فصل 30

30

So we thought we might take in a movie this afternoon. And this morning Jakeys 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 Pauls 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. Youll walk into a tree like you did last time.

Im 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 days events in court. The headlines suggest an impending victory for TARP and the Lefèvres. 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 Lefèvre case has attracted attention across the globe, with survivors groups —

Jesus. Poor Miss Liv. Greg shakes his head.

What?

I wouldnt want to be in her shoes.

Whats that supposed to mean?

Well, all that stuff in the papers, on the radio – its getting pretty hardcore.

Its just business.

Greg gives him the look he turns on customers who ask to run a tab.

Its 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. Its surprisingly irritating.

High Courts 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. Im not sure I should be stopping here. If I get a ticket youll pay it, right? Hey – isnt 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. Livs 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 Livs 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.

Livs 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, peering 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. Dont worry about it, Liv. Ill tell one of my staff to get it cleaned. And well make sure you can leave via the back entrance.

Yes, madam. Well get you out the back later, the policeman says.

Like a criminal, she says dully.

I wont let that happen to you again, Paul says, taking a step towards her. Really. Im – Im 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. Ive got to go in. Ill 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 hadnt happened. His expression is uncharacteristically cold. So, he says, as he climbs back into the car, that whole Im-on-the-side-of-the-angels thing, hows it working out for you?

He doesnt look at Paul as he drives away. Jakes 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 hasnt 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. Its almost like — Oh, I dont 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 couldnt 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.

Dont be ridiculous.

Jesus Christ.

Seans 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 dont like this. I dont like this at all.

Its 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 dont think you can exactly play the innocent.

Meaning?

You want to tell me whats going on? With you and Mrs Halston?

Nothings going on.

Dont insult my intelligence.

Okay. Nothing thats any of your business.

If youre having a relationship with the subject of our claim, I think thats very much my business.

I am not in a relationship with her.

Janey moves closer to him. Dont fuck me around, Paul. You approached the Lefèvres 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. Thats 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?

Thats nobodys business.

The hell it is. I need to know that youve been working as hard as you can for me. That this case hasnt been compromised.

His voice explodes into the empty space. Were winning, arent we? What more do you want?

The last of the legal team is going into court. Seans 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. Wed still be –

Why on earth would we? Were about to win the most high-profile case this company has ever handled.

Were destroying someones 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 isnt about fairness. Nothings about fairness. Dont 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 Lefèvre will go back after that to her rightful place.

And youre so sure you know where that is.

Yes, I am. As should you be. And now I suggest we go in before the Lefèvres wonder what on earth were 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 youre basically just juggling peoples 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.

Youre one of Mr Flahertys people. She stoops a little, as if she is too big for the doorframe.

Im 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, Im 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 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 womans husband did sitting on his fat old backside in his thirty years at the Bank of America.

Im 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 youre 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? Im not sure I have much more than what I said in court.

I dont know. I guess Im just wondering if theres 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 werent much interested. Believe me, you hear one old reporters tales, youve 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?

No. They just want the painting.

Marianne Andrews shakes her head. I bet they do. She uncrosses her knees, wincing as if it causes her discomfort. I think this whole case stinks. I dont like the way my moms name is being dragged through the mud. Or Mr Halstons. He loved that painting.

Paul looks down at the cat. It is just possible Mr Halston had a good idea of what it was really worth.

With respect, Mr McCafferty, you werent there. If youre trying to imply that I should feel cheated, youre talking to the wrong woman.

You really dont care about its value?

I suspect you and I have different definitions of the word value.

Marianne Andrews stubs out her cigarette. And I feel plain sick about poor Olivia Halston.

He hesitates, and then he says softly, Yeah. Me too.

She raises an eyebrow.

He sighs. This case is — tricky.

Not too tricky to chase the poor girl to bankruptcy?

Just doing my job, Ms Andrews.

Yeah. I think Mom heard that phrase a few times too.

It is said gently, but it brings colour to his cheeks.

She looks at him, for a minute, then suddenly lets out a great hah!, frightening the cat, which leaps off his lap. Oh, for goodness sakes. Do you want something a bit stronger? Because I could do with a real drink. Im sure that sun is somewhere near the yardarm. She gets up and walks over to a cocktail cabinet. Bourbon?

Thanks.

He tells her then, the bourbon in his hand, the accent of his homeland in his ears, his words coming out in fits and starts, as if they had not expected to break the silence. His story starts with a stolen handbag and ends with an all-too-abrupt goodbye outside a courtroom. New parts of it emerge, without his awareness. His unexpected happiness around her, his guilt, this permanent bad temper that seems to have grown around him, like bark. He doesnt know why he should unburden himself to this woman. He doesnt know why he expects her, of all people, to understand.

But Marianne Andrews listens, her generous features grimacing in sympathy. Well, thats some mess youve got yourself into, Mr McCafferty.

Yeah. I get that.

She lights another cigarette, scolds the cat, which is yowling plaintively for food in the open-plan kitchen. Honey, I have no answers for you. Either youre going to break her heart by taking that painting or shes going to break yours by losing you your job.

Or we forget the whole thing.

And break both your hearts.

Her words lay it bare. They sit there in silence. Outside the air is thick with the sound of barely moving traffic.

Paul sips his drink, thinking. Ms Andrews, did your mother keep her notebooks? Her reporting notebooks?

Marianne Andrews looks up. I did bring them back from Barcelona but Im afraid I had to throw a lot out. Theyd been eaten to nothing by termites. One of the shrunken heads too. Perils of a brief marriage in Florida. Although — She stands up, using her long arms for leverage. Youve made me think of something. I may still have a bunch of her old journals in the hall cupboards.

Journals?

Diaries. Whatever. Oh, I had a crazy idea that someone might want to write her biography one day. She did so many interesting things. Maybe one of my grandchildren. Im almost sure theres a box of her cuttings and some journals out there. Let me get the key and well go have a look.

Paul follows Marianne Andrews out into the communal hallway. Breathing laboriously, she leads him down two flights to where the stairs are no longer carpeted, and a tranche of bicycles lines the walls.

They come to a tall blue door. She checks through her ring of keys, muttering to herself until she finds the one she wants. Here, she says, flicking a switch. Inside the dim light bulb reveals a long dark cupboard. One side is lined with metal garage shelves, and the floor is thick with cardboard boxes, piles of books, an old lamp. It smells of old newspapers and jars of beeswax.

I should really clear it all out. Marianne sighs, wrinkling her nose. But somehow theres always something more interesting to do.

You want me to get anything down?

Marianne hugs herself. You know what, honey? Would you mind very much if I left you to dig around? All the dust aggravates my asthma. Theres nothing there of any value. You just lock up and give me a shout if you find anything. Oh, and if you find a teal blue handbag with a gold clasp, bring that up. Id love to know where it disappeared to.

Paul spends an hour in the cramped cupboard, moving boxes out into the dimly lit hallway when he suspects they might be useful, piling them up against the wall. Its contents pile up in the hallway as it empties – suitcases full of old maps, a globe, hatboxes, moth-eaten fur coats, another leathery shrunken head, grimacing at him with its four oversized teeth. He finds a handful of notebooks, helpfully dated on the front covers 1968, Nov. 1969, 1971.

He works methodically through each box, checking between the leaves of every book, scanning the contents of every folder. He opens every box and crate, piling its contents up and then replacing them neatly. An old stereo, two boxes of old books, a hatbox of souvenirs. It is eleven oclock, twelve oclock, half past. He looks down at his watch, realizing its hopeless.

Wherever the truth is to be found, its not in this overstuffed cupboard just north of the A40. And then, near the back, he spies the strap of an old leather satchel, dried out and snapped in two, like a thin slice of beef jerky.

He reaches under the shelving system and pulls at it.

He sneezes twice, wipes his eyes, then lifts the flap. Inside are six hardbound A4 exercise books. He opens one, and sees the intricate copperplate handwriting on the first page. His eyes flick up to the date. 1941. He opens another 1944. He races through them, dropping each in his haste to find it – and there it is, the second to last 1945.

He stumbles out into the hall, where the light is brighter, and leafs through the pages under the neon strip-light.

30 April 1945

Well, today sure didnt turn out like I expected. Four days ago, Lt Col Danes had told me I could go into Konzentrationslager Dachau —

Paul reads on for a few more lines, and curses twice, with increasing vehemence. He stands immobile, the weight of what he is holding becoming more significant with every second. He flicks through the pages and curses again.

His mind races. He could stuff this back into the far corner of the cupboard, go back to Marianne Andrews right now, tell her he had found nothing. He could win his case, collect his bonus. He could give Sophie Lefèvre to her legal owners.

Or —

He sees Liv, head down, battered by a tide of public opinion, the harsh words of strangers, impending financial ruin. He sees her bracing her shoulders, her ponytail askew, as she walks into another day in court.

He sees her slow smile of pleasure the first time they had kissed.

If you do this, you cannot go back.

Paul McCafferty drops the book and the satchel beside his jacket and starts stacking the boxes inside the cupboard.

She appears at the doorway as he clears the last of the boxes away, sweating and dusty after his exertions. She is smoking a cigarette in a long holder, like a 1920s flapper. Goodness – I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you.

He straightens, wipes his brow. I found this. He lifts the teal blue handbag.

You did? Oh, youre a darling! She claps her hands together, takes it from him and smoothes it lovingly. I was so afraid Id left it somewhere. Im such a clutterbrain. Thank you. Thank you so much. Heaven knows how you found it in all this chaos.

I found something else too, he says, holding up the journals.

They say — he takes a breath, exhales — that the painting was indeed gifted to your mother.

I told you all! Marianne Andrews exclaims. I told you my mother wasnt a thief! I told you all along.

There is a long silence.

And youre going to give them to Mrs Halston, she says slowly.

Im not sure that would be wise. This journal will effectively lose us our case.

Her expression clouds. What are you saying? That youre not going to give them to her?

Thats exactly what Im saying.

He reaches into his pocket for a pen. But if I leave them here, theres nothing to stop you giving them to her, right? He scribbles a number and hands it to her. Thats her cell.

They gaze at each other for a minute. She beams, as if something has been reasserted. Ill do that, Mr McCafferty.

Ms Andrews?

Marianne. For goodness sakes.

Marianne. Best keep this to ourselves. I dont think it would go down well in certain quarters.

She nods firmly. You were never here, young man. Shes seemingly struck by a thought. You dont even want me to tell Mrs Halston? That it was you who —

He shakes his head, pops his pen back in his pocket. I think that ship may have sailed. Seeing her win will be enough. He stoops and kisses her cheek. The important one is April 1945. The journal with the bent corner.

April 1945.

He picks up his jacket to leave, holds out the cupboard keys. Marianne touches his elbow, halting him. You know, Ill tell you something about being married five times. Or married five times and still friends with my surviving ex-husbands.

It teaches you damn all about love.

Paul begins to smile, but she hasnt finished. Her grip on his arm is surprisingly strong. What it does teach you, Mr McCafferty, is that theres a whole lot more to life than winning.