The Fish and Chip Shop Detectives

Book 1: The Fish and Chip Shop Detective Agency

by Jenny Kane

Genres: Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

Don't miss this brand-new cozy crime mystery series, perfect for fans of Clare Chase and Peter Boland - available to pre-order now!

There's some fishy business happening in the idyllic Cornish village of Mousehole. As a killer begins to make waves, can these new amateur detectives solve the mystery?

Maggie Tyson loves living in the utterly charming village, Mousehole. She spends her days walking the local coastal paths, solving the latest crossword puzzle, and working in the small town's only fish and chip shop.

Looking for a fresh start, Ryan Stepney is in desperate need of a job, and stumbles across a vacancy at the chip shop.

When a body is found by the harbour, shock ripples through the village. And as Ryan was the last person seen talking to the victim, he becomes the number one suspect in the investigation.

Maggie is certain that her new colleague had nothing to do with the murder, so swaps her apron for a magnifying glass, and starts to investigate herself.

Can Maggie prove Ryan's innocence and reel in the killer, before they strike again?

The Fish and Chip Shop Detectives
Forty-eight-year-old Maggie is a lover of puzzles. When she's not working at Robbins' Fish and Chip Shop, she can be found on her sofa, nursing a cup of tea and solving the latest mystery thrown at the detectives in Death in Paradise, Midsommer Murders and more. Maggie finds an unlikely friend in Ryan, a recent graduate who has just moved to Mousehole and is trying to figure out what to do with his life. Together, they serve up the best fish and chips Cornwall has to offer, with an occasional helping of mystery solving on the side.

The Setting
Mousehole is a picturesque fishing village in Cornwall, known for its scenic harbour, winding streets, and tiny sandy beach. It's also home to Robbins' Fish and Chip Shop, the only chippy in town. Tourists and locals alike enjoy a battered cod whilst admiring the calm waterfront. Mr Robbins, the owner, is notoriously private - no one knows much about him. Perhaps that's another mystery for our Fish and Chip Shop Detectives to solve...

Release date: April 2, 2026

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One

Monday 2nd June

Maggie wrapped a serving of fish and chips in paper and passed the aromatic package across the counter. There was something about her latest customer that made her give him an encouraging smile. He seemed lost.

‘Here you go, me ’ansum. Best fish and chips for miles.’

‘Thanks.’

Offering up the card machine so that he could pay, Maggie nodded towards the rucksack at his feet. ‘On your holidays?’

‘No. Well, sort of.’ He shrugged, the movement giving him the air of a scarecrow swaying in the wind.

Judging the lad to be of a similar age to her daughter, Izzie, Maggie experienced a maternal pang. ‘Sort of?’

‘Yeah.’ He threw her a shy grin as he turned away, giving the shop door a firm tug as he closed it behind him.

As soon as he’d left the warm environment of Robbins’ Fish and Chip Shop, Maggie found herself speculating about her latest customer.

Student maybe . . . Here on holiday with his mates after his exams, but they’ve had a row and he’s taking some time out . . . Picking up a cloth and a bottle of sterilising spray, she wiped droplets of vinegar off the counter. Or he’s fallen out with his girlfriend and he’s after a bit of headspace.

Smiling to herself, Maggie pictured her daughter joining in her musings. She and Izzie had always enjoyed people watching, guessing what others were like as they sipped coffee in the local café or sat on the harbour wall, observing Mousehole’s non-stop supply of tourists as they meandered by.

Checking the time on the large, fish-shaped wall clock above the counter, Maggie headed to the front door and turned the open sign to closed, before calling through to the office beyond the serving counter. ‘Mr Robbins, I’m closing up.’

The short grunt that greeted this news was all she needed to remove her apron, unpin the white boater from her head and hang them both on a hook inside the office door.

‘I’ll see you at six.’ Maggie waited for the second grunt of acknowledgement she knew her boss would give her before she left.

Eric Robbins – known to everyone as Mr Robbins (with an emphasis on the mister, as though he felt very protective of the title) – was seated in his usual position at a square table in the centre of his office. Hunched forward, his palatial buttocks wedged into an orange plastic chair, a pair of black-rimmed designer glasses hooked over his cauliflower ears. The 1960s design of the spectacles served to emphasise, rather than diminish, the line of his repeatedly broken nose. One hand rubbed continuously at his stubbly chin, while the other scrolled through whatever it was he was studying on the tablet propped up in front of him. He wore a crisp white apron and a white fabric boater, despite only rarely stirring himself to interact with the frying of anything, let alone to engage in conversation with a customer.

In ten years of working as Mr Robbins’ assistant in Mousehole’s one and only chippy, Maggie had never discovered what it was he read so diligently every day.

Her daughter, who had a variety of interesting and increasingly unlikely theories as to how Mr Robbins came to have a boxer’s face, was convinced he was a gangster. He certainly looked like one – at least, he looked like how a gangster ought to look if you took the media’s word for it.

Maggie suppressed a chuckle as she recalled Izzie’s observation that her employer looked like Ray Winstone in a pinny.

Once the expected grunt had escaped from Mr Robbins’ taciturn lips, Maggie stepped into the June sunshine and relocked the chip shop’s door behind her.

Inhaling the fresh air, emptying her lungs of the scent of chip fat, Maggie waited for a steady stream of tourist traffic to trundle along the narrow road which ran directly in front of the shop. Glancing towards the village to the right and then to the harbour before her, she was about to stride towards home, when she hesitated.

The lad she’d served ten minutes ago was perched on the lowest end of the harbour wall, staring at his phone. His package of fish and chips sat, untouched, beside him. Maggie almost went to see if he was alright but stopped herself.

I’m just missing Izzie. If she was here she’d tell me that the last thing he’d want is me interfering.

Turning in the opposite direction, Maggie strode into the heart of Mousehole, ruffling her hands through her hair as she went in an attempt to dislodge some of the chip shop’s greasy scent from her unruly chestnut curls. She had arranged a phone call with Izzie for an hour’s time, and that was something she didn’t want to be late for.

*

Ryan’s stomach growled, but not even the delicious aroma of fish and chips coming from the wrap of food beside him tempted his appetite. He wasn’t sure if he’d bought something to eat out of habit or simply for something to do.

Temporarily oblivious to the beauty of the seaside ­village behind him or the lapping of the sea before him, Ryan sat on the edge of the grey harbour wall, his legs hanging down, his phone held out before him. The row of tethered fishing boats, the beauty of the clear blue sky and the caws of the seagulls that gathered, each waiting expectantly for their chance to strike once his dinner was opened, was lost on him. He only had eyes for the message on the screen before him.

I’m in Portugal!! Was very last minute. Exploring the whole country with friends. Only 3 months. Let’s put things on hold. I’ll see you when I get back. B. x

She couldn’t even be bothered to phone to tell me in person.

A mix of anger, hurt and humiliation churned in his stomach as an unwanted tear came to his eye. Wiping it away, Ryan peered around him, making sure no one had seen his brief burst of emotion.

I get why Bea would want to explore the country; after all, her mother is Portuguese, but why didn’t she call before she left? There’s nothing ‘only’ about disappearing for three months.

Shaking his head, he lowered the phone and absent-­mindedly unfolded the paper from his late lunch, his slim fingers selecting and eating a chip without engaging his brain in the process.

As he chewed, he considered his options. Should he stay in the area and wait for Bea to come home, or should he go straight back to Penzance and get a train home to ­Birmingham?

Go back to Birmingham for what?

His family had cautioned him against going to Cornwall with Bea, convinced he’d never be happy there after being a city boy for the first twenty-two years of his life. Since ­leaving university the previous September, his friends had scattered to various places of work across the UK. There was no one left at home to spend time with beyond the walls of his parents’ small terrace. And, if he was brutally honest, he knew they didn’t really want him there.

Try as he might – and he had tried – he’d yet to find a job, his second-class sociology degree not quite hitting the mark with any of the employers he’d approached.

It doesn’t help that I don’t know what I want to do.

Ryan looked along the wall, just in time to see a young seagull hopping hopefully in his direction. He shooed it away. ‘If I was more like Bea, it’d be alright. She can just zip off, pleasing herself, knowing that her first-class degree has already secured her a job with a legal firm in Penzance. Plus, she has a home in Mousehole already lined up for her, thanks to her family’s property rental business.’

The seagull appeared as unimpressed by this information as his own parents had been. Ryan could hear his father’s gruff voice now: ‘No pride in something you haven’t worked for, son.’ He squirmed at the thought of having to tell them that Bea was travelling across Portugal for the next three months, without him, and that their life together was on hold.

‘On hold, not over.’ Ryan looked the seagull in the beak. ‘That’s what the text said. So, that means she’s coming back to me, right?’

The gull gave an encouraging squawk as Ryan reached for another chip.

The lady in the chippy had been right. They really were very good chips.

Chapter Two

‘Hello, sweetheart.’

‘Hey, Mum.’ Izzie’s voice sang down the phone.

‘How come you’re always so lively when it’s the middle of the night for you?’ Maggie beamed into the video call as her daughter’s freckled face and bright purple hair came into focus.

‘Because I’m young and spritely,’ Izzie teased, ‘and I’m talking to my wonderful Mum.’

‘Thanks, sweetheart.’

‘How many murders have you solved before the detectives this week, then?’

Maggie chuckled; her habit of turning every crime show she watched into a personal challenge, to see if she could beat Poirot and his cohorts to it, was something she loved to share with her daughter. ‘Just two; one on Dalgliesh and one on Death in Paradise. But—’

‘But Death in Paradise doesn’t really count because the killer is always the most famous of the guest actors?’ Izzie interrupted with a laugh.

‘You got it! Actually, I’ve not had the chance to watch much television lately. I’ve been volunteering at the library a bit more, and the shop’s gone onto summer opening hours now the season’s picking up, so I’m working every day.’

‘Gangster man not hired anyone for the summer yet, then?’

‘Not yet. He’ll have to soon, though. By the time the school holidays start, we’ll be rushed off our feet.’

‘He’s probably not sold enough stolen diamonds to pay for this year’s temp.’

Maggie giggled. ‘Quite possibly not.’

Tucking a spiral of hair behind her ear, Izzie asked, ‘What are you doing at the library, then? Helping the Silver Surfers with their computer skills again?’

‘Yep. Via word puzzles this time. I’ve started a Crossword Club.’

‘Fab! Just crosswords or puzzles in general?’

‘Puzzles in general – but word puzzles. I was going to call it Puzzle Club, but there’s one of those already for the jigsaw fans, so . . .’

‘Crossword Club it had to be.’

‘Precisely, love. The idea being to research answers they don’t know on the internet. Mind you, there’s one old chap, Harry – you remember him?’

‘The old guy who lives on The Wharf?’

‘That’s him! He will insist on bringing his Sudoku along, and no matter how many times I tell him I can’t help as I don’t know one number from another if I don’t have a calculator to help me, he won’t have it.’

Izzie raised a mug to her smiling lips. ‘I bet he’s hell-bent on converting you to number puzzles.’

‘You’ve got it. He’s a nice chap, mind, Harry. Ex-sailor. Has many a story to tell in-between researching crossword clues online while telling the rest of us that we ought to be searching for answers in the books first, as it’s a library.’

‘He has a point.’

‘Normally I’d agree, but as this is a club designed to help the computer-shy learn how to use Google . . .’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘Anyway, enough about my life. What adventures have you had this week?’

‘Loads!’ Izzie shuffled closer to the screen. ‘And the best bit of it is that they’ve led to a new adventure. A big one!’

A sense of unease stirred in Maggie’s chest. ‘An even bigger adventure than starting uni in September and swimming with sharks?’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t believe you did that. I’m glad you told me after you’d already done it, or I’d have been worried sick.’

‘I was completely safe. It was totally epic.’

‘I will take your word for it.’ Maggie pictured the cuddly toy shark she’d bought for her daughter, which waited on her recently made-up bed, ready for Izzie’s return in a fortnight’s time. ‘And while I’d love to visit New Zealand after hearing all the wonderful things you’ve said about it, there is no way I’m going to stop being afraid of sharks, epic or not.’

‘Fair enough, Mum.’

‘I’m looking forward to hearing more about it and seeing all your photos when you’re back, though.’

‘And I’m looking forward to showing you, but . . .’

For the next few minutes Maggie barely took in what her daughter was saying, beyond the fact that she’d been offered a temporary job at an Outward Bound activity centre for the next six months, had already sorted out her visa to cover her extended stay, and had spoken to Bath University about delaying her entry for a year.

‘Mum?’ Izzie’s face had taken on a concerned edge. ‘Mum, are you okay? You don’t mind me staying longer, do you?’

‘Of course I don’t. It’s a wonderful opportunity for you.’

‘And we did say, didn’t we – before I left – that if an opportunity came, taking a year out before university would be okay.’

Maggie knew she had said that, but only because she hadn’t thought Izzie would want to be so far away for so long. Muzzling her emotions, she said, ‘You won’t be coming home until Christmas, then?’

‘Twentieth of December.’ Izzie’s enthusiasm faded a touch. ‘It’s okay, Mum. I am coming back, it’s just . . .’

Maggie hastily reassured her daughter. ‘You’ll love every minute of it. If you don’t have the adventure of a lifetime when you’re nineteen, when will you have it?’ Hoping she sounded convincing as a raft of disappointment threatened to consume her, Maggie gripped the handle of her tea mug and plastered a smile on her face. ‘And just think how much we’ll have to chat about over Christmas dinner.’

*

Ryan’s phone screen went from being crystal clear, to grainy, to scrambled and back to clear, on a repeating cycle, as he tried to speak to Bea.

‘It’s just three months, Ryan. I’m sorry it was so last ­minute. I tried to call, but I had no signal. I knew you’d already be on your way south, so I sent the text and thought I’d wait until I had arrived here before I spoke to you.’

Biting back the temptation to ask why she hadn’t phoned him the moment she’d been invited to go, or while she was packing, or from the airport, he said, ‘So, Portugal, then?’

‘Yes!’ She positively squeaked with excitement. ‘It’s sooo amazing! You’d love it. I can’t help wondering why my mother ever left.’

If it’s so amazing, why didn’t you ask me to come too? He knew the answer to his unspoken question. Because she knows I could never have afforded to go.

‘I’m glad you’re happy, Bea, really I am – but what about me? Us?’

‘We’re fine, silly. I’ll be back in twelve weeks, then we’ll be together, just as we planned.’

‘And right now? I have nowhere to go.’ Hating that he sounded desperate, Ryan held his breath as the line froze for a second, building the tension before Bea spoke.

‘Yes, you do. The flat is all yours. I’ve told my parents to expect you.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, they’ve never met me.’

‘I’ve told them about you. They’re dead happy for me.’

Ryan let out a rush of air. ‘That’s such a relief. I wasn’t—’

Shaking her head, Bea interrupted. ‘You didn’t think I’d leave you high and dry, did you?’

‘No . . . no, of course not. I was just all geared up to start our life together and get a job and . . . everything. You know.’

Blowing him a kiss down the line, Bea gave Ryan one of her killer smiles – the sort of smile that had made him fall for her in the first place. ‘You know the address. I’ll text Mum to remind her to be there to hand over the keys, but I’m sure she’d have remembered anyway.’

‘Thanks, Bea. I’m really looking forward to . . .’ His voice trailed to nothing as the screen froze. Then the line went dead.

*

Maggie leant over the bathroom sink and washed her tear-stained face with a brusque scrub of her hands. Then, patting her face dry with her towel, she pushed her shoulders back and scowled at herself in the mirror.

‘If you were Izzie, you’d have done exactly the same. It’s no good telling your daughter to grab every opportunity that comes her way if you begrudge it when she does just that.’

Abandoning her plan to spend an hour or so weeding her small garden, Maggie clicked on the kettle. ‘In situations like this, only one thing will do.’ She opened the fridge and pulled out a block of cheddar. ‘Cheese and biscuits, strong coffee, a cryptic crossword and an episode of Inspector Morse.’

By the time she had watched Morse and Lewis apprehend the murderer, she’d finished two crosswords, eaten her pre-evening-shift tea and had shared her analysis of how the onscreen crime must have been committed with Morse before congratulating him for his logical, if somewhat prosaic, reasoning.

‘Nothing like a bit of crime solving to make us feel better, isn’t that right, Izzie.’ Maggie tapped a finger on top of a photo of her daughter that sat in the corner of the room, before readying herself to face Mr Robbins and four and a half more hours at the fish and chip shop.

*

Smarting with embarrassment, Ryan hooked his rucksack onto his shoulder and marched away, as fast as possible, from the Edwardian house that had been converted into flats. He hadn’t even been invited to cross the threshold to see the inside of the place in which he and Bea had planned to live.

With no idea where he was going, Ryan found himself wandering back towards the harbour.

They more or less laughed in my face when I told them who I was and why I was there.

‘Move in while you wait for Beatrice to come home?’ Bea’s mother’s high-pitched voice had cut him like glass. ‘Oh, that’s totally impossible. You must have completely misunderstood my daughter. We will need to let it out until she’s home. Unless you can afford the rent here alone? I assume you are working.’

As she’d asked the question, her thin brown eyes had blatantly sized him up, wordlessly dismissing him as worthless as he’d admitted that no, he wasn’t currently employed. There had been no chance to tell her that his intention was to find work as soon as possible. Ryan had found himself listening for a trace of a Portuguese accent – but there was none. Bea’s mother could have sprung straight from the Home Counties, twinset, pearls and all. Reining in his thoughts, Ryan had turned his attention to the equally hostile but considerably taller man who stood behind his wife with a proprietorial hand on her shoulder.

‘What about Bea’s job? She was supposed to start work on Monday.’

‘I’ve arranged things so that she can have a sabbatical before she starts.’

Ryan was given no chance to comment on this, for Bea’s mother was intent on ending their encounter.

‘I suggest—’ her haughty expression focused on the end of the street beyond them, a direction she wished him to take ‘—that you go back to . . . where was it? Birmingham. And look for a life there.’

Having made the word ‘Birmingham’ sound like an unpleasant rash, Bea’s mother had closed the door in his face. For a second or two he’d stood statue-still, in shock. His girlfriend had decided to go travelling for three months without telling him, her mother had just slammed in his face the door to the home he thought he’d be living in, and if he went back to the Midlands, there was nothing to look forward to but a load of I-told-you-so’s.

Now, perched back on the harbour wall, Ryan released a long shuddering breath as the seagull he’d chatted to earlier came to join him.

‘Go away. I’ve got no food this time.’

The young gull sidled closer, giving him a beady stare.

‘Don’t you start.’ Ryan fixed his eyes on the bird. ‘I need a job. I need to find a roof over my head for tonight, and I need to accept that my girlfriend’s parents think I’m a pointless oik. At least Bea was sure we’d be together after her trip.’

Bea looks a lot like her mum. Dark hair, clear, easily tanned skin . . . His thoughts dissolved into a sigh.

Readjusting his position against the harbour wall, Ryan peered along the narrow road to where he’d noticed a taxi rank. ‘I’ll go into Penzance, see if there’s a hostel I can kip in, and hunt for a job here to keep me going until Bea comes home.’

He was not ready to listen to the little voice telling him that, whatever Bea had claimed, there was a good chance she might not be coming back for him.

Chapter Three

Maggie’s usual optimism had reasserted itself by the time she’d walked the one hundred and thirty metres that separated her home on Duck Street and the chip shop on the corner of South Cliff and North Cliff roads.

She might be sad that her daughter was going to be away for longer than planned, but at least Izzie would be home for Christmas.

And she will come home. She won’t get a permanent job out there.

As the prospect of Izzie emigrating tore at her heart, Maggie peered upwards. Wisps of clouds came and went across the vivid blue sky as the spring breeze blew in off the sea. She couldn’t help but smile. While the village held limited excitement for the local teenagers, she knew she couldn’t live anywhere else in the world.

I could visit Izzie every year if she did stay over there. ­Maggie’s smile faltered. Every other year, once I’d saved up for the flights.

She told herself off, knowing that she was lucky to have a daughter who she got on with, and who enjoyed her company in return. Their twice-weekly video calls had been a standard part of their lives since Izzie had gone abroad three months ago and would – Izzie had promised – keep going once she went to university.

As she turned onto North Cliff, Maggie slowed her pace. The young man she’d served chips to, prior to closing up that afternoon, was still seated on the harbour wall.

Checking her wristwatch, seeing she had ten minutes before it was time to don her hat and make sure the chippy was ready for the arrival of their first customer, Maggie increased her sedate pace. She loudly cleared her throat as she got closer so that he had time to come out of whatever introspection was holding him hostage against the grey wall.

‘Hello again.’ Maggie came to a halt a few paces away, not wanting to invade his personal space.

‘Oh, hello.’

‘Did you enjoy the fish and chips?’

‘Yes. Very nice.’ He looked back at the sea view, while adding a belated, ‘Thanks.’

Despite the closed-off expression on his face, Maggie kept talking. ‘Tell me if I’m being a nosy old bat, but are you okay? I couldn’t help noticing that you were here when I left work at half-two, and now it’s approaching five.’

He flashed a forced smile in her direction, before returning to his study of the horizon. ‘I haven’t been here the whole time.’

‘Mousehole is so beautiful. Lots to explore.’

‘Yeah.’

He sounds just like Izzie. Nice village, but nothing much in it. ‘Great view here too.’

‘Nice boats.’

‘Yes.’ Maggie started to struggle. ‘So, you’re okay, then?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Maggie hoisted her handbag further up her shoulder and gestured towards the chippy. ‘Well, if you need anything, you know where I’ll be.’

The offer of assistance seemed to surprise the young man. ‘Why would you want to help me?’

‘You do need help, then?’ She cocked her head to one side, an action that brought an unexpected smile to the lad’s lips.

‘For a second, you looked like the seagull I’ve been chatting to.’

Her eyebrows rose. ‘You talk to seagulls?’

Instantly self-conscious again, he mumbled, ‘Yeah, well, sometimes.’

‘I often talk to them. Helps order the thoughts now I’m on my own; the advantage being they don’t answer back.’ She took a step closer. ‘I’m Maggie, by the way.’

‘Ryan.’

‘From the Midlands?’

‘Birmingham.’

‘I had a great day in Birmingham the December before last. Christmas shopping with my daughter in that huge shopping centre place.’

‘The Bullring.’

‘That’s it. You know it?’

‘Had a Saturday job in a bakery there.’

‘On your hols, then?’

‘Yes. No . . . I’m just staying here for a while . . . maybe longer.’ Ryan flushed.

Experiencing what she always called a ‘lightbulb moment’ when she was working out who the felon was in whichever work of detective fiction she happened to be reading, Maggie asked, ‘You wouldn’t be after a job, would you? It would be temporary, and I’m not sure how many hours, but . . .’

Ryan’s head shot around to face her so fast Maggie found herself taking a step backwards. ‘A job?’

Wondering if she’d been rash in more or less offering him a position without asking Mr Robbins first, Maggie ploughed on regardless. ‘With me at the chippy. The owner should have advertised for temporary staff already for the season, but as ever, he’s forgotten. My daughter, Izzie, did the job last year, but she’s travelling in New Zealand for a while.’

‘Travelling.’ A cloud passed over Ryan’s face. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Ryan shrugged.

Deciding not to press the point, Maggie added, ‘Izzie is convinced Mr Robbins – that’s the chip shop’s owner – is in the mafia or something.’

‘Seriously?’

Maggie chuckled. ‘He has that look, but he’s a total lamb. Tends to leave me to it customer-wise, though, so an extra pair of hands is vital for the summer months.’

‘It’s very kind of you, and I am after work, as it happens, but I also need a place to live. I doubt a part-time job serving fish and chips is going to pay the rent.’

Maggie almost offered him Izzie’s bedroom there and then, but common sense kicked in. Hold on, you know nothing about this lad. ‘You’ve nowhere to live?’

‘No, I was supposed to . . .’ Ryan trailed off. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Maggie waved a hand towards the shop. ‘Come on, let’s see if Mr Robbins is hiring yet, and if so, you could try out. You might even have a job by bedtime.’

‘But . . .’

Guessing what he was going to say, Maggie continued, ‘I’ve several friends who own bed and breakfast places in the village. Most of them owe me a favour. I’ll find you a bed tonight, and then you can worry about reality tomorrow. How does that sound?’

Ryan studied the woman next to him, her mad mound of curls blowing haphazardly in the wind that was now cutting in off the coast and getting trapped in the U-shaped harbour, making the fishing boats tethered below them bob erratically on the waves. ‘Why are you helping me?’

‘Because I’m annoyingly nice.’ And I miss my daughter, and something about you reminds me of her. Ignoring the thought at the back of her mind, Maggie gave him a firm smile. ‘I’m also late for work. Are you coming, or not?’

*

Ryan wasn’t sure why he was following the woman from the chip shop, but as he had no better plan, he decided he’d worry about telling her he couldn’t afford a night in a bed and breakfast later. His phone had already informed him there were two youth hostels within taxi or walking distance, and both had room for him – but only for one night.

If I get this job, I’ll need a place for the whole summer.

Ryan dismissed the notion. He’d been singularly unsuccessful with every job he’d applied for, from teaching assistant posts to being a counter assistant in Greggs; getting not one interview in the past six mo. . .