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‘How are you?’ I ask because we’re alone and she’s been quieter than usual since we left Glengowrie Lodge.
‘I keep picturing myself in that room,’ she says.
‘You’re remembering.’
She nods. ‘The housekeeper was the only person who talked to me. She brought me food and emptied my chamber pot and gave me medicine. I wanted to ask her about Agnesa and Mama, but it hurt when I tried to speak. She said my lungs and vocal cords had been damaged by chemicals in the smoke, which is why I had trouble breathing and speaking. She brought me an oxygen tank and showed me how to hold the mask over my mouth and nose and to inhale slowly when I was out of breath.’
Florence returns to the table, looking stunned. ‘Simon knows I’m in Scotland.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘I left without telling anyone. Not even my housemates.’
‘Maybe DS Ogilvy called the charity to check up on you.’
‘I didn’t tell Ogilvy where I worked.’
There is a moment of silence before Evie pipes up. ‘Maybe someone is tracking your phone.’
‘I’m a junior employee. Why bother?’ says Florence.
‘You told Lord Buchan that you worked for Migrant Watch,’ I say. ‘He must have called his brother.’
Florence doesn’t look reassured. ‘Simon said I was making a nuisance of myself and jeopardising the mission of the charity.’
‘How?’
‘The text messages from a sinking migrant boat are being used as evidence against us. Critics are accusing Migrant Watch of organising the crossing and being responsible for the tragedy.’
‘But that’s not true,’ I say.
‘I know, but the optics are terrible and the Daily Mail is calling for the charity to be struck off or prosecuted.’
‘What did Simon say?’
‘He told me to take some time off.’
‘He sacked you?’
Her eyes are shining. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He’s an arsehole,’ says Evie, who has eaten her bread roll and stolen mine.
‘No, he’s not,’ says Florence, her voice trembling. ‘He’s a good man.’
A waitress arrives with our meals. Evie asks for ketchup with her fries, using an American accent. Florence pushes food around her plate, picking at the edges, no longer hungry.
Evie tells us more about Glengowrie Lodge, and her days spent locked in an attic room. The woman who brought her food was probably Mrs Collie, the housekeeper.
‘Did you see anyone else?’ I ask.
‘No, but I heard children playing in the garden outside.’
‘Does David Buchan have a family?’ I ask Florence.
‘He has two ex-wives and no children.’
‘Wallis Collie raised eight children at the lodge,’ I say.
