Edward Abel Smith at Longreads:
When Robin walked in, my first thought was how little he matched what I had expected. He was tall and trim, calm in a way that seemed entirely unperformed. The man who had been photographed entering court looking gaunt and hollow-eyed had filled out; more than a decade of prison routine seemed, paradoxically, to have done him good.
He sat down, thanked me for the sandwich and drink, let me flounder through some small talk about the weather, and then, with the patience of someone who has had a great deal of practice at waiting, he broke in gently. “If you write a book about me,” he said, “it’s important that you feel you can ask me anything, even if it might seem really insensitive. You need to make up your own mind about who you think killed Diana. I’ll tell you the facts. Anything you want to know, I will tell you. But I won’t try to persuade you either way.”
It was a disarming thing to say. I noticed, as he spoke, that he twisted the wedding ring on his finger—slowly, almost unconsciously, as though it were a habit he was no longer aware of.
I liked Robin immediately.
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