Page 92 of The Girl You Left Behind
“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 Sawston’s is setting up its own tracing agency,” she says.
“Who?”
“The auction house. Another string to its bow, apparently. It has big backers, too.”
“Damn.” Paul gazes at the pile of paperwork on his desk.
“They’ve already started speaking to other agencies about staff. They’re 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 haven’t 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 we’re out there in front. That we’re 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.”
“As I said, Janey, nobody’s approached me.”
Another brief silence.
“Okay.” She talks on for a bit, telling him about her weekend, the trip to her parents, a wedding she’s been invited to in Devon. She talks about the wedding for so long that he wonders if she’s plucking up the courage to invite him, and he changes the subject firmly. Finally, she rings off.
He has just finished rinsing his hair in the shower 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 it’s Janey. He doesn’t 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 isn’t 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 carryall at her feet, and her pale, serious face gazes up at him as if she has briefly forgotten what she wanted to say.
“The case starts tomorrow,” he says, when she still doesn’t speak. He can’t stop looking at her.
“I know.”
“We’re not meant to talk to each other.”
“No.”
“We both could 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 doesn’t 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.”
