The Girl You Left Behind

little adventures or accidents, the mosaic of unremarkable
     events that would help turn him into who he would become – and that Paul would have no
     part of.
    Paul was better at mornings now (not least
     because, at nine, Jake rarely woke up before he did) but the first few hours after
     he’d gone back to Leonie still had the power to disarm.
    He’ll iron some shirts. Maybe go to
     the gym, then take a shower and eat. Those few things will give the evening a shape. A
     couple of hours of television, maybe a flickthrough his files, just
     to make sure everything’s shipshape for the case, and then he’ll sleep.
    He’s just finishing the shirts when
     the telephone rings.
    ‘Hey,’ says Janey.
    ‘Who is this?’ he says, even
     though he knows exactly who it is.
    ‘It’s me,’ she says,
     trying to keep the slight affront from her voice. ‘Janey. Just thought I’d
     check in and see how we’re fixed for tomorrow.’
    ‘We’re good,’ he says.
     ‘Sean has been through all the paperwork. The barrister is prepped. We’re as
     good as we can be.’
    ‘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 are setting
     up their own tracing agency,’ she says.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The auction house. Another string to
     their bow, apparently. They have 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 surewe’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.’
    ‘Like 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.
    Paul puts on some music, turns up the volume
     in an attempt to drown the noise of the street below. He has always loved the buzz, the
     vitality of living in the West End, but he has learned over the years that, if
     he’s not in the right frame of mind, its in-your-face revelry serves only to
     heighten the inherent melancholy of Sunday night. He presses the volume button. He knows
     why it is, but he won’t acknowledge it. There’s little point in thinking
     about something you can’t change.
    He has just finished washing his hair 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.
    Sorry, Janey, I’m just on my way out.
    Yeah. We must discuss this at work. We should call a meeting, get everyone
     involved.
    Janey. I think you’re great. But this really isn’t a good idea.
     I’m sorry.
    He opens the front door with this last one
     almost on his lips. 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 holdall at her feet, and her pale, serious face gazes up at him
     as if she has briefly forgotten what she had 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 could both 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