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20
Evie
‘How goes the family search?’ asks the librarian. ‘Discovered anyone famous?’
‘Still hopeful,’ I say.
We’re standing at the front desk, waiting for her to finish checking out books for two pensioners with pudding-bowl haircuts and plus-sized bodies. They both gawp at Florence like she’s from outer space. I’ve noticed that people stare at her all the time. Men. Boys. Other women. It happened the moment she walked into the library. Everyone stopped what they were doing: reading, studying, photocopying, shelving books. It’s like she has this weird superpower – the ability to interrupt.
The librarian helps us log into the council website and call up the minutes of council meetings and the records of local businesses.
‘What are you looking for?’ I ask, pulling up a chair next to Florence.
‘Information about Polaris Pelagic,’ she says, scrolling through pages. ‘What we do know is that, until six years ago, the third-party owner was a non-trading company, Temple Court Holdings. The shareholders were both lawyers.’
‘Like you?’
‘Yes. Solicitors in the UK must be registered with the Law Society and are given an SRA number. Barristers have their own register.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Barristers defend people in court, while solicitors do most of their legal work outside court.’
I still don’t know why this is important, but I’m impressed with how quickly Florence can scan entire pages of text and pluck out details that lead her to a new search.
‘Are you in love with Cyrus?’ I ask, making it sound like we’re carrying on the same conversation.
She laughs. ‘Where did that come from?’
I wait for a proper answer. Her expression changes. ‘He’s easy company.’
‘What do you mean by easy?’
‘He’s not always trying to impress me or say clever things or explain everything the way men often do. And he doesn’t bombard me with polite questions. I tell him a story. He offers one in return.’
‘You make it sound like a tennis match,’ I say, but the truth is she just summed up Cyrus in a way that I never could.
‘He cares about people,’ she continues. ‘You must see it. Look how he cares about you.’
‘Me?’
‘He talks about you all the time. It makes me a little jealous.’
I want to scoff, but she’s being serious.
‘I’m not going to hurt him,’ says Florence.
‘How do you know? He might fall in love with you, and you’ll leave, and he’ll be heartbroken.’
‘He could do that to me,’ she says. ‘There are no guarantees, but I promise I’ll be honest with him.’
She’s telling the truth.
The screen refreshes. ‘Here they are,’ she says, jotting down the names of Philip Welbeck and Charles Pembroke.
‘I know him,’ I say, pointing to Welbeck’s photograph. ‘He was in court when Angus Radford and Kenna Downing were charged.’
‘He defended them?’
