فصل 24

24

The train hums with good cheer. A group of women at the far end of Carriage Fourteen bursts into peals of noisy laughter. A middle-aged couple in the seats opposite, perhaps on the way home from some celebratory Christmas trip, have bedecked themselves in tinsel. The racks are bulging with purchases, the air thick with the scents of seasonal food – ripe cheeses, wine, expensive chocolate. But for Mo and Liv the journey back to England is subdued. They sit in the carriage in near silence Mos hangover has lasted all day, and must apparently be remedied with more small, overpriced bottles of wine. Liv reads and re-reads her notes, translating word by word with her little English–French dictionary balanced on her tray-table.

The pages are brown, fragile and draw moisture from her fingertips. There are early letters from Édouard to Sophie, when he joins the Régiment dInfanterie and she moves to St Péronne to be with her sister. Édouard misses her so much, he writes, that some nights he can barely breathe. He tells her that he conjures her in his head, paints pictures of her in the cold air. In her writings, Sophie envies her imaginary self, prays for her husband, scolds him. She calls him poilu. The image of them prompted by her words is so strong, so intimate that, even struggling with her French translation, Liv feels almost breathless. She runs her finger along the faded script, marvelling that the girl in the portrait was responsible for these words. Sophie Lefèvre is no longer a seductive image in a chipped gilded frame she has become a person, a living, breathing, three-dimensional being. A woman who talks about laundry, shortages of food, the fit of her husbands uniform, her fears and frustrations. She realizes, again, that she cannot let Sophies painting go.

Liv flicks through two sheets. Here the text is more dense, and interrupted by a formal sepia-tinted photograph of Édouard Lefèvre, gazing into the middle distance.

October 1914

The Gare du Nord was heaving, a boiling sea of soldiers and weeping women, the air thick with smoke and steam and the anguished sounds of goodbye. I knew Édouard wouldnt want me to cry. Besides, this would only be a short separation all the newspapers said as much.

Make lots of sketches for me. And be sure to eat properly. And dont do anything stupid, like getting drunk and fighting and getting yourself arrested. I want you home as quickly as possible.

He made me promise that Hélène and I would be careful. If you get wind that the enemy line is moving anywhere towards you, promise me you will come straight back to Paris.

When I nodded, he said, Dont give me that sphinx face, Sophie. Promise me you will think of yourself first. I will not be able to fight if I believe you might be in danger.

You know Im made of strong stuff.

He glanced behind him at the clock. Somewhere in the distance a train let out a piercing whistle. Steam, the stench of burned oil, rose around us, briefly obscuring the crowds on the platform. I reached up to adjust his blue serge kepi. Then I stood back to look at him. What a man my husband is! A giant among men. His shoulders so broad in his uniform, half a head taller than anyone else there. I dont think I believed even then that he was actually leaving.

He had finished a little gouache painting of me the week before. He patted his top pocket now. I will carry you with me.

I touched my heart with my hand. And you with me. I was secretly envious that I hadnt one of him.

Carriage doors were opening and closing, hands reaching past us, fingers entwining for the last time.

Im not going to watch you go, Édouard, I told him. I shall close my eyes and keep the image of you as you stand before me.

And then he swept me to him and kissed me, his mouth pressed against mine, his big arms pulling me tight, tight to him. I held him, my eyes squeezed shut, and I breathed him in, absorbing the scent of him, as if I could make that trace of him last for his entire absence. It was as if only then I believed he was actually going. My husband was going. And then, when it became too much, I pushed myself away, my face rigidly composed.

I kept my eyes closed, and gripped his hand, not wanting to see whatever was on his face, and then I turned swiftly, straight-backed, and pushed my way through the crowds, away from him.

I dont know why I didnt want to see him actually get on the train. I have regretted it every day since.

It was only when I got home that I reached into my pocket. I found a piece of paper he must have slipped in there while he held me a little caricature of the two of us, him a huge bear in his uniform, grinning, his arm around me, petite and narrow-waisted, my face straight and solemn, my hair pulled neatly behind my head. Underneath it he had written, in his looping, cursive script I never knew real happiness until you.

Liv blinks. She places the papers neatly in the folder. She sits, thinking. Then she unrolls the picture of Sophie Lefèvre, that smiling, complicit face. How could Monsieur Bessette be right? How could a woman who adored her husband like that betray him, not just with another man but with an enemy? It seems incomprehensible. Liv rolls up the photocopy and places her notes back inside her bag.

Mo pulls off her earphones. So. Half an hour to St Pancras. Do you think you got what you wanted?

She shrugs. She cannot speak past the huge lump that has risen in her throat.

Mos hair is scraped back into jet-black furrows from her face, her cheeks milk pale. You nervous about tomorrow?

Liv swallows and flashes a weak smile. She has thought about almost nothing else for the past six weeks.

For what its worth, Mo says, as if she has been thinking about it for some time, I dont think McCafferty set you up.

What?

I know loads of crappy, mendacious people. Hes not one of them. She picks at a piece of skin on her thumb, then says, I think Fate just decided to play a really sick joke and dump you both on opposing sides.

But he didnt have to come after my painting.

Mo lifts an eyebrow. Really?

Liv stares out of the window as the train rolls towards London, fighting a new lump in her throat.

Across the table, the couple bedecked in tinsel are leaning against each other. They have fallen asleep, their hands entwined.

Later she is not entirely sure what makes her do it. Mo announces at St Pancras that she is heading over to Ranics house, leaving Liv with instructions not to stay on the Internet all night looking up obscure restitution cases, and to please stick that Camembert in the fridge before it escapes and poisons the whole house. Liv stands in the teeming concourse, holding a plastic bag of stinking cheese and watching the little dark figure as she heads towards the Underground, a bag slung nonchalantly over her shoulder. There is something both jaunty and solid in the way Mo talks about Ranic a sense that something has shifted for both of them.

She waits until Mo has vanished into the crowd. The commuters wash around and past her, a stepping-stone in a stream of people. They are all in pairs, arms linked, chatting, casting fond, excited looks at each other, or if alone, head down, determinedly heading home to the person they love.

I never knew real happiness until you.

There is a peculiar quality to the silence in the flat when Jake has gone back to his mother. It is a solid, weighty thing, entirely different from the quiet that occurs when he goes to a friends for a few hours. The acute stillness of his home in those hours is, he sometimes thinks, tinged with guilt a sense of failure. It is weighed down by the knowledge that there is no chance his son will come back for at least four days. Paul finishes clearing up the kitchen Jake had been making chocolate Krispie cakes – puffed rice is scattered under every kitchen appliance – then sits, staring at the Sunday paper he picks up each week out of habit and invariably fails to read.

In the early days after Leonie left, he dreaded the early mornings most. He hadnt known how much he loved the irregular pad of little Jakes bare feet and the sight of him, his hair standing on end, his eyes half closed, appearing in their bedroom to demand to climb in between them. The exquisite icy chill of his feet the warm, yeasty scent of his skin. That visceral sense, once his son had burrowed into the middle of their bed, that all was well with the world. And then, after theyd gone, those early months of waking up alone, feeling as if each morning simply heralded another day he would miss of his sons life.

Paul was better at mornings now not least because, at nine, Jake rarely woke up before he did but the first few hours after hed gone back to Leonie still had the power to disarm.

Hell iron some shirts. Maybe go to the gym, then take a shower and eat. Those few things will give the evening a shape. A couple of hours of television, maybe a flick through his files, just to make sure everythings shipshape for the case, and then hell sleep.

Hes just finishing the shirts when the telephone rings.

Hey, says Janey.

Who is this? he says, even though he knows exactly who it is.

Its me, she says, trying to keep the slight affront from her voice. Janey. Just thought Id check in and see how were fixed for tomorrow.

Were good, he says. Sean has been through all the paperwork. The barrister is prepped. Were as good as we can be.

Did we get any more on the initial disappearance?

Not much. But we have enough third-party correspondence to hang a pretty large question mark over it.

There is a short silence at the other end of the line.

Brigg and Sawstons are setting up their own tracing agency, she says.

Who?

The auction house. Another string to their bow, apparently. They have big backers too.

Damn. Paul gazes at the pile of paperwork on his desk.

Theyve already started speaking to other agencies about staff. Theyre picking off ex-members of the Art and Antiques Squad apparently. He hears the hidden question. Anyone with a background in detective work.

Well, they havent approached me.

There is a brief silence. He wonders if she believes him.

We have to win this case, Paul. We need to make sure were out there in front. That were the go-to people for finding and returning lost treasures.

I get it, he says.

I just … I want you to know how important you are. To the company, I mean.

Like I said, Janey, nobodys approached me.

Another brief silence.

Okay. She talks on for a bit, telling him about her weekend, the trip to her parents, a wedding shes been invited to in Devon. She talks about the wedding for so long that he wonders if shes plucking up the courage to invite him, and he changes the subject firmly. Finally she rings off.

He has just finished washing his hair when he becomes dimly aware of the door buzzer. He swears, fumbles for a towel and wipes his face. He would go downstairs in a towel but he has a feeling its Janey. He doesnt want her to think this is an invitation.

He is already rehearsing his excuses as he heads down the stairs, his T-shirt sticking to his damp skin. But it isnt Janey.

Liv Halston stands in the middle of the pavement, clutching a weekend bag. Above her, strings of festive lights bejewel the night sky. She drops her holdall at her feet, and her pale, serious face gazes up at him as if she has briefly forgotten what she had wanted to say.

The case starts tomorrow, he says, when she still doesnt speak. He cant stop looking at her.

I know.

Were not meant to talk to each other.

No.

We could both get in a lot of trouble.

He stands there, waiting. Her expression is so tense, framed by the collar of her thick black coat, her eyes flickering as if a million conversations are taking place inside her that he cannot know. He begins an apology. But she speaks first.

Look. I know this probably doesnt make any sense, but could we possibly forget about the case? Just for one evening? Her voice is too vulnerable. Could we just be two people again?

It is the slight catch in her voice that breaks him. Paul McCafferty makes as if to speak, then leans forward and picks up her suitcase, dragging it into the hallway. Before either of them can change their mind, he pulls her to him, wraps his arms tightly around her and stays there until the outside world goes away.

Hey, sleepyhead.

She pushes herself upright, slowly registering where she is. Paul is sitting on the bed, pouring coffee into a mug. He hands it to her. He seems astonishingly awake. The clock says 632 a.m. I brought you some toast too. I thought you might want time to go home before …

Before …

The case. She takes a moment to let this thought penetrate. He waits while she rubs her eyes, then leans over and kisses her lightly. He has brushed his teeth, she notes, and feels briefly self-conscious that she hasnt.

I didnt know what you wanted on your toast. I hope jams okay. He picks it off the tray. Jakes choice. Ninety-eight per cent sugar or something.

Thank you. She blinks at the plate on her lap. She cannot remember the last time anybody brought her breakfast in bed.

They gaze at each other. Oh, my, she thinks, remembering the previous night. All other thoughts disappear. And, as if he can read her mind, Pauls eyes crinkle at the corners.

Are you … coming back in? she says.

He shifts over to her, so that his legs, warm and solid, are entwined in hers. She moves so that he can place his arm around her shoulders, then leans into him and closes her eyes, just relishing the feel of it. He smells warm and sleepy. She just wants to rest her face against his skin and stay there.

There is a long silence. They listen to the dustcart reversing outside, the muffled clash of the bins, eating toast in companionable silence.

I missed you, Liv, he says.

And then Pauls voice breaks into the silence Liv – Im afraid this case is going to bankrupt you.

She stares at her mug of coffee.

Liv?

I dont want to talk about the case.

Im not going to talk about it in any … detail. I just have to tell you Im worried.

She tries to smile. Well, dont be. You havent won yet.

Even if you win. Its a lot of money on legal fees. Ive been here a few times so I have a good idea what its costing you. He puts down his mug, takes her hand in his. Look. Last week I talked to the Lefèvre family in private. My fellow director, Janey, doesnt even know about it. I explained a little of your situation, told them how much you love the painting, how unwilling you are to let her go. And I got them to agree to offer you a proper settlement. A serious settlement, a good six figures. It would cover your legal fees so far and then some.

Liv stares at their hands, her own enfolded in his. Her mood evaporates. Are you … trying to persuade me to back down?

Not for the reasons you think.

What does that mean?

He gazes ahead of him. I found stuff.

Some part of her grows very still. In France?

He compresses his mouth as if trying to work out how much to tell her. I found an old newspaper article, written by the American journalist who owned your painting. She talks about how she was given your painting from a store of stolen artwork near Dachau.

So?

So these works were all stolen. Which would lend weight to our case that the painting was obtained illegally and taken into German possession.

Thats a big assumption.

It taints any later acquisition.

So you say.

Im good at my job, Liv. Were halfway there. And if theres further evidence, you know Im going to find it.

She feels herself growing rigid. I think the important word there is if. She removes her hand from his.

He shifts round to face her. Okay. This is what I dont get. Aside from what is morally right and wrong here, I dont get why a really smart woman who is in possession of a painting that cost almost nothing, and now knows that it has a dubious past, wouldnt agree to hand it back in return for a lot of money. A hell of a lot more money than she paid for it.

Its not about the money.

Oh, come on, Liv. Im pointing out the obvious, here. Which is that if you go ahead with this case and you lose, you stand to lose hundreds of thousands of pounds. Maybe even your home. All your security. For a painting? Really?

Sophie doesnt belong with them. They dont … they dont care about her.

Sophie Lefèvre has been dead for eighty-odd years. Im pretty sure its not going to make any difference to her one way or the other.

Liv slides out of the bed, casts around for her trousers. You really dont understand, do you? She hauls them on, zipping them up furiously. God. You are so not the man I thought you were.

No. Im a man who, surprisingly, doesnt want to see you lose your house for nothing.

Oh, no. I forgot. Youre the man who brought this crap into my house in the first place.

You think someone else wouldnt have done this job? Its a straightforward case, Liv. There are organizations like ours all over the place who would have run with it.

Are we finished? She fastens her bra, pulls her jumper over her head.

Ah, hell. Look. I just want you to think about it. I – I just dont want you to lose everything on a matter of principle.

Oh. So all this is about looking out for me. Right.

He rubs his forehead, as if hes trying to keep his temper. And then he shakes his head. You know what? I dont think this is about the painting at all. I think this is about your inability to move on. Giving up the painting means leaving David in the past. And you cant do that.

Ive moved on! You know I moved on! What the hell do you think last night was about?

He stares at her. You know what? I dont know. I really dont know.

When she pushes past him to leave he doesnt try to stop her.