‘I don’t want to be stereotypical or anything, but I honestly thought gypsies have always been rather brilliant horse thieves.’

His crystalline blue eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Ah yes. Perhaps it would have been a different matter if the horse had been real, or made of scrap metal. But being wooden …’

I really want to laugh with him, but I suppress the urge. I’m not on a date. I cannot allow myself to like him. I’ll just end up getting hurt.

We’re interrupted by the arrival of our starters. My order of goat’s cheese with roasted beet looks like a white and magenta millefeuille. I gaze at it with awe. Just as the amuse-bouches before, it is a precisely arranged work of art. Almost too beautiful to eat. Dom has seared scallops and walnuts served with a dinky pot of Parmesan brûlée

I cut into my millefeuille and fork a small piece into my mouth. It is so delicious I’m immediately struck by how much I’d love to be able to afford to bring my parents here, instead of all the cheap restaurants my tight budget forces me to take them to. I know they would never have tasted anything so refined and luscious, and it suddenly and painfully hits home that they probably never will. And just like that I no longer need to stop myself from liking him. That resentment for ‘people like him’ comes back into my gut. I welcome it like an old friend. It’s better this way. I am too affected by him already.

‘Why are you so afraid of surveillance if you’re doing nothing wrong?’ I ask.

‘Why do you have curtains in your bedroom windows? Are you doing something wrong?’ he shoots back.

‘It’s not the same thing,’ I argue.

‘Why isn’t it? I don’t want the government, its agents and a whole slew of marketers to have access to my private data. That’s my business alone, and I take steps to keep it so. Why is that concept so foreign to you?’

‘You’ll be pleased to know that Connect holds very little information on you, or,’ I continue, ‘your brothers.’

He smiles a slow, satisfied smile.

Smile he should. Guarding his privacy has worked. He is a closed door to Connect’s tentacles. All it managed to dig up was that at twenty-eight years old he has never made a benefit claim. He doesn’t own or co-own any property or business. Needless to say, I don’t believe that for a second. Him not financially tied with anyone? As if! He has two bank accounts that show a pathetic amount of activity, mostly direct debits for utility bills. No overdraft. He has a credit card, but he won’t even use it to pay for petrol. He hasn’t flown with a commercial airline for as long as Connect has been running. One look at that tan tells me he didn’t acquire it in London. Which only signifies he’s leaving the country using other, private means.

I flash him a fake smile. ‘It would appear that you’ve fooled the super-computer into believing that you’re a rather uninteresting employee.’

He lifts his glass of whiskey. ‘I don’t know how you meant that to come out, but I have to say it kinda looks bad when you give the impression that you believe you’re better than a super-computer.’

I smile through my irritation. ‘Connect is an amazing invention. At the touch of a button it can show an incredibly detailed picture about a person that would have taken months of research before, but it has no intuitive powers. The department relies on investigators and analysts like me to validate the data and pick up unnatural patterns.’

‘Unnatural patterns? Like what?’ he asks, fishing for information.

Well, he’s not getting anything but the obvious from me. ‘Like everything I’ve seen tonight. Like the clothes, the car, this restaurant.’

‘So, you noticed my clothes,’ he notes cheekily. It’s hard to imagine that this is the same tormented man from this afternoon.

‘One can hardly fail to notice that they’re not off a department store’s rack.’ My voice is mild.

He widens his eyes innocently. ‘I saved up for years to buy these clothes. The car belongs to the company, and I only come to this restaurant when I’m feeling particularly flush or on a really big date.’

‘It’s all a big joke to you, isn’t it?’ I accuse. I can feel myself losing my cool.

‘It’s not just a job for you, is it?’ he asks curiously.

‘No, it’s not. It’s a personal crusade.’ I lean back as the waiting staff move in to efficiently and quickly clear away our plates. My wine is replenished and a fresh glass of whiskey is placed before Dom. I notice that he’s not drinking any wine at all, which means that he ordered the bottle solely for me.

‘So, you must hate people like me.’

‘Hate might be too strong a word. Detest might be a bit closer.’

He looks at me with a perplexed expression as if he’s trying to figure out a three-headed, ten-limbed, purple-striped creature. ‘Why do you care so much what tax I pay? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether you pay yours or not.’

‘Because people like you play the legal game and screw the country,’ I accuse hotly.

‘Trying to avoid paying more tax than you have to is not screwing the country. On the contrary, it’s doing one’s best to avoid being screwed by people like you. I’m paying the right amount of tax within the rules. Only a sanctimonious, pompous zealot would criticize someone for seeking every legal means possible to reduce their tax bill. Tax avoidance isn’t wrong. It’s perfectly sensible behavior.’

‘Wow,’ I gasp. ‘This is a turn-up for the books. The tax dodger decides to take the moral high ground!’

He shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Let not he who is houseless pull down the house of another, but let him labor diligently and build one for himself, thus by example assuring that his own shall be safe from violence when built—Abraham Lincoln.’ He leans back, a smug smile on his face.

My main course—Dorset crab and black quinoa with tomato and Meyer lemon sauce—is put before me. It’s a world-class visual treat, but I find I’ve completely lost my appetite.

‘Bon appétit,’ Dom says when we’re alone again, and digs with relish into his Ahi tuna topped with caviar. It is lined with slices of zucchini that are so thinly sliced they’re almost transparent.

I fold my arms over my chest. ‘So, you think that you have a perfect right to pay little or even no tax if possible, because you’re wealthy enough to have access to devious accountants, slick lawyers, corrupt bankers and tax havens while the rest of us subsidize your operations by paying for the education and health care of your workforce, the roads you and your companies use, and the police deployed to guard your restaurants and nightclubs from trouble.’

He leans forward, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘If you truly feel that way then why don’t you do something about the really big tax avoiders like Google, Starbucks, Microsoft and Apple?’

I sit up straighter in my chair. ‘My mandate does not cover multinational companies.’

He raises one mocking eyebrow. ‘Your mandate doesn’t cover multinationals? How fucking convenient.’

‘Another department deals with them,’ I defend tensely.

He bursts into a sarcastic, cynical laugh.

I stare at him furiously. How dare he make out that I’m in some insidious way complicit in the wrongdoings of the multinational companies?

‘Since you seem completely clueless, let me tell you how your department for policing the multinationals dealt with the big boys last year. Starbucks had sales of four hundred million pounds in the UK last year, but paid no corporation tax at all. It transferred some money to a Dutch sister company in a royalty payment, bought coffee beans from Switzerland (hey! who knew Switzerland produces coffee beans, but there you go), and paid high interest rates to borrow from other parts of the business.’ He pauses. ‘Want to hear how they dealt with Amazon?’

I say nothing.

‘I thought not. But here’s the deal anyway. With sales in the UK of four-point-three billion last year, it reported a tax expense of just four-point-two million pounds. What percentage is that, Ella? Could that possibly be just nought-point-one percent?’