فصل 21

21

Paul puts down the letter, obtained from a cache of correspondence stockpiled by resistance operatives during the First World War. It is the only piece of evidence he has found of Sophie Lefèvres family and it, like the others, appears not to have reached her.

The Girl You Left Behind is now Pauls priority case. He ploughs through his usual sources museums, archivists, auction houses, experts in international art cases. Off the record, he speaks to less benign sources old acquaintances at Scotland Yard, contacts from the world of art crime, a Romanian known for recording almost mathematically the underground movement of a whole swathe of stolen European art.

He discovers these facts that Édouard Lefèvre had, until recently, been the least famous artist of the Académie Matisse. There are only two academics who specialize in his work, and neither of them knows any more than he does about The Girl You Left Behind.

A photograph and some written journals obtained by the Lefèvre family have turned up the fact that the painting hung in full view in the hotel known as Le Coq Rouge in St Péronne, a town occupied by Germans during the First World War. It disappeared without trace some time after Sophie Lefèvre was arrested.

And then there is a gap of some thirty years before the painting reappears, in the possession of one Louanne Baker, who kept it in her home in the US for thirty years until she moved to Spain, where she died, and David Halston bought it.

What happened to it between those dates? If it really was looted, where was it taken? What happened to Sophie Lefèvre, who seems to have simply vanished from history? The facts exist, like the dots in a join-the-dots puzzle but one in which the picture never becomes clear. There is more written about Sophie Lefèvres painting than there is about her.

During the Second World War, looted treasures were kept in secure vaults in Germany, underground, protected. These artworks, millions of them, had been targeted with military efficiency, aided by unscrupulous dealers and experts. This was not the random plunder of soldiers in battle this looting was systematic, controlled, regulated and documented.

But there is little surviving documentation from the First World War, regarding looted property, especially in northern France. It means, Janey says, that this is something of a test case. She says it with some pride. For the truth is, this case is vital to their company. There are increasing numbers of organizations like theirs springing up, all sourcing provenance, listing works that relatives of the dead have spent decades trying to trace. Now there are no-win no-fee firms undercutting them, promising the earth to people who are willing to believe anything to get their beloved object back.

Sean reports that Livs lawyer has tried various legal means to get the case struck out. He claims that it falls beyond the statute of limitations, that the sale to David from Marianne Baker had been innocent. For a variety of complicated reasons, these have all failed. They are, says Sean, cheerfully, headed to court. Looks like next week. We have Justice Berger. Hes only ever found for the claimant in these cases. Looking good!

Great, says Paul.

There is an A4 photocopy of The Girl You Left Behind pinned up in his office, among other paintings missing or subject to restitution requests. Paul looks up periodically and wishes that every time he did so Liv Halston wasnt looking back at him. Paul switches his attention to the papers in front of him. This image is such as one would not expect to find in a humble provincial hotel, the Kommandant writes to his wife at one point. In truth I cannot take my eyes from it.

It? Paul wonders. Or her?

Several miles away, Liv is also working. She rises at seven, pulls on her running shoes and heads off, sprinting alongside the river, music in her ears, her heartbeat thumping along with her footsteps. She gets home after Mo leaves for work, showers, makes herself breakfast, drops a tea in with Fran, but now she leaves the Glass House, spending her days in specialist art libraries, in the fuggy archives of galleries, on the Internet, chasing leads. She is in daily contact with Henry, popping in whenever he asks to hold a conference, explaining the importance of French legal testimony, the difficulty of finding expert witnesses. So basically, she says, you want me to come up with concrete evidence on a painting about which nothing has been recorded of a woman who doesnt seem to exist.

Henry smiles nervously at her. He does this a lot.

She lives and breathes the painting. She is blind to the approach of Christmas, her fathers plaintive calls. She cannot see beyond her determination that Paul should not take it. Henry has given her all the disclosure files from the other side – copies of letters between Sophie and her husband, references to the painting and the little town where they lived.

She reads through hundreds of academic and political papers, newspaper reports about restitution about families destroyed in Dachau, their surviving grandchildren borrowing money to recover a Titian a Polish family, whose only surviving member died happy two months after the return of her fathers little Rodin sculpture. Nearly all these articles are written from the point of view of the claimant, the family who lost everything and found the grandmothers painting against the odds. The reader is invited to rejoice with them when they win it back. The word injustice appears in almost every paragraph. The articles rarely offer the opinion of the person who had bought it in good faith and lost it.

And everywhere she goes she detects Pauls footprints, as if she is asking the wrong questions, looking in the wrong places, as if she is simply processing information that he has already acquired.

She stands up and stretches, walking around the study. She has moved The Girl You Left Behind on to a bookshelf while she works, as if she might give her inspiration. She finds herself looking at her all the time now, as if she is conscious that their time together may be limited. And the court date draws ever closer, always there, like the drumbeat of a distant battle. Give me the answers, Sophie. At the bloody least, give me a clue.

Hey.

Mo appears at the door, eating a pot of yoghurt. Six weeks on, she is still living in the Glass House. Liv is grateful for her presence. She stretches and checks her watch. Is it three oclock already? God. Ive got almost nowhere today.

You might want to take a look at this. Mo pulls a copy of the London evening paper from under her arm and hands it over. Page three.

Liv opens it.

Award-winning Architects Widow In Million-pound Battle For Nazi-looted Art, the headline says. Underneath is a half-page picture of David and her at a charity event several years previously. She is wearing an electric blue dress and is holding up a champagne glass, as if toasting the camera. Nearby is a small inset picture of The Girl You Left Behind with a caption Impressionist painting worth millions was stolen by German.

Nice dress, says Mo.

The blood drains from Livs face. She does not recognize the smiling partygoer in the picture, a woman from a different life. Oh, my God … She feels as if someone has thrown open the doors of her house, her bedroom.

I guess its in their interests to make you look like some kind of high-society witch. That way they can spin their poor-French-victim line.

Liv closes her eyes. If she keeps them closed, perhaps it will just go away.

Its historically wrong, obviously. I mean, there were no Nazis in the First World War. So I doubt if anyone will take any notice. I mean, I wouldnt worry or anything. There is a long silence. And I dont think anyone will recognize you. You look quite different these days. Much … she struggles for words … poorer. And kind of older.

Liv opens her eyes. There she is, standing beside David, like some wealthy, carefree version of herself.

Mo pulls the spoon from her mouth and inspects it. Just dont look at the online version, okay? Some of the reader comments are a bit … strong.

Liv looks up.

Oh, you know. Everyone has an opinion these days. Its all bullshit. Mo puts the kettle on. Hey, are you okay if Ranic comes over this weekend? He shares his place with, like, fifteen other people. Its quite nice to be able to stick your legs out in front of the telly without accidentally kicking someones arse.

Liv works all evening, trying to quell her growing anxiety. She keeps seeing that newspaper report the headline, the society wife with her raised glass of champagne. She calls Henry, who tells her to ignore it, that its par for the course. She finds herself listening almost forensically to his tone, trying to assess whether he is as confident as he sounds.

Listen, Liv. Its a big case. Theyre going to play dirty. You need to brace yourself. He has briefed a barrister. He tells her the mans name as if she should have heard of him. She asks how much he costs and hears Henry shuffling papers. When he tells her the sum, she feels as if the air has been punched clean out of her lungs.

The phone rings three times once it is her father, telling her he has a job in a small touring production of Run for Your Wife. She tells him absently that shes pleased for him, urges him not to run after anyone elses. That is exactly what Caroline said! he exclaims, and rings off.

The second call is Kristen. Oh, my God, she says, breaking in without even a hello. I just saw the paper.

Yes. Not the best afternoons reading.

She hears Kristens hand sliding over the receiver, a muffled conversation. Sven says dont speak to anyone again. Just dont say a word.

I didnt.

Then where did they get all that awful stuff?

Henry says it probably came out of TARP. Its in their interests to leak information that makes the case sound as bad as possible.

Shall I come over? Im not doing much at the moment.

Its sweet of you, Kristen, but Im fine. She doesnt want to talk to anyone.

Well, I can come to court with you, if you like. Or if you wanted me to put your side of it, Im sure I have contacts. Perhaps something in Hello!?

That – no. Thanks. Liv puts down the phone. It will be everywhere now. Kristen is a far more effective disseminator of information than the evening paper. Liv is anticipating having to explain herself to friends, acquaintances. The painting is already somehow no longer hers. It is a matter of public record, a focus for discussion, a symbol of a wrong.

As she puts the phone down it rings immediately, making her jump.

Kristen, I –

Is that Olivia Halston?

A mans voice.

She hesitates. Yes?

My name is Robert Schiller. Im the arts correspondent for The Times. Im sorry if Im calling at an inopportune time, but Im putting together a background piece on this painting of yours and I was wondering if you –

No. No, thank you. She slams the phone down. She stares at it suspiciously, then removes the receiver from its cradle, afraid that it will ring again. Three times she places the receiver back on the telephone and each time it rings straight away. Journalists leave their names and numbers. They sound friendly, ingratiating. They promise fairness, apologize for taking up her time. She sits in the empty house, listening to her heart thumping.

Mo arrives back shortly after one a.m. and finds her in front of the computer, the phone off the hook. She is emailing every living expert on French turn-of-the-twentieth-century art. I was wondering if you knew anything about … I am trying to fill in the history of … … anything you have, or know – anything at all … century art.

You want tea? Mo says, shedding her coat.

Thanks. Liv doesnt look up. Her eyes are sore. She knows she has reached the point where she is merely flicking blindly between websites, checking and rechecking her email, but she cant stop herself. Feeling as if she is doing something, no matter how pointless, is better than the alternative.

Mo sits down opposite her in the kitchen and pushes a mug towards her. You look terrible.

Thanks.

Mo watches her type listlessly, takes a sip of her tea, and then pulls her chair closer to Liv. Okay. So lets look at this with my History of Art, BA Hons, head on. Youve been through the museum archives? Auction catalogues? Dealers?

Liv shuts her computer. Ive done them all.

You said David got the painting from an American woman. Could you not ask her where her mother got it from?

She shuffles through the papers. The … other side have already asked her. She doesnt know. Louanne Baker had it, and then we bought it. Thats all she knows. Thats all she ever bloody needed to know.

She stares at the copy of the evening paper, its intimations that she and David were somehow wrong, somehow morally deficient to have owned the painting at all. She sees Pauls face, his eyes on her at the lawyers office.

Mos voice is uncharacteristically quiet. You okay?

Yes. No. I love this painting, Mo. I really love it. I know it sounds stupid, but the thought of losing her is … Its like losing part of myself.

Mos eyebrows lift a quarter of an inch.

Im sorry. Its just … Finding yourself in the newspapers as public enemy number one, its … Oh, bloody hell, Mo, I dont know what on earth Im doing. Im fighting a man who does this for a living and Im scrabbling around for scraps and I havent a bloody clue. She realizes, humiliated, that she is about to cry.

Mo pulls the folders towards her. Go outside, she says. Go out on to the deck and stare at the sky for ten minutes and remind yourself that ultimately ours is a meaningless and futile existence and that our little planet will probably be swallowed by a black hole so that none of this will have any point anyway. And Ill see if I can help.

Liv sniffs. But you must be exhausted.

Nah. I need to wind down after a shift. Thisll put me to sleep nicely. Go on. She begins to flick through the folders on the table.

Liv wipes her eyes, pulls on a sweater and steps outside on to the deck. Out here she feels curiously weightless, in the endless black of night. She gazes down at the vast city spread beneath her, and breathes in the cold air. She stretches, feeling the tightness in her shoulders, the tension in her neck. And always, somewhere underneath, the sense that she is missing something secrets that float just out of sight.

When she walks into the kitchen ten minutes later, Mo is scribbling notes on her legal pad. Do you remember Mr Chambers?

Chambers?

Medieval painting. Im sure you did that course. I keep thinking about something he said that stuck with me – its about the only thing that did. He said that sometimes the history of a painting is not just about a painting. Its also the history of a family, with all its secrets and transgressions. Mo taps her pen on the table. Well, Im totally out of my depth here, but Im curious, given that she was living with them when the painting disappeared, when she disappeared, and they all seemed pretty close, why there is no evidence anywhere of Sophies family.

Liv sits up into the night, going through the thick files of papers, checking and double-checking. She scans the Internet, her glasses perched on her nose. When she finally finds what she is looking for, shortly after five oclock, she thanks God for the meticulousness of French civic record-keeping. Then she sits back and waits for Mo to wake up.

Is there any way I can tear you away from Ranic this weekend? she says, as Mo appears in the doorway, bleary-eyed, her hair a black crow settling on her shoulders. Without the thick black eyeliner, her face seems curiously pink and vulnerable.

I dont want to go running, thank you. No. Or anything sweaty.

You used to speak fluent French, right? Do you want to come to Paris with me?

Mo makes for the kettle. Is this your way of telling me youve swung to the other side? Because while I love Paris, Im so not up for lady bits.

No. Its my way of telling you that I need your superior abilities as a French speaker to chat up an eighty-year-old man.

My favourite kind of weekend.

And I can throw in a crap one-star hotel. And maybe a days shopping at Galeries Lafayette. Window-shopping.

Mo turns and squints at her. How can I refuse? What time are we leaving?