Confusing Company

She'd been to the bookshop three times when she first met the ginger man.
He wasn't a customer, that much was clear from the way he lounged in the armchair as if he owned it.
Mr. Fell's friend? Surely not. The man looked as if he had never touched a book in his life and wasn't planning to do so in the near or not-so-near future.
He was constantly smirking while Mr. Fell was nothing but polite. He was scrawny, Mr. Fell was not. He was Mr. Fell's polar opposite.
Yet she met him in the bookshop again and again.