The old port fish market, half past six in the morning. The two-hundred-and-thirty-kilo tuna the trawler landed before dawn went into the cold store with its tag, its time and its signature, waiting its turn on the scales. At half past six the tag is on the floor, the hook is empty and the cold store door is shut as it should be. In this market a tuna that size does not go out on somebody's shoulder without the quay seeing it.
A liar lies about everything they say.