The Girl You Left Behind, Page 34

  Liliane's good hand lifted to the side of her face, tracing a livid red scar that ran from the corner of her eyebrow along her cheek. She seemed deep in thought, a long way from me. I prayed that my certainty had reassured her a little.

  'We have survived so far, haven't we?' I continued. 'We are no longer in that hellish cattle truck. And we have been brought together. Surely the fates must have looked kindly upon us to do that.'

  She reminded me, suddenly, of Helene in the darker days. I wanted to reach across to her, touch her arm, but I was too weak. I could barely stay upright on the wooden bench as it was. 'You have to keep faith. Things can be good again. I know it.'

  'You really think we can go home? To St Peronne? After what we each did?'

  The soldier began to push himself upright, wiping his eyes. He seemed irritated, as if our conversation had woken him.

  'Well ... maybe not straight away,' I stammered. 'But we can return to France. One day. Things will be -'

  'We are in no man's land now, you and I, Sophie. There is no home left for us.'

  Liliane lifted her head then. Her eyes were huge and dark. She was, I saw now, completely unrecognizable as the glossy creature I had seen strutting past the hotel. But it was not just the scars and bruises that altered her appearance: something deep in her soul had been corrupted, blackened.

  'You really think prisoners who end up in Germany ever come out again?'

  'Liliane, please don't talk like that. Please. You just need ...' My voice tailed away.

  'Dearest Sophie, with your faith, your blind optimism in human nature.' She half smiled at me, and it was a terrible, bleak thing. 'You have no idea what they will do to us.'

  And with that, before I could say another word, she whipped the gun from the soldier's holster, pointed it to the side of her head and pulled the trigger.

  30

  'So we thought we might take in a movie this afternoon. And this morning Jakey's going to help me walk the dogs.' Greg drives badly, dipping his foot on and off the accelerator, apparently in time with the music, so that Paul's upper body lurches forward at odd intervals all the way down Fleet Street.

  '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 Lefevres. 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 Lefevre 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, pe
ering 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 Lefevres 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 Lefevre 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 Lefevres 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.

  'You're one of Mr Flaherty's people.' She stoops a little, as if she is too big for the doorframe. She has what Paul's mother would have called 'big bones': they jut from her
joints like a camel's.

  'I'm sorry to land on your doorstep like this. I wanted to talk to you. About the case.'

  She looks as if she is about to turn him away, and then she raises a large hand. 'Oh, you might as well come in. But I warn you, I'm as mad as a cut snake at how you all talked about Mom, like she was some kind of criminal. The newspapers are no better. I've had calls these last few days from friends back home who've seen the story and they're trying to imply she did something terrible. I just got off the phone to my old friend Myra from high school and I had to tell her that Mom did more useful things in six months than that darned woman's husband did sitting on his fat old backside in his thirty years at the Bank of America.'

  'I'm sure.'

  'Oh, I bet you are, honey.' She beckons him inside, her gait stiff and shuffling. 'Mom was a social progressive. She wrote about the plight of workers, displaced children. She was horrified by war. She would no more steal something than she would have asked Goering out for a date. Now, I suppose you're going to want a drink?'

  Paul accepts a diet cola and settles in one of the low-slung sofas. Through the window the sound of distant rush-hour traffic drifts in on the overheated air. A large cat that he had initially mistaken for a cushion unfurls itself and jumps into his lap, where it kneads his thighs in silent ecstasy.

  Marianne Andrews sits back and lights a cigarette. She takes a theatrical breath. 'Is that accent Brooklyn?'

  'New Jersey.'

  'Hmph.' She asks him his old address, nods as if to affirm her familiarity with it. 'You been here long?'

  'Seven years.'

  'Six. Came over with my best husband, Donald. He passed over last July.' And then, her voice softening slightly, she says, 'Well, anyway, how can I help you? I'm not sure I have much more than what I said in court.'

  'I don't know. I guess I'm just wondering if there's anything, anything at all, we might have missed.'

  'Nope. Like I told Mr Flaherty, I have no idea where the painting came from. To be honest, when Mom reminisced about her reporting days she preferred to talk about the time she got locked in an aircraft lavatory with JFK. And, you know, Pop and I weren't much interested. Believe me, you hear one old reporter's tales, you've heard them all.'

  Paul glances around the apartment. When he looks back, her eyes are still on him. She regards him carefully, blows a smoke ring into the still air. 'Mr McCafferty. Are your clients going to come after me for compensation if the court decides the painting was stolen?'