“Och, for heaven’s sakes,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s the bloody politician.” He returned to the table, where Billy continued to shield his face. “Aye, I see what you mean. What the hell’s he doing down here?”

“Probably bored a’body else on the West Coast.”

“Did he see you?”

“I canna be sure aboot that. I’m takin’ no risks, though.”

The door of the café opened and a large man in his early thirties with a bull neck and a supercilious smile on his florid face heaved himself up the steep step. His football-sized head was prematurely balding and those few strands of hair that still survived were splayed out across his scalp like parched rhizome roots in a desert. He pulled off a pair of string-backed driving gloves, finger by finger, before unbuttoning his blue serge overcoat to reveal an enormous belly that overhung the trousers of his charcoal grey suit.

“God’s sake,” Ronnie murmured, sliding lower in his chair so that he could use Billy as a screen. “Imagine getting that stuck in your fishing net.”

“Is it him?” Billy asked, darting his eyes from side to side, trying to use his peripheral vision to catch a glimpse at what lay behind him.

“Who else? He’s not seen us yet, though.”

Ronnie noticed that Eck, the owner of the Cormorant Café, had done his utmost to avoid catching the eye of the man, but eventually had to turn from the grease-splattered cooker to thump yet another full fryup on the counter. The man greeted him loudly, and did a jumpy little dance as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and pulled them up. He had called Eck by name and followed it by casting his piggy eyes around those tables closest to the counter to see if anyone had noticed that he had done so. But no one took a blind bit of notice of him. It was clear that others felt the same as Ronnie and Billy—that being acquainted with the man would do nothing to enrich one’s life.