Harold Gates slowed the snow-topped yellow taxi and edged it along the slushy curb to a stop where she stood, shivering in a tattered wool coat in a January blizzard on the steps of her unlit ... [+]
There was a man on the doorstep, all leatherette shoes and easy iron trousers. When I say doorstep I mean the pavement between the threshold and the hazard lines of a busy junction.His head, too big for his body, was tilted slightly and he was staring expectantly at the handle in much the same way a dog does when wanting to be let out, or in. Indeed, his greying hair gave the impression of a scruffy terrier and he moved with irritating bounciness.The man on the doorstep wore the black and grey anorak of officialdom but in the absence of a folder, clipboard or meter reading gadget, I wondered w