He had to assume Duval would be toughened unrecognisably by years spent in the company of murderers, perpetrators of violent assaults, extreme degenerates. Then he remembered what Duval himself was supposed to have done.

He looked out the windows at the construction hole where the Sun Times building had stood – a modern aluminium shell, it had lasted only forty years, and he could almost feel the Marchese crow at the demise of its upstart neighbour.

‘Just coffee, please,’ he said to the waitress as she held out a menu. She filled his cup while he wondered what Duval might want to talk about. They hadn’t seen each other in over twenty years, had not been friends for over thirty. There had to be some agenda, something Duval wanted. He realised his curiosity had been overtaken by apprehension. He wanted to leave, but this seemed cowardly – besides, Duval would probably just call him again.

He looked around, noticing how the couple was sitting mute. Was this the silence of complete familiarity, or recognition that after so many years they had exhausted all possibilities for conversation? Probably both. Thank God he hadn’t reached that point with Anna. Whatever the ups and downs they had between them, there was always conversation – sometimes funny (she often made him laugh), sometimes heated, sometimes calm. But always talk.

Behind the elderly couple the black man was studying his book intently. He wore old-fashioned wire-framed reading glasses, and when he looked up the frames glinted in the light. His eyes caught Robert’s and he nodded shyly, then suddenly his face broke into a toothy smile. And Robert thought, Oh, my God, it’s him.

‘Duval?’ The man nodded. Robert stood up and moved over to the man’s table, where he put down his cup. They shook hands; Duval’s was dry, and roughly calloused. He had taken his glasses off and his dark brown eyes looked intently at Robert, in a slow assessment that made Robert uneasy, as if he were being compared to some long-stored image.

They both sat down, Robert with his back now to the river. Duval wore a dark suit, brown-and-silver tie, and a white shirt with an oversized collar that bobbed around his throat. His face was long and oval-shaped, and his wiry hair was cropped short. A thin line of beard ran along each side of his jaw until it widened like a protective cup around his chin. Duval sat upright, like a man of the cloth ill at ease in restaurants.

‘I could tell you didn’t recognise me. Bet you thought, That old black guy can’t be Duval.’

This was so true that Robert felt enveloped by awkwardness. ‘Maybe something like that,’ he conceded.

Duval smiled. ‘And here I was thinking, That old white guy can’t be Bobby.’

Robert laughed with relief. ‘It’s good to see you, Duval.’

Duval nodded but didn’t say anything.

‘You look well.’ He hesitated, feeling ill at ease again. ‘Nice suit,’ he added, and felt stupid for the remark.

Duval pinched the lapel with his long fingers. ‘Thirty years old and still going strong. Of course it didn’t get a lot of wear for twenty-four of them.’

There didn’t seem a suitable response, so Robert decided to stick to the present. ‘Where are you living?’

‘I’m staying with my cousin Jermaine. He’s got a spare room.