The Girl You Left Behind (47 page)

‘Can I bring my Nintendo?’

‘No, you cannot bring your Nintendo,
Screen-boy. You’ll walk into a tree like you did last time.’

‘I’m training to walk up them,
like Super Mario.’

‘Nice try, Small Fry.’

‘What time are you coming back,
Dad?’

‘Mm?’

In the passenger seat, Paul is scanning the
newspapers. There are four accounts of the previous day’s events in court. The
headlines suggest an impending victory for TARP and the Lefèvres. He cannot
remember the last time he felt less elated by a winning verdict.

‘Dad?’

‘Damn. The news.’ He checks his
watch, leans forward, fiddles with the dial.

‘Survivors of German concentration
camps have called on the government to fast-track legislation that would aid the return
of works of art looted during wartime …

‘Seven survivors have died this year
alone while waiting
for legal processes to return their
families’ possessions, according to legal sources, a situation that has been
described as “a tragedy”.

‘The call comes as the case of a
painting allegedly looted during the First World War continues at the High Court
–’

Paul leans forward. ‘How do I turn
this up?’
Where are they getting this stuff?

‘You want to try Pac-man. Now there
was a computer game.’

‘What?’

‘Dad? What time?’

‘Hold on, Jake. I need to listen to
this.’

‘– Halston, who claims her late
husband bought the painting in good faith. The controversial case illustrates the
difficulties for a legal system facing an increasing number of complex restitution cases
over the past decade. The Lefèvre case has attracted attention across the globe,
with survivors’ groups …’

‘Jesus. Poor Miss Liv.’ Greg
shakes his head.

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t want to be in her
shoes.’

‘What’s that supposed to
mean?’

‘Well, all that stuff in the papers,
on the radio – it’s getting pretty hardcore.’

‘It’s just business.’

Greg gives him the look he turns on
customers who ask to run a tab.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Yeah? I thought you said these things
were always black and white.’

‘You want to back off, Greg? Or maybe
I should stop
by later and tell you how to run your bar. See how that
goes.’

Greg and Jake raise their eyebrows at each
other. It’s surprisingly irritating.

Paul swivels in his seat. ‘Jake,
I’ll call you once we’re out of court, okay? We’ll go to the pictures
or something tonight.’

‘But we’re doing that this
afternoon. Greg just told you.’

‘High Court’s coming up on the
right. You want me to do a U-turn?’ Greg signals left and pulls up so dramatically
that they all lurch forwards. A taxi swerves past them, blaring its disapproval.
‘I’m not sure I should be stopping here. If I get a ticket you’ll pay
it, right? Hey – isn’t that her?’

‘Who?’ Jake leans forward.

Paul looks across the road at the crowd
outside the High Court. The open area to the front of the steps is packed with people.
The throng has grown over the past days, but even shrouded in mist he can detect
something different about it today: a choleric atmosphere, its participants’ faces
set in expressions of barely concealed antipathy.

‘Uh-oh,’ says Greg, and Paul
follows the direction of his gaze.

Across the road, Liv is approaching the
court entrance, her hands tight around her bag, her head down as if she is deep in
thought. She glances up, and as she understands the nature of the demonstration before
her, apprehension crosses her face. Someone shouts her name:
Halston.
The crowd
takes a second to register, and she picks up
speed, tries to hurry
past, but her name is repeated, a low murmur, which swells, becomes an accusation.

Henry, just visible on the other side of the
entrance, walks briskly across the paving towards her as if he can already see what is
happening. Liv’s stride falters and he leaps forward, but the crowd surges and
shifts, splitting briefly, and swallows her, like some giant organism.

‘Christ.’

‘What the –’

Paul drops his files and leaps out of the
car, sprinting across the road. He hurls himself into the mass and fights his way to the
centre. It is a maelstrom of hands and banners, the sound deafening. The word
‘THEFT’ flashes in front of him on a falling banner. He sees a camera flash,
glimpses Liv’s hair, grabs for her arm and hears her shout out in fright. The
crowd surges forward and almost knocks him off his feet. He spots Henry on the other
side of her, pushes towards him, swearing at a man who grabs at his coat. Uniformed
officers in neon tabards appear, pulling the protesters away. ‘
Break it up.
GET BACK. GET BACK.
’
His breath catches in his chest, someone thumps
him hard in the kidneys, and then they are free, moving swiftly up the steps, Liv
between them like a doll. With the crackle and whistle of a police radio, they are
ushered in by burly officers, through the security barriers and into the muted peace and
safety of the other side. The crowd, denied, yells its protest from outside, the sound
echoing off the walls.

Liv’s features are bleached white. She
stands mute, one hand lifted in front of her face, her cheek scratched, her hair half
out of its ponytail.

‘Jesus. Where were you?’ Henry
straightens his jacket angrily, shouting at the officers. ‘Where was Security? You
should have foreseen this!’

The officer is nodding at him distractedly,
one hand raised, the other holding his radio in front of his mouth as he issues
instructions.

‘This is simply not
acceptable!’

‘Are you okay?’ Paul releases
her. She nods, steps blindly away from him, as if she has only just realized he is
there. Her hands are shaking.

‘Thank you, Mr McCafferty,’
Henry says, adjusting his collar. ‘Thank you for diving in. That was …’
He trails off.

‘Can we get Liv a drink? Somewhere to
sit down?’

‘Oh, God,’ says Liv, quietly,
peering at her sleeve. ‘Somebody spat on me.’

‘Here. Take it off. Just take it
off.’ Paul lifts her coat from her shoulders. She appears suddenly smaller, her
shoulders bowed as if by the weight of hatred outside.

Henry takes it from him. ‘Don’t
worry about it, Liv. I’ll tell one of my staff to get it cleaned. And we’ll
make sure you can leave via the back entrance.’

‘Yes, madam. We’ll get you out
the back later,’ the policeman says.

‘Like a criminal,’ she says
dully.

‘I won’t let that happen to you
again,’ Paul says, taking a step towards her. ‘Really. I’m – I’m
so sorry.’

She glances up at him, her eyes narrow and
she takes a step backwards.

‘What?’

‘Why should I trust you?’

Before he can reply Henry is at her elbow
and she is
gone, shepherded down the corridor and into the court by
her legal team, somehow too small in her dark jacket, blind to the fact that her
ponytail is still half out of its band.

Paul walks slowly across the road,
straightening his shoulders in his jacket. Greg is standing by his car, holding out his
scattered files and leather briefcase. It has started to rain.

‘You okay?’

He nods.

‘Is she?’

‘Uh …’ Paul glances back
towards the court, rubs at his hair. ‘Sort of. Look. I’ve got to go in.
I’ll see you both later.’

Greg looks at him, then at the crowd, which
is now a loose, tame thing, people milling around and chatting as if the last ten
minutes hadn’t happened. His expression is uncharacteristically cold.
‘So,’ he says, as he climbs back into the car, ‘that whole
I’m-on-the-side-of-the-angels thing, how’s it working out for
you?’

He doesn’t look at Paul as he drives
away. Jake’s face, pale against the back windscreen, gazes impassively at him
until the car disappears from view.

Janey is at his side as he walks up the
steps towards the courtroom. Her hair is neatly pinned, and she is wearing bright red
lipstick. ‘Touching,’ she says.

He pretends he hasn’t heard her.

Sean Flaherty dumps his folders on a bench
and prepares to go through Security. ‘This is getting a bit out of hand. Never
seen anything like it.’

‘Yeah,’ says Paul, rubbing his
jaw. ‘It’s almost like … Oh, I don’t know. Like all this
inflammatory crap being fed to the media is having an effect.’ He turns to
Janey.

‘Meaning?’ says Janey,
coolly.

‘Meaning that whoever is briefing
journalists and winding up interest groups obviously couldn’t give a flying fuck
how unpleasant this is going to get.’

‘Whereas you are all chivalry.’
Janey looks back at him steadily.

‘Janey? Did you have anything to do
with that protest?’

The pause is just a nanosecond too long.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

Sean’s gaze flickers between them, as
if he is only just registering that a whole separate conversation is taking place before
him. He excuses himself, muttering about briefing the barrister. And it is just Paul and
Janey in the long stone corridor.

He runs a hand through his hair, gazes back
towards the courtroom. ‘I don’t like this. I don’t like this at
all.’

‘It’s business. And you never
minded before.’ She glances at her watch, then out of the window. The Strand is
not visible from back here, but the chanting of the protesters can still be heard,
barely muffled by the buildings. Her arms are folded across her chest.

‘Anyway, I don’t think you can
exactly play the innocent.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You want to tell me what’s
going on? With you and Mrs Halston?’

‘Nothing’s going on.’

‘Don’t insult my
intelligence.’

‘Okay. Nothing that’s any of
your business.’

‘If you’re having a relationship
with the subject of our claim, I think that’s very much my business.’

‘I am not in a relationship with
her.’

Janey moves closer to him.
‘Don’t fuck me around, Paul. You approached the Lefèvres behind my
back, trying to negotiate a settlement.’

‘Yeah. I was going to talk to you
about –’

‘I saw that little display out there.
And you try to cut a deal for her, days before the ruling?’

‘Okay.’ Paul removes his jacket
and sits down heavily on a bench. ‘Okay.’

She waits.

‘I had a brief relationship with her
before I realized who she was. It ended when we discovered we were on opposing sides.
That’s it.’

Janey studies something high up in the
vaulted ceiling. When she speaks again her words are casual. ‘Are you planning on
getting together with her again? After this is over?’

‘That’s nobody’s
business.’

‘The hell it is. I need to know that
you’ve been working as hard as you can for me. That this case hasn’t been
compromised.’

His voice explodes into the empty space.
‘We’re winning, aren’t we? What more do you want?’

The last of the legal team is going into
court. Sean’s face appears around the heavy oak door, and he mouths at them to
come in.

Paul takes a deep breath. He makes his voice
conciliatory.
‘Look. Personal stuff aside, I do think it would
be the right thing to settle. We’d still be –’

Janey reaches for her folders. ‘We are
not going to settle.’

‘But –’

‘Why on earth would we? We’re
about to win the most high-profile case this company has ever handled.’

‘We’re destroying
someone’s life.’

‘She destroyed her own life the day
she decided to fight us.’

‘We were taking what she believed was
hers. Of course she was going to fight us. Come on, Janey, this is about
fairness.’

‘This isn’t about fairness.
Nothing’s about fairness. Don’t be ridiculous.’ She blows her nose.
When she turns to him, her eyes glitter. ‘This case is scheduled for two more days
in court. Provided nothing untoward happens, Sophie Lefèvre will go back after that
to her rightful place.’

‘And you’re so sure you know
where that is.’

‘Yes, I am. As should you be. And now
I suggest we go in before the Lefèvres wonder what on earth we’re still doing
out here.’

He walks into the courtroom, his head
buzzing, ignoring the glare of the clerk. He sits and takes a few deep breaths, trying
to clear his thoughts. Janey is distracted, deep in conversation with Sean. As his heart
rate steadies, he remembers a retired detective he used to talk to when he was first in
London, a man whose face had set in wry folds of amusement at the ways of the world.
‘All that counts is the truth, McCafferty,’ he would say, just before the
beer turned his conversation to blather. ‘Without it you’re basically just
juggling people’s daft ideas.’

He pulls his notepad from his jacket and
scribbles a few words, before folding the paper carefully in half. He glances sideways,
then taps the man in front of him. ‘Can you pass this to that solicitor
please?’ He watches as the scrap of white paper makes its way down to the front,
along the bench to the junior solicitor, then to Henry, who glances at it and passes it
to Liv.

She gazes at it warily, as if reluctant to
open it. And then he watches as she does so, her sudden, intense stillness as she
digests what it says.

I WILL FIX THIS.

She turns and her eyes seek him out. When
she finds him her chin lifts slightly.
Why should I trust you?

Time seems to stop. She looks away.

‘Tell Janey I had to go. Urgent
meeting,’ he says, to Sean. Paul stands and begins to fight his way out.

Afterwards, he is unsure what leads him
there. The flat, in a mansion block behind Marylebone Road, is lined with salmon-pink
wallpaper to which pearlescent swirls add a faint peachy glitter. The curtains are pink.
The sofas are a deep rose. The walls are covered with shelves, upon which little china
animals jostle for space with tinsel and Christmas cards. A good number are pink. And
there, standing before him in a pair of slacks and a cardigan, is Marianne Andrews. In
head-to-toe lime green.