Opening the door, Steven saw two men stood in the doorway.
The first was William Hargreaves. He was somewhere in his early fifties, lean and composed, in a dark navy suit that had clearly been made for him rather than bought off a rack.
His tie was a deep burgundy, his shoes the kind that had been maintained rather than replaced. He carried a slim leather portfolio under one arm and held himself with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone who had walked into important rooms for long enough that the rooms no longer affected him.
The second man was younger, mid-thirties, similarly dressed. He stood half a step behind Hargreaves in the way that communicated clearly without needing to be said that he was there in a supporting capacity.
"Mr. Craig," Hargreaves said, extending his hand. "William Hargreaves. Thank you for making time for us today."
His handshake was firm and direct.
"Steven Craig," Steven said. "Come in."
