Page 59 of The Girl You Left Behind
“And you are?”
A long, suspicious pause.
“I’m the woman who takes in stolen handbags for Liv.”
“Right. So what’s the address?”
“You don’t know?” There’s another silence. “Hmm. I tell you what, come to the corner of Audley Street and Packers Lane, and someone will meet you down there—”
“I’m not a bag thief.”
“So you keep saying. Ring when you’re there.” He can hear her thinking. “If nobody answers, just hand it to the woman in the cardboard boxes by the back door. Her name’s Fran. And if we do decide to meet you, no funny business. We have a gun.”
Before he can say anything else, she has rung off. He sits at his desk, staring at his phone.
Janey walks into his office without knocking. It has started to annoy him, the way she does this. It makes him think she’s trying to catch him in the middle of something. “The Lefèvre painting. Have we actually sent off the opening letter yet?”
“No. I’m still doing checks on whether it has been exhibited.”
“Did we get the current owners’ address?”
“The magazine didn’t keep a record of it. But it’s fine—I’ll send it via his workplace. If he’s an architect he shouldn’t be hard to find. The company will probably be in his name.”
“Good. I just got a message saying the claimants are coming to London in a few weeks and want a meeting. It would be great if we could get an initial response before then. Can you throw some dates at me?”
“Will do.”
He stares at his computer screen very hard, even though only the screen saver is in front of him, until Janey takes the hint and leaves.
•••
Mo is at home. She is a strangely unobtrusive presence, even given the startling inky black of her hair and clothing. Occasionally Liv half wakes at six and hears her padding around, preparing to leave for her morning shift at the care home. She finds the presence of another person in the house oddly comforting.
Mo cooks every day, or brings back food from the restaurant, leaving foil-covered dishes in the fridge and scrawled instructions on the kitchen table. “Heat up for 40 mins at 180. That would meanSWITCHING ON THE OVEN” andFINISH THIS AS BY TOMORROW IT WILL CLIMB OUT OF ITS CONTAINER AND KILL US. The house no longer smells of cigarette smoke. Liv suspects Mo sneaks the odd one out on the deck, but she doesn’t ask.
They have settled into a routine of sorts. Liv rises as before, heading out onto the concrete walkways, her feet pounding, her head filled with noise. She makes tea for Fran, eats her toast, and sits in front of her desk trying not to worry about her lack of work. But now she finds she half looks forward to the sound of the key in the lock at three o’clock, Mo’s arrival home. Mo has not offered to pay rent—and she is not sure that either of them wants to feel this is a formal arrangement—but the day after she heard about Liv’s bag, a pile of crumpled cash had appeared on the kitchen table. “Emergency council tax,” the note with it read.“Don’t start being all weird about it.”
Liv didn’t get even remotely weird about it. She didn’t have a choice.
•••
They are drinking tea and reading a London freesheet when the phone rings. Mo looks up, like a gundog scenting the air, checks the clock, and says, “Oh. I know who this is.” Liv turns back to the newspaper. “It’s the man with your handbag.”
Liv’s mug stalls in midair. “What?”
“I forgot to tell you. He rang up earlier. I told him to wait on the corner and we’d come down.”
“What kind of man?”
“Dunno. I just checked that he wasn’t a bailiff.”
“Oh, God. He definitely has it? Do you think he’ll want a reward?” She casts around in her pockets. She has four pounds in coins and some coppers, which she holds out in front of her.
“It doesn’t seem like a lot, does it?”
“Short of sexual favors, it’s pretty much all you have.”
“Four pounds it is.”
