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I am not afraid, although it is strange to have them here, eating and talking, under our very roof. They are largely polite, solicitous almost. And I do believe Herr Kommandant will not tolerate any misdemeanors on the mens part. So our uneasy truce has begun —

The odd thing is that Herr Kommandant is a cultured man. He knows of Matisse! Of Weber and Purrmann! Can you imagine how strange it is to discuss the finer points of your brushwork with a German?

We have eaten well tonight. Herr Kommandant came into the kitchen and instructed us to eat the leftover fish. Little Jean cried when it was finished. I pray that you have food enough, wherever you are —

Liv reads and re-reads these fragments, trying to fill in the spaces between her words. It is hard to find a chronology – Sophies writings are on stray scraps of paper, and in places the ink has faded – but there is a definite thawing in her relationship with Friedrich Hencken. She hints at long discussions, random kindnesses, that he keeps giving them food. Surely Sophie would not have discussed art or accepted meals from someone she considered a beast.

The more she reads, the closer she feels to the author of these scraps. She reads the tale of the pig-baby, translating it twice to make sure she has read it right, and wants to cheer at its outcome. She refers back to her court copies, Madame Louviers sniffy descriptions of the girls disobedience, her courage, her good heart. Her spirit seems to leap from the page. She wishes, briefly, she could talk to Paul about it.

She closes the folder carefully. And then she looks guiltily to the side of her desk, where she keeps the papers she did not show Henry.

The Kommandants eyes are intense, shrewd, and yet somehow veiled, as if designed to hide his true feelings. I was afraid that he might be able to see my own crumbling composure.

The rest of the paper is missing, ripped away, or perhaps broken off with age.

I will dance with you, Herr Kommandant, I said. But only in the kitchen.

And then there is the scrap of paper, in handwriting that is not Sophies. Once it is done, it reads, simply, it cannot be undone. The first time she read it, Livs heart had dropped somewhere to her feet.

She reads and re-reads the words, pictures a woman locked in a secretive embrace with a man supposed to be her enemy. And then she closes the folder and tucks it carefully back under her pile of papers.

How many today?

Four, she says, handing over the days haul of poison-pen letters. Henry has told her not to open anything with handwriting she does not recognize. His staff will do it, and report any that are threatening. She tries to be sanguine about this new development, but secretly she flinches every time she sees an unfamiliar letter now the idea that all this unfocused hate is out there, just waiting for a target. She can no longer type The Girl You Left Behind into a search engine. There were once two historical references but now there are web versions of newspaper reports from across the globe, reproduced by interest groups, and Internet chat-rooms discussing her and Pauls apparent selfishness, their inherent disregard for what is right. The words spring out like blows Looted. Stolen. Robbed. Bitch.

Twice, someone has posted dog excrement through the letterbox in the lobby.

Those are the overt signs of disapproval. There are less obvious outcomes from the ongoing court case. The neighbours no longer say a cheery hello, but nod and look at their shoes as they pass. There have been no invitations through her door since the case was revealed in the newspapers. Not to dinner, a private view, or one of the architectural events that she was habitually invited to, even if she usually refused. At first she thought all this was coincidence now she is starting to wonder.

The newspapers report her outfit each day, describing her as sombre, sometimes understated and always blonde. Their appetite for all aspects of the case seems endless. She does not know if anyone has tried to reach her for comment her telephone has been unplugged for days.

She gazes along the packed benches at the Lefèvres, their faces closed and seemingly set in expressions of resigned belligerence, just as they were on the first day. She wonders what they feel when they hear how Sophie was cast out from her family, alone, unloved. Do they feel differently about her now? Or do they not register her presence at the heart of this, just seeing the pound signs?

Paul sits each day at the far end of the bench. She doesnt look at him but she feels his presence like an electrical pulse.

Christopher Jenks takes the floor. He will, he tells the court, outline the latest piece of evidence that The Girl You Left Behind is, in fact, looted art.

The current owners of the painting, the Halstons, purchased it from the estate of one Louanne Baker. The Fearless Miss Baker, as she was known, was a war reporter in 1945, one of a select few such women. There are newspaper cuttings from the New York Register that detail her presence at Dachau at the end of the Second World War. They provide a vivid record of her presence as Allied troops liberated the camp.

Liv watches the male reporters scribbling intently. Second World War stuff, Henry had murmured, as they sat down. The press love a Nazi. Two days previously she had sworn two of them were playing Hangman.

One cutting in particular tells how Ms Baker spent one day around the time of the liberation at a vast warehouse known as the Collection Point, housed in former Nazi offices near Munich in which US troops stored displaced works of art. He tells the story of another reporter, who was given a painting to thank her for helping the Allies at this time. It had been the subject of a separate legal challenge, and had since gone back to its original owners.

Henry shakes his head, a tiny gesture.

Mlord, I will now hand round copies of this newspaper article, dated the sixth of November 1945, entitled How I became the Governor of Berchtesgaden, which, we contend, demonstrates how Louanne Baker, a humble reporter, came, by extremely unorthodox means, to own a modern masterpiece.

The court hushes and the journalists lean forwards, pens readied against their notebooks. Christopher Jenks begins to read

Wartime prepares you for a lot of things. But little prepared me for the day I found myself Governor of Berchtesgaden, and of Goerings haul of some one hundred million dollars worth of stolen art.

The young reporters voice echoes across the years, plucky, capable. She comes ashore with the Screaming Eagles on Omaha Beach. She is stationed with them near Munich. And then one morning she watches the troops go out, headed for a prisoner-of-war camp some miles away, and finds herself in charge of two marines and a fire truck. She tells of Goerings apparent passion for art, the evidence of years of systematic looting within the buildings walls, her relief when the US Army came back and she could relinquish responsibility for its haul.

And then Christopher Jenks pauses.

When I left, the sergeant told me I could take with me a souvenir, as a thank-you for what he said was my patriotic duty. I did, and I still have it today – a little memento of the strangest day of my life.

He stands, raising his eyebrows. Some souvenir.

Angela Silver is on her feet. Objection. There is nothing in that article that says the memento was The Girl You Left Behind.

It is an extraordinary coincidence that she mentions being allowed to remove an item from the warehouse.

The article does not at any point state that the item was a painting. Let alone this particular painting.

Sustained.

Angela Silver is at the bench. My lord, we have examined the records from Berchtesgaden and there is no written record of this painting having come from the Collection Point storage facility. It appears on none of the lists or inventories from that time. It is therefore specious for my colleague here to make the association.

It has already been documented here that during wartime there are always things that go unrecorded. We have heard expert testimony that there are works of art that were never recorded as having been stolen during wartime that have later turned out to be so.

My lord, if my learned friend is stating that The Girl You Left Behind was a looted painting at Berchtesgaden, then the burden of proof still falls on the claimants to establish beyond doubt that this painting was actually there in the first place. There is no hard evidence that it formed part of that collection.

Jenks shakes his head. In his own statement David Halston said that when he bought it Louanne Bakers daughter told him she had acquired the painting in 1945 in Germany. She could offer no provenance and he didnt know enough about the art market to be aware that he should have demanded it.

It seems extraordinary that a painting that had disappeared from France during a time of German occupation, that was recorded as having been coveted by a German Kommandant, should then reappear in the home of a woman who had just returned from Germany, was on record as saying she had brought home with her a precious memento from that trip and would never go there again.

The courtroom is silent. Along the bench, a dark-haired woman in lime green is alert, leaning forwards, her big, gnarled hands resting on the back of the bench in front of her. Liv wonders where she has seen her before. The woman shakes her head emphatically. There are lots of older people in the public benches how many of them remember this war personally? How many lost paintings of their own?

Angela Silver addresses the judge. Again, m lord, this is all circumstantial. There are no specific references in this article to a painting. A memento, as it is referred to here, could have been simply a soldiers badge or a pebble. This court must make its judgment solely on evidence. In not one piece of this evidence does she specifically refer to this painting.

Angela Silver sits.

Can we call Marianne Andrews?

The woman in lime green stands heavily, makes her way to the stand and, after being sworn in, gazes around her, blinking slightly. Her grip on her handbag turns her oversized knuckles white. Liv starts when she remembers where she has seen her before a sun-baked back-street in Barcelona, nearly a decade previously, her hair blonde instead of todays raven black. Marianne Johnson.

Mrs Andrews. You are the only daughter of Louanne Baker.

Ms Andrews. I am a widow. And, yes, I am. Liv recalls that strong American accent.

Angela Silver points to the painting. Ms Andrews. Do you recognize the painting – the copy of the painting – that sits in the court before you?

I certainly do. That painting sat in our drawing room my whole childhood. Its called The Girl You Left Behind, and its by Édouard Lefèvre. She pronounces it Le Fever.

Ms Andrews, did your mother ever tell you about the souvenir she refers to in her article?

No, maam.

She never said it was a painting?

No, maam.

Did she ever mention where the painting came from?

Not to me, no. But Id just like to say there is no way Mom would have taken that painting if shed thought it belonged to a victim of those camps. She just wasnt like that.

The judge leans forward. Ms Andrews, we have to stay within the boundaries of what is known. We cannot ascribe motives to your mother.

Well, you all seem to be. She huffs. You didnt know her. She believed in fair play. The souvenirs she kept were things like shrunken heads or old guns or car number-plates. Things that nobody would have cared for. She thinks for a minute. Well, okay, the shrunken heads might have belonged to someone once, but you can bet they didnt want them back, right?

There is a ripple of laughter around the courtroom.

She was really very upset by what happened in Dachau. She could barely talk about it for years afterwards. I know she would not have taken anything if she thought it might be hurting one of those poor souls further.

So you do not believe that your mother took this painting from Berchtesgaden?

My mother never took a thing from anyone. She paid her way. That was how she was.

Jenks stands. This is all very well, Ms Andrews, but as youve said, you have no idea how your mother got this painting, do you?

Like I said, I know she wasnt a thief.

Liv watches the judge as he scribbles in his notes. She looks at Marianne Andrews, grimacing as her mothers reputation is destroyed in front of her. She looks at Janey Dickinson, smiling with barely concealed triumph at the Lefèvre brothers. She looks at Paul, who is leaning forward, his hands clasped over his knees, as if he is praying.

Liv turns away from the image of her painting, and feels a new weight, like a blanket, settle over her, shutting out the light.

Hey, she calls, as she lets herself in. It is half past four but there is no sign of Mo. She walks through to the kitchen and picks up the note on the kitchen table Gone to Ranics. Back tomorrow. Mo.

Liv lets the note fall and releases a small sigh. She has become used to Mo pottering around the house – the sound of her footsteps, distant humming, a bath running, the smell of food warming in the oven. The house feels empty now. It hadnt felt empty before Mo came.

Mo has been a little distant for days. Liv wonders if she has guessed what happened after Paris. Which brings her, like everything, back to Paul.

But there is little point in thinking about Paul.

She takes off her coat and makes herself a mug of tea. Liv puts on some music, just to take the edge off the silence. She loads some laundry into the machine, to give a semblance of domestic normality. And then she picks up the pile of envelopes and papers she has ignored for the last two weeks, pulls up a chair and starts to plough through them.

The bills she puts in the middle the final demands to the right. On the left she puts anything that is not urgent. Bank statements she ignores. Statements from her lawyers go in a pile by themselves.

She has a large notepad on which she enters a column of figures. She works her way methodically through the list, adding sums and subtracting them, scoring through and putting her workings on the edge of the page. She sits back in her chair, surrounded by the black sky, and stares at the figures for a long time.

She walks through to her bedroom and gazes at the portrait of Sophie Lefèvre. As ever, Sophies eyes meets hers with that direct stare. Today, however, she does not appear impassive, imperious. Today Liv thinks she can detect new knowledge behind her expression.

What happened to you, Sophie?

She has known she will have to make this decision for days. She has probably always known it. And yet it still feels like a betrayal.

She flicks through the telephone book, picks up the receiver and dials. Hello? Is that the estate agent?