We parked on a patch of gravel beside a small inlet where fishing boats were moored. The man I had come to meet hooked a pair of binoculars around his neck, placed a tweed flat cap on his head and took a tall stick out of the back of his car. The sky was clear, a rare sunny day in late January on the north coast of Norfolk.
He was taller than I had expected, with rather less hair, but his eyes were the right shade of blue, and his manner — courteous, thoughtful — was just as I had imagined. I sensed a little diffidence as he explained that he had never met another writer in person before, which surprised me. He had sold more than a million books, after all.
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