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Ogilvy enters at nine, looking showered, shaved and rested. A torn piece of toilet paper is sticking to a bloody spot on his neck.
‘Your lawyer is here,’ he says. ‘I can’t tell if she’s modelling for Ducati or the real deal.’
‘She’s the real deal.’
‘Lucky you.’
Florence steps around him, ignoring his comment. Her motorcycle leathers are stained with road grime and splattered with bugs. She has ridden through the night to be here.
‘I’d like to be alone with my clients,’ she says.
Ogilvy leaves reluctantly, his gaze lingering as the door closes.
Florence motions me to the far side of the conference room, away from Evie. Her fingers brush the back of my hand, and she pecks me on the lips. Not very professional but welcomed.
‘Did Finn Radford make any admissions?’ she asks.
‘He admitted to smuggling. That’s how he got the gun.’
‘That’s not enough.’
‘Evie was there. She was on board the Arianna II.’
‘Nobody is going to trust the memories she had as a child.’
‘We can get more evidence,’ I say, but can’t think how. The Arianna II sank in deep water. Even if we could locate the wreckage, what would be left after twelve years?
‘What have you told the police?’ asks Florence.
‘I told them that Angus Radford and his brothers were involved in human trafficking.’
‘Did you identify Evie?’
‘They know.’
‘Well, my advice is to say nothing more. This is bigger than the local police. You should talk directly to the National Crime Agency or to Border Force.’
A knock on the door. Ogilvy again. ‘You’ve had your twenty minutes,’ he says.
We all stand. He points at me. ‘Stay here. I’m interviewing you separately. Miss Cormac is first.’
I begin to protest, but Florence stops me. ‘I’ll take care of her.’
17
Evie
I’ve decided there are two types of people in the world – the overachievers and those who want to see all the overachievers die in a flaming car crash. I fall into the second category. Florence falls into the first one.
Cyrus is always telling me I should look for the best in people instead of trying to find faults, or calling them liars, even if they lie all the time. ‘Absolute honesty is an impossible ideal,’ he says. But I don’t care if most people are well meaning and have a desire to be good. They also lie and cheat and steal and rarely show remorse when they get caught.
Cyrus says I’m being a hypocrite, but I’m not being two-faced. I admit that I’m a liar. And I don’t care if I’m unpopular. I’m not even sure that I want to be happy or in love. Love is for the birds and the bees and romantic comedies and soppy love songs and coming-of-age movies where the ugly duckling turns into a swan or the geek gets Invisalign braces and contact lenses and is suddenly beautiful. Voilà! Life is good. Hand me a bucket!
Ogilvy has a hard-on for Florence. I mean that literally. He keeps adjusting his crotch like he’s turning a sausage on a barbecue.
Florence sits close to me.
‘Don’t say anything unless I give you permission,’ she whispers. ‘And if you’re not sure, say, “No comment.”’
