Specimens. I stood before my restaurant, waiting for the usual sense of pride, of accomplishment when I looked at it, to warm me. But I felt nothing. Its smoky windows and simple awning were classy without being ostentatious. This place had been my haven when Nathan died, something to keep going in his name. No wonder I’d fought Dan so hard when he tried to take it from me.

I walked through the eerily empty dining room on my way to the kitchen. Most days we opened for lunch and dinner – except Sundays. On Wednesdays, Specimens only opened in the evening, so the place was always like a ghost of itself until the dinner customers began to arrive.

When Nathan and I had run this place together, it had been more of a nightclub that served food on the side. Now it was the other way round. It was an upscale restaurant with live music most evenings. After Nathan’s death, in my naïvety, I had thought that a restaurant would be easier to manage than a nightclub. No more bouncers. No more drunk people arguing to get in or puking all over the bathroom and the dance floor, in the pitiful belief that getting bombed off their faces was the only true way to have a good time. I didn’t miss any of that at all. But running a restaurant had brought its own set of problems. From customers who cleared their plates, then complained about the food, hoping to get their meal for free, to those who actually brought in vermin, hoping to discredit me and my restaurant, and others who wanted a free meal for them and their thirty friends in exchange for a positive online review. Feel free to sod off and die with that one. And, Callum, don’t even get me started on the never-ending complaints …

‘My soup is too cold.’

‘It’s gazpacho, ma’am. It’s meant to be served cold.’

‘Gazpacho? What backward country is that from?’

A suppressed sigh. ‘Would you like to try it, ma’am? I can assure you it’s delicious.’

‘No, I don’t want to bloody try it. Foreign muck. Bring me some sweet-potato soup or some cou-cou – if you even know how to cook that properly.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘My pie is too hot.’

How about you wait a couple of minutes before cramming it in your mouth then?

‘Yes, sir.’

‘My fruit crumble is too dry.’

See that little pot of custard next to your bowl of crumble? Pour that over your dessert and snap! Problem solved.

‘No, sir.’

‘I don’t like the colour of these egg yolks.’

I didn’t lay them.

Three bags full, sir.

The complaints ranged from the invalid to the downright ridiculous. Thank goodness for Amari, the restaurant manager, who was adept at dealing with difficult customers. She had oceans of patience.