Terry had always looked ten years younger than his true age, but now it seemed that a few years had jumped in and wrestled him down. His face was thinner than I remembered it and there were strain lines around his eyes and mouth. He said a few quiet, firm words into the phone and hung up. He gave me a welcoming grin, but the expression flicked off his face quickly as if the muscles couldn’t hold it.

‘Hello, Cliff. You don’t look any more brain-damaged than when I last saw you. Have you been taking it easy?’

‘Mmm, could be. I seem to be getting more sleep. How’s the family?’

‘Okay. Let’s get to it. I’ve lost five cars in the last month.’

‘Lost?’

‘Lost-gone, vanished.’

‘You’d be insured, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course. But you know the deal: they’ll be getting shirty if I report them all, and the premiums next quarter’ll kill me. They already take an arm and a leg.’

‘How many claims have you made?’

He ran a finger around inside his shirt collar where there seemed to be more room than a good fit required. He was a neat dresser, Terry, who wore white shirts and plain ties. This shirt was a little grubby at the neck and the tie had been knotted too far down. Terry Reeves looking like a country cousin; that was something new.

‘One claim,’ he said. ‘That puts me in an irregular position. I should have claimed for two more, signalled them at least. But word gets around.’ He made a dive-bombing motion with his big, freckled hand. ‘People get nervous and business goes down. The margins in this game are tight, believe me.’

Another orange-skirted young woman walked into the office and plonked two polystyrene cups of coffee on the desk. Terry’s tired face gave a quick, painful smile.