فصل 13

13

The old man lowers himself gingerly into the chair and lets out a sigh, as if crossing the room has been some effort. His son, standing with his hand under his elbow, watches anxiously.

Paul opens his folder. He lays his hands on the desk, feeling Mr Nowickis eyes on him. Well, I asked you here today because I have some news. When you initially approached me I warned you that I thought this case would be tricky because of the lack of provenance on your side. As you know, many galleries are reluctant to hand over work without the most solid proof of –

I remember the painting clearly. The old man lifts a hand.

I know. And you know that the gallery in question was very reluctant to engage with us, despite the holes in their own provenance. This case was complicated by the sharp increase in value of the work in question. And it was particularly hard, given that you had no image we could go on.

How am I meant to describe such a drawing perfectly? I was ten when we were forced from our house – ten years old. Could you tell me what was on your parents walls when you were ten?

No, Mr Nowicki, I couldnt.

Were we meant to know then we would never be allowed to go back to our own home? It is ridiculous, this system. Why should I have to prove that something was stolen from us? After all we have been through —

Dad, weve been over this — The son, Jason, places a hand on his fathers forearm, and the old mans lips press together reluctantly, as if he is used to being quelled.

This is what I wanted to talk to you about, Paul says. When we had our meeting in January, you said something to me about your mothers friendship with a neighbour, Artur Bohmann, who moved to America.

I managed to track down his surviving family, in Des Moines. And his granddaughter, Anne-Marie, went through the family albums and tucked away in one of them she found this. Paul pulls a sheet of paper from his folder and slides it across the desk to Mr Nowicki.

It is not a perfect copy, but the black-and-white image is clearly visible. A family sits in the stiff embrace of a tightly upholstered sofa. A woman smiles cautiously, holding a button-eyed baby firmly on her lap. A man with a vast moustache reclines, his arm running along the back. A boy grins broadly, a missing tooth clearly visible. Behind them, on the wall, hangs a painting of a young girl dancing.

Thats it, Mr Nowicki says quietly, an arthritic hand rising to his mouth. The Degas.

I checked it against the image bank, then with the Edgar Degas Foundation. I sent this picture to their lawyers, along with a statement from Artur Bohmanns daughter, saying that she, too, remembered seeing this painting in your parents house, and hearing your father discuss how he bought it.

He pauses. But thats not all Anne-Marie remembers. She says that after your parents fled, Artur Bohmann had gone one night to the apartment to try to collect your familys remaining valuables. It was only as he was leaving that he saw the painting was missing.

It was Mr Dreschler. He told them. I always knew he told them. And he called my father his friend!

Yes, well, weve looked into Mr Dreschlers records, and there are a number of unexplained trades with the Germans – one that refers simply to a Degas. Its not clear which Degas but the dates and the fact that there cant have been many in your area at the time does add weight to your argument.

He turns slowly to face his son. You see? his expression says.

Well, Mr Nowicki, last night I had a response from the gallery. Do you want me to read it?

Yes.

Dear Mr McCafferty,

In light of the new evidence provided, and our own gaps in provenance, as well as our discovery of the extent of the suffering endured by Mr Nowickis family, we have decided not to contest the claim for Femme, dansant by Degas. The trustees of the gallery have instructed their lawyers not to proceed further, and we await your instructions with regards the transfer of the physical item.

Paul waits.

The old man seems lost in thought. Finally he looks up. They are giving it back?

He nods. He cannot keep the smile from his face. It has been a long and testing case, and its resolution has been gratifyingly swift.

They are really giving it back to us?

You have only to let them know where you want it sent.

There is a long silence. Jason Nowicki tears his gaze from his father. He lifts the heels of his hands and wipes tears from his eyes.

Im sorry, he says. I dont know why —

Its not unusual. Paul pulls a box of tissues from under his desk and hands it to him. These cases are always emotional. Its never just a painting.

Its been such a long time coming. The loss of that Degas has been like a constant reminder of what my father, my grandparents suffered in the war. And I wasnt sure you — He blows out his cheeks. Its amazing. Tracking down that mans family. They said you were good, but –

He and Jason look at the old man, who is still staring at the image of the painting. He seems to have diminished in size, as if the weight of the events of several decades ago have come crushing down on him. The same thought seems to cross both their minds at once.

Are you okay, Dad?

Mr Nowicki?

He straightens a little, as if only just remembering that they are there. His hand is resting on the photograph.

Paul sits back in his chair, his pen a bridge between his hands. So. Returning the painting. I can recommend a specialist art-transport company. And I would also suggest you insure it before it comes to you. I dont need to tell you that a painting such as this is –

Do you have contacts at the auction house?

Im sorry?

Mr Nowicki has regained his colour. Do you have contacts at any auction houses? I spoke to one a while back but they wanted too much money. Twenty per cent, I think it was. Plus tax. Its too much.

You — want to get it valued for insurance?

No. I want to sell it. He opens his battered leather wallet without looking up and slides the photograph inside. Apparently this is a very good time to sell. Foreigners are buying everything — He waves a hand dismissively.

Jason is staring at him. But, Dad —

This has all been expensive. We have bills to pay.

But you said –

Mr Nowicki turns away from his son. Can you look into it for me? Im assuming you will invoice me your fee.

He swallows. Keeps his voice level. Ill do that.

There is a long silence. Finally the old man rises from his seat.

Well, that is very good news, he says finally, and gives him a tight smile. Very good news indeed. Thank you very much, Mr McCafferty.

No problem, he says. He stands and holds out his hand.

When they leave, Paul McCafferty sits down in his chair. He closes the file, then his eyes.

You cant take it personally, Janey says.

Its not our business. Were just here for recovery.

I know. Its just that Mr Nowicki had gone on and on about how personal this painting was to the family and how it represented everything theyd lost and –

Let it go, Paul.

This never happened in the Squad. He stands up and paces around Janeys cramped office. He stops by the window and gazes out. You got people their stuff back and they were just happy.

You dont want to go back to the police.

I know. Im just saying. It gets me every time with these restitution cases.

Well, you earned our fee on a case where I wasnt sure youd be able to. And its all money towards your house move, yes? So we should both be happy. Here. Janey pushes a folder across her desk. This should cheer you up. Came in last night. It looks pretty straightforward.

Paul takes the papers out of the folder. A portrait of a woman, missing since 1916, its theft only discovered a decade ago during an audit of the artists work by his surviving family. And there, on the next sheet of paper, an image of the painting in question, now hanging boldly on a minimalist wall. Published in a glossy magazine several years ago.

First World War?

Statute of limitations doesnt apply, apparently. It seems pretty clear cut. They say they have evidence that Germans stole the painting during the war, and it was never seen again. A few years ago some family member opens an old glossy magazine and what do you think is sitting there in the centre spread?

Theyre sure its the original?

Its never been reproduced.

Paul shakes his head, the mornings events briefly forgotten, conscious of that brief, reflexive twinge of excitement. And there it is. Nearly a hundred years later. Just hanging on some rich couples wall.

The feature just says central London. All those Ideal Home type features do. They dont want to encourage burglars by giving the exact address. But Im guessing it shouldnt be too hard to trace them – it names the couple after all.

Paul shuts the folder. He keeps seeing Mr Nowickis tight mouth, the way the son had looked at his father as if hed never seen him before.

Janeys hand is resting lightly on his arm. Hows the house hunting going?

Not great. Everything good seems to get snapped up by cash buyers.

Well, if you want cheering up, we could go and get a bite to eat. Im not doing anything tonight.

Paul raises a smile. He tries not to notice the way Janeys hand moves to her hair, the painfully hopeful slant to her smile. He steps away. Im working late. Got a couple of cases I want to get on top of. But thanks. Ill get on to the new file first thing in the morning.

Liv arrives home at five, having cooked her father a meal and vacuumed the ground floor of his house. Caroline rarely vacuums, and the colours of the faded Persian runners had been noticeably more vivid when she finished. Around her, the city seethes on a warm late summer day, the traffic noises filtering up, with the smell of diesel rising from the tarmac.

Hey, Fran, she says, as she reaches the main door.

The woman, woollen hat rammed low over her head despite the heat, nods a greeting. She is digging around in a plastic bag. She has an endless collection of them, tied with twine or stuffed inside each other, which she endlessly sorts and rearranges. Today she has moved her two boxes, covered with a blue tarpaulin, to the relative shelter of the caretakers door. The previous caretaker tolerated Fran for years, even using her as an unofficial parcel stop. The new one, she says, when Liv brings her down a coffee, keeps threatening to move her. Some residents have complained that she is lowering the tone. You had a visitor.

What time did she go? Liv had not left out either a note or a key. She wonders whether she should stop by the restaurant later to make sure Mo is okay. Even as she thinks it, she knows she wont. She feels vaguely relieved at the prospect of a silent, empty house.

Fran shrugs.

You want a drink? Liv says, as she opens the door.

Tea would be lovely, Fran says, adding, Three sugars, please, as if Liv has never made her one before. And then, with the preoccupied air of someone who has far too much to do to stand around talking, she goes back to her bags.

She smells the smoke even as she opens the door. Mo is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the glass coffee-table, one hand around a paperback book, the other resting a cigarette against a white saucer.

Hi, she says, not looking up.

Liv stares at her, her key in her hand. I – I thought youd left. Fran said youd gone.

Oh. The lady downstairs? Yeah. I just got back.

Back from where?

My day shift.

You work a day shift?

At a care home. Hope I didnt disturb you this morning. I tried to leave quietly. I thought the whole desk-drawer thing might wake you. Getting up at six kind of kills the whole welcome houseguest vibe.

Desk-drawer thing?

You didnt leave a key.

Liv frowns. She feels as if she is two steps behind in this conversation. Mo puts her book down and speaks slowly. I had to have a little dig around till I found the spare key in your desk drawer.

You went in my desk drawer?

It seemed like the most obvious place. She turns a page. Its okay. I put it back. She adds, under her breath, Man, you like stuff tidy.

She returns to her book. Davids book, Liv sees, checking out the spine. It is a battered Penguin Introduction to Modern Architecture, one of his favourites. She can still picture him reading it, stretched out on the sofa. Seeing it in someone elses hands makes her stomach tighten with anxiety. Liv puts her bag down, and walks through to the kitchen.

The granite worktops are covered with toast crumbs. Two mugs sit on the table, brown rings bisecting their insides. By the toaster, a bag of sliced white bread sits collapsed and half open. A used teabag squats on the side of the sink and a knife emerges from a pat of unsalted butter, like the chest of a murder victim.

Liv stands there for a moment, then begins to tidy, sweeping the detritus into the kitchen bin, loading cups and plates into the dishwasher. She presses the button to draw back the ceiling shutters, and when they are fully open, she presses the button that will open the glass roof, waving her hands to get rid of the lingering smell of smoke.

She turns to find Mo standing in the doorway. You cant smoke in here. You just cant, she says. There is a weird edge of panic to her voice.

Oh. Sure. I didnt realize you had a deck.

No. Not on the deck either. Please. Just dont smoke here.

Mo glances at the work surface, at Livs frantic tidying. Hey – Ill do that before I leave. Really.

Its fine.

It obviously isnt, or you wouldnt be having a heart attack. Look. Stop. Ill clean up my own mess. Really.

Liv stops. She knows she is overreacting, but she cant help it. She just wants Mo gone. Ive got to take Fran a cup of tea, she says.

Her blood thumps in her ears the whole way down to the ground floor.

When she gets back the kitchen is tidy. Mo moves quietly around the space. Im probably a bit lazy when it comes to clearing up straight away, she says, as Liv walks back in. Its the whole clearing-up-at-work thing. Old people, guests at restaurants — You do so much of it in the day, you kind of rebel against it at home.

Liv tries not to bristle at her use of the word. It is then she becomes aware of the other smell, under the smoke. And the oven light is on.

She bends down to peer inside it and sees her Le Creuset dish, its surface bubbling with something cheesy.

I made some supper. Pasta bake. I just threw together what I could get from the corner shop. Itll be ready in about ten minutes. I was going to have mine later, but seeing as youre here —

Liv cannot remember the last time she even turned the oven on.

Oh, says Mo, reaching for the oven gloves. And someone rang from the council.

What?

Yeah. Something about council tax.

Livs insides turn briefly to water.

I said I was you, so he told me how much you owe. Its quite a lot. She hands her a piece of paper with a figure scribbled on it.

As Livs mouth opens to protest, she says, Well, I had to make sure he had the right person. I thought he must have made a mistake.

She had known roughly how much it would be, but seeing it in print is still a shock. She feels Mos eyes on her and, in her uncharacteristically long silence, she knows that Mo has guessed the truth.

Hey. Sit down. Everything looks better on a full stomach. She feels herself being steered into a chair. Mo flips open the oven door, allowing the kitchen to flood with the unfamiliar smell of home-cooked food. And if not, well, I know of a really comfortable banquette.

The food is good. Liv eats a plateful and sits with her hands on her stomach afterwards, wondering why she is so surprised that Mo can actually cook. Thanks, she says, as Mo mops up the last of hers. It was really good. I cant remember the last time I ate that much.

No problem.

And now you have to leave. The words that have been on her lips for the past twenty hours do not come. She does not want Mo to go just yet. She does not want to be alone with the council-tax people and the final demands and her own uncontrollable thoughts she feels suddenly grateful that tonight she will have somebody to talk to – a human defence against the date.

So. Liv Worthing. The whole husband-dying thing –

Liv puts her knife and fork together. Id rather not talk about it.

She feels Mos eyes on her. Okay. No dead husbands. So – what about boyfriends?

Mo picks a piece of cheese from the side of the baking dish.

Ill-advised shags?

Nope.

Mos head shoots up. Not one? In how long?

Four years, Liv mumbles.

She is lying. There was one, three years ago, after well-meaning friends had insisted she had to move on. As if David had been some kind of obstacle. She had drunk herself halfway to oblivion to go through with it and then wept afterwards, huge, snotty sobs of grief and guilt and self-disgust. The man – she cant even remember his name – had barely been able to contain his relief when she had said she was going home. Even now when she thinks about it she feels cold shame.

Nothing in four years? And youre — what? Thirty? What is this, some kind of sexual suttee? What are you doing, Worthing? Saving yourself for Mr Dead Husband in the hereafter?

Im Halston. Liv Halston. And — I just — havent met anyone I wanted to — Liv decides to change the direction of this conversation. Okay, how about you? Some nice self-harming Emo in the wings? Defensiveness has made her spiky.

Mos fingers creep towards her cigarettes and retreat again.

I do okay.

Liv waits.

I have an arrangement.

An arrangement?

With Ranic, the wine waiter. Every couple of weeks we hook up for a technically proficient but ultimately soulless coupling. He was pretty rubbish when we started but hes getting the hang of it. She eats another stray piece of cheese. Still watches too much porn, though. You can tell.

Nobody serious?

My parents stopped talking about grandchildren some time around the turn of the century.

Oh, God. That reminds me I promised Id ring my dad. Liv has a sudden thought. She stands and reaches for her bag. Hey, how about I nip down to the shop and get a bottle of wine? This is going to be fine, she tells herself. Well talk about parents and people I dont remember, and college, and Mos jobs, and Ill steer her away from the whole sex thing, and before I know it tomorrow will be here and my house will feel normal and todays date will be a whole year away again.

Mo pushes her chair back from the table. Not for me, she says, scooping up her plate. Ive got to get changed and shoot.

Shoot?

Work.

Livs hand is on her purse. But – you said youd just finished.

My day shift. Now I start my evening shift. Well, in about twenty minutes. She pulls her hair up and clips it into place. You okay to wash up? And all right if I take that key again?

The brief sense of wellbeing that had arrived with the meal evaporates, like the popping of a soap bubble. She sits at the half-cleared table, listening to Mos tuneless humming, the sound of her washing and scrubbing her teeth in the spare-room bathroom, the soft closing of the bedroom door.

Mo is back in the hallway, dressed in a black shirt and bomber jacket, an apron under her arm. See you later, dude, she calls. Unless I get lucky with Ranic, obvs.

She is gone, downstairs, drawn back into the world of living. And as the echo of her voice dies away, the stillness of the Glass House becomes a solid, weighty thing and Liv realizes, with a growing sense of panic, that her house, her haven, is preparing to betray her.