“Come on, then. We’ll go inside and I’ll make you a warming cup of coffee.” She picked up a large canvas bag from the floor of the van and opened the door. She stopped halfway out and turned to him. “Heavens, it’s just occurred to me that you’ve probably not had anything to eat. Would you like me to get you a bacon sandwich?”

“That would be great—if it’s not too much bother.”

“Not at all. I’ll get Hilary to go round to the café for one.”

As soon as Dan opened the door of the van, his nostrils were invaded by the overpowering smell of fish. Even though the wind was blowing in fresh across the loch, the odour had an irrepressible permanence about it as if it were deep-set into the fabric of the buildings and exuded through every warped crevice. Katie led Dan through the entrance door and into an open-plan work area, and immediately he could hear the hum of sewing machines from beyond the room. He spied, through the glass panel of an adjoining door, a line of women sitting intently at work.

The room in which he was standing was cluttered but businesslike with multipinned progress charts and Vagabond photographs lining every wall. The reception desk was manned by a young girl who had smiled broadly at him as he entered. Behind her, two women clicked away on the keyboards of their computers, talking as they did into hands-free mouthpieces. He heard one say in a lilting, friendly voice, “Good morrrning! Vagabonds. This is Maggie speaking. How can I help you?”

“Hilary,” Katie said to the girl behind the reception desk, “this is Mr. Porter from London.” The girl stood up and forthrightly shook Dan’s hand. “Could you do me a great favour and pop round to the Greasy Spoon and get him a bacon sandwich?”

“Of course,” she replied keenly, immediately retrieving her raincoat from the stand beside her desk.

Dan thrust his hand into his pocket for change. “Listen, I must—”