Sam Llewellyn writes:
When you come ashore in a strange port and head for the nearest bar, there is usually someone who will sidle up to you and tell you a story, rather in the way that it was once impossible to sit in the lobby of the Royal York Hotel in Toronto without someone sidling up to you and trying to sell you an uranium mine. My most recent novel began when I went into the only pub on a remote Scottish island and a deeply intoxicated man told me that someone had stolen his fishing boat, which weighed about 100 tons, from between two locks on a canal, neither of the lock keepers having seen a thing. Unfortunately the law of libel, or possibly slander, prevents me from going into the rest of it here. But you will find the fictionalised consequences of this encounter between the covers of Black Fish.