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He had wispy white hair that seemed to cling desperately onto his head like a small animal terrified of falling off.
He wore a flannel Viyella shirt with a paisley cravat, disguising a baggy neck that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an adult iguana. He had a protuberant purple bottom lip which seemed to clash with his pale complexion. Half-moon spectacles were perched on the end of his aquiline nose. A pair of discreet hearing aids completed the look. He walked with the aid of a stick.
She’d also had so much filler in her face that she could have kept a biro on her top lip while she did her sudoku.
His complexion was residually red from the profuse blood supply that had been needed to fuel such volcanic boils and his skin was oily with unpleasantly large blackheads clinging to the side of his nostrils like barnacles on the hull of a beached boat.
Mrs Ingham leant over to Cubitt, causing her pearls to rattle together like a Newton’s cradle on a desktop,
