A wasted gesture, really, since both David and his cousin had by this time turned their backs to us, and were busy lowering chains over the edge of the quay. A moment later they hauled the chains back up again, in practiced unison, and I saw the hooks on the ends of the chains that had been fastened into either side of a blue plastic box, the size of a shallow laundry basket. The box, brim-full of steel-colored fish, was rapidly unhooked and loaded on the forklift, and the chains were lowered once again.

I couldn't see much, thanks to Adrian, but as one boat after another came into the harbor and the process was repeated all along the quayside, I was able to appreciate the mechanics in greater detail—the speed and rhythm with which the men on the boats slid and sorted and hooked the fish boxes onto the dangling chains, the smooth rattle and pull of the chains sliding over wet concrete, and the final thump and shuffle of the blue and white boxes as they landed on the forklifts.

In all it took David and his cousin less than ten minutes to unload the day's catch. Stacked high, the forklift rattled off again, toward the market, and I heard the spray of a hosepipe below us as the fisherman still on the boat began to clean the empty deck.

The gulls whirled thick as thieves above our heads, crying incessantly, their bright eyes hard and predatory.

"Damn and blast!" said Adrian suddenly, letting go of me to clap a hand around the back of his neck. It came away smeared with white. "Bloody birds!"

David's cousin turned round, grinning. "Got ye, did they? Aye, well, ye can gie yer hand a dicht wi' that," he said, passing over a dampish rag from his pocket. Adrian obediently wiped both his hand and the back of his neck, wrinkling his nose at the fishy smell of the cloth.

"It's a fish auction you're going to," David told him, laughing at Adrian's expression. "No one will care if you smell like a codling."

Behind me, someone called out David's name and all of us looked around to see a woman standing in the open doorway of the Ship Hotel's public bar. It was the barmaid who had served us earlier, a young woman, looking worried. "Telephone," she told him, raising her voice above the rattle and hum of chains and machinery. My own first pessimistic thought was that it must be someone ringing from the hospital, and from David's face I knew he was thinking the same thing.

His laughter had died, and the blue eyes, meeting mine, were soberly apprehensive. "Look," he said, rubbing his hands clean on his jeans, "it's nearly four o'clock. Why don't the two of you go on ahead? I'll meet you down there, at the market."

He was gone before I could reply, and Adrian nudged me from behind.

"You heard the man," he told me. "Nearly four o'clock."

David's cousin Danny had also vanished, and short of standing alone like a fool on the quayside I had little option but to follow Adrian back down the harbor road.

The fish market fairly bustled now with activity. Young men in wellies and stained jumpers jostled past in purposeful confusion while the lorry drivers hovered close with keen expectant eyes, watching the red-faced auctioneer while he rummaged through the stacks of fish boxes, the bright orange flash of his rubber gloves poking and prodding with knowledgeable speed. A younger man hung at his shoulder, awaiting instructions. "The lemon sole, first," the auctioneer decided, then jerked his head up as the Auld Kirk's bell pealed out four times. "Right, lads, let's go!" he ordered. "Four o'clock!"

The buyers funneled through into the metal-walled enclosed part of the market. It put me in mind of a giant garage, with one long open side facing out on the harbor. The auction was all very interesting, I thought, once one got used to the smell, and if I hadn't been so worried about David and his damned phone call I would probably have enjoyed myself. As it was, I stood like a stick to one side of the crowd, frowning faintly as I tried to concentrate on what was being said and done. Even Adrian, not known for his powers of observation, eventually noticed I wasn't really there.

His glance was rather hopeful. "Look, if you're bored with this, we needn't hang about. I really could do with a pint..."

"I'm not bored."

"Well, that makes one of us."

"Besides," I said, "we promised to wait for David."

"Oh, right." He said the words quite lightly, thrusting his hands in his pockets and squaring his shoulders as he always did when he was about to pick an argument. "It wouldn't do to disappoint old David, would it?"

Imploring the ceiling to give me strength, I held my tongue and began to count backwards from one hundred. Silence in the face of nonsense, that's what my father always said. Sound advice, really, except it didn't often work with Adrian. My silence only gave him more space to sound off.

"Of course," he went on, "disappointing me is quite another matter, isn't it? No one seems to care a damn what / think."

Stoically, I kept on counting: Eighty-five ... eighty-four ... eighty-three ...

"At least with Fabia, one can understand the appeal. McMorran is a charming devil, and she's little more than a child. But you, my dear," said Adrian, in a patronizing tone, "you do surprise me. After all your high-minded lectures on professional behavior, to find you all but bonking our Mr. Fortune on the middle pier ..."

That hit the mark. I lost my count. "Hyperbole."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means a gross exaggeration. You're a master," I informed him, "of hyperbole. And bonking in broad daylight on the middle pier, or any pier, is really not my style."