Alarm or not, a single windowpane in the front door gaped, broken and unrepaired.
“George Poole. It is George, isn’t it?”
I turned, startled. The man standing before me was bulky, balding. He wore clothes that were vaguely out of joint, perhaps too young for him — bright yellow T-shirt, jeans, training shoes, a chunky-looking cell phone stuck in a chest pocket. Despite his bearlike size you instantly got an impression of shyness, for his shoulders were hunched as if to mask his height, and his hands, folded together in front of his belly, plucked at each other.
And despite the graying hair, high forehead, and thickened neck and jaw, I recognized him straight away.
“Peter?”
His name was Peter McLachlan. We had been in the same year at school, for most of our careers in the same classes. At school he was always Peter, never Pete or Petey, and I guessed he was the same now.
He stuck out his hand. His grip was tentative, his palm cold and moist. “I saw you drive up. I bet you’re surprised to find me standing here.”
“Not really. My father used to mention you.”
“Nice duffel coat,” he said.
“What? … Oh, yeah.”
“Takes me back to school days. Didn’t know you could buy them anymore.”
“I’ve a special supplier. Caters for the style-challenged.” It was true.
We stood there awkwardly for a moment. I always did feel awkward with Peter, for he was one of those people who could never relax in company. And there was something different about his face, which took me a couple of seconds to cue in on: he wasn’t wearing the thick glasses that had always been inflicted on him as a kid in the seventies. I couldn’t see the telltale eye widening of contacts; maybe he’d had laser surgery.