in right where we are now and the prawns are off-loaded in twenty-kilogram boxes, and usually they go straight into the factory.” He pointed to the row of containers. “If, however, we get a backlog to process, we use those for chilling. That’s more likely to happen in the high season, which is about May to September, but it mostly depends on how much is coming in from the boats. There’s a monitor in the office that gives a readout of the temperature in each container. You’ll understand from the story I told you about the sand in the fuel tank that it’s vital that they’re kept at exactly the right temperature.” He glanced up at Dan. “Any questions yet?”

“No. Brilliantly explained so far.”

Patrick pointed to the open bay at the end of the shed. “Okay, then. Wagons roll!”

Dan pushed the wheelchair across the car park and entered the building.