My uncle Peter had always been a bit of a character, peculiar but not without charm. Then a chance encounter with one of his former pupils opened my eyes to his dark past
On a summer evening in the first decade of the new millennium, I had arranged to meet a friend at a gastropub in London. I walked into the large, open-plan room, a crowd already at the counter. There was no sign of my friend, so I went to the bar to get a drink while I waited.
“You next?” asked the man beside me. He had traces of silver in his hair, somewhere in his 50s. “No, after you,” I said, before we started to chat. I told him my name. I wasn’t expecting what came next.
