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Most articles refer to him as a philanthropist, or a self-made billionaire, with business interests that included hotels, employment services and labour hire companies. Although deeply private and publicity shy, he had lobbied successive governments to do more to combat modern-day slavery and sex-trafficking, as well as treating refugees and asylum seekers with greater compassion.
Christmas dinner must be interesting in the Buchan family – two brothers with diametrically opposed political views, pouring wine and exchanging gifts. Maybe they call a truce for the day, a temporary ceasefire, or perhaps they lock the elephant in a different room.
I look for photographs of Simon Buchan, but struggle to find any apart from a rowing picture from his days at Cambridge and a corporate headshot from his time as a merchant banker.
Poppy’s ears prick up as a key slides into the front door. She scrambles off the sofa and goes to greet Evie in the hallway.
‘Hello,’ I say.
Evie doesn’t answer. She walks past the library and up the stairs. I leave the desk and look up at her, noticing her clothes and her make-up and my denim jacket.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Out.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
Everything about her body language screams at me to leave her alone.
‘I won’t be in for dinner. There’s some lasagne left in the fridge.’
‘Fine.’
‘Have you heard from Dr Bennett?’
Her bedroom door has closed.
The restaurant is in a converted warehouse where the blackened brick walls and beams have become design features. The number fourteen is printed or embossed on every menu, wine glass, place setting and item of cutlery.
A maître d’ takes my coat and consults a computer tablet. ‘This way, sir.’
I follow her through the restaurant, weaving between tables, past windows that overlook the city. We leave the dining room and enter a corridor.
‘Excuse me, where are we going?’ I ask.
‘The private dining room.’
‘How many of us are there?’
‘Two.’
She ushers me into a darkened room with a small well-lit single table covered in a starched white tablecloth with two place settings for dinner. A bottle of white wine is resting in an ice-bucket on a stand, and a bottle of red wine has been placed on a sideboard. Open. Breathing.
It’s only after she’s gone that I realise that I’m not alone. A figure is silhouetted against a large picture window that offers views across the square to the dome of Nottingham Council House, which slowly changes colour from blue to red to green.
A man turns and steps into the light. ‘Dr Haven, thank you so much for joining me.’ His handshake is dry and firm. His smile as white as the tablecloth. He holds on to my hand for a beat longer than I expect, trapping me in his gaze. ‘Florence has told me so much about you.’
‘I thought she might be here.’
‘She had an errand to run for me.’
He pulls out a chair. ‘I hope you don’t mind dining so intimately. I’m not comfortable in crowds.’
‘I could probably unpack that,’ I say.
He looks alarmed but then smiles. ‘Of course, you’re a psychologist. I shall have to watch myself. Red or white.’
