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Ogilvy leans forward, putting his palms facing up on the table like we’re going to hold hands and make a prayer circle.
‘Perhaps you could help me, Miss Cormac. I can’t seem to find any record of your existence. No birth certificate. No medical records. No charge-sheet. No social security file. I’m not even sure that Evie Cormac is your real name.’
‘Is there a question in there somewhere?’ asks Florence.
‘I’m a ward of the court,’ I say. ‘My identity is protected.’
‘You’re no longer a child.’
‘The protection order is ongoing.’
‘Why?’
‘People aren’t supposed to know who I am.’
‘Are you someone famous?’
‘No.’
‘A protected witness?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a passport?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘I don’t see why this is relevant,’ says Florence. ‘You have Evie’s name and address.’
‘Which could be fake.’
Florence gives him a mocking laugh. Ogilvy colours slightly and moves on.
‘You said that you’d met Finn Radford before.’
‘We didn’t really meet. I was on a fishing trawler with my mother and sister and other migrants.’
‘How many?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘More than ten?’
‘Yes.’
‘Twenty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thirty?’
‘No.’
‘What was the name of the boat?’
‘The Arianna II.’
