Page 94 of The Girl You Left Behind
He shifts round to face her. “Okay. This is what I don’t get. Aside from what is morally right and wrong here, I don’t 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, wouldn’t agree to hand it back in return for a lot of money. A hell of a lot more money than she paid for it.”
“It’s not about the money.”
“Oh, comeon, Liv. I’m 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 doesn’t belong with them. They don’t... they don’t care about her.”
“Sophie Lefèvre has been dead for ninety years. I’m pretty sure it’s 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 don’t understand, do you?” She hauls them on, zipping them up furiously. “God. You are so not the man I thought you were.”
“No. I’m a man who, surprisingly, doesn’t want to see you lose your house for nothing.”
“Oh, no. I forgot. You’re the man who brought this crap into my house in the first place.”
“You think someone else wouldn’t have done this job? It’s 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 don’t 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 he’s trying to keep his temper. And then he shakes his head. “You know what? I don’t 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 can’t do that.”
“I’ve 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 don’t know. I really don’t know.”
When she pushes past him to leave he doesn’t try to stop her.
25
There are people outside the court. A small crowd is milling in front of the main steps. At first she thinks it must be a group of sightseers—but Henry reaches for her arm as she steps out of the taxi. “Oh, Christ. Keep your head down,” he says.
“What?”
As her foot meets the pavement, the air is filled with blinding flashes. She is briefly paralyzed. Then Henry’s arm is propelling her forward, past the jostling men’s elbows, her own name shouted in her ear. Someone thrusts a piece of paper into her free hand, and she can hear Henry’s voice, the faint tone of panic as the crowd seems to close around her. She is surrounded by a jumble of jackets, and the dark, fathomless reflection of huge lenses. “Stand back, everybody, please. Stand back.” She glimpses the flash of brass on a policeman’s uniform, shuts her eyes, and feels herself shoved sideways, Henry’s grip tightening on her arm.
Then they are in the silent courts, heading through security, and she is on the other side, blinking at him in shock.
“What the hell was that?” She is breathing hard.
Henry smoothes his hair and turns to peer out through the doors. “The newspapers. I’m afraid the case seems to have attracted an awful lot of attention.”
She straightens her jacket, then looks round, just in time to see Paul striding in through security. He is wearing a pale blue shirt and dark trousers and looks utterly unruffled. Nobody has bothered him. As their eyes meet she gives him a look of mute fury. His stride slows, just a fraction, but his expression does not alter. He glances behind him, his papers tucked under his arm, and continues in the direction of court 2.
It is then that she sees the piece of paper in her hand. She unfolds it carefully.
The possession of that which the Germans took is a CRIME. End the suffering of the Jewish people. Return what is rightfully theirs. Bring justice before it is TOO LATE.
“What’s that?” Henry peers over her shoulder.
“Why did they give me this? The claimants aren’t even Jewish!” she exclaims.
“I did warn you that wartime looting is a very inflammatory subject. I’m afraid you may find all sorts of interest groups latching on to it, whether they’re directly affected or not.”
“But this is ridiculous. We didn’t steal the damn painting. It’s been ours for over a decade!”
