‘What are you doing, do you think?’

Josef glanced over his shoulder. ‘Fishing.’

‘Forbidden,’ Olsen said. ‘Three thousand francs’ fine for any who fish within the harbour.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly. Give me the rod. If anyone sees you, it is my rod and you are holding it for me.’

‘Then you pay the fine.’

Olsen smiled. ‘No one can fine a captain who casts a line from his own ship. What bait do you have? Liver? From our kitchens. Let us see what we shall catch with it.’

There was a small floating dock opposite the Kreya, holding a battered fishing smack. Olsen cast a line well out in that direction. It struck the oily water, covered with floating refuse, and sank out of sight. A few moments later the float began to jerk as the line was taken down below.

‘Ho, there!’ Olsen said. ‘We have it.’

He began to wind in. A long, threshing shape came into view at the end of the line.

‘We have you, Mr Eel,’ Olsen said.