The Girl You Left Behind

is
     filled with blinding flashes. She is briefly paralysed. Then Henry’sarm 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 the 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 Two.
    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!’
    ‘Come on, Liv. Let’s head over
     to Court Two. I’ll get someone to fetch you some water.’
    The press area is packed. She sees the
     reporters, wedged in beside each other, muttering and joking, flipping through the
     day’s newspapers before the judge arrives; a herd of predators, relaxed but
     intent, watching for their prey. She scans the benches for anybody she recognizes from
     the scrum. She wants to stand up and shout at them.
This is a game to you,
     isn’t it? Just tomorrow’s fish-and-chip paper.
Her heart is
     racing.
    The judge, Henry says, settling into his
     seat, has experience in such cases and is scrupulously fair. He is uncharacteristically
     vague when she asks him how many times he has ruled in favour of the current owners.
    Each side is weighed down with fat files of
     documentation, lists of expert witnesses, statements on obscure legal points of French
     law. Henry, jokingly, has said that Liv now knows so much about specialist litigation
     that he might offer her a job afterwards. ‘I may need it,’ she says
     grimly.
    ‘All rise.’
    ‘Here we go.’ Henry touches her
     elbow, gives her a reassuring smile.
    The Lefèvres, two elderly men, are
     already seated along the bench with Sean Flaherty, watching the proceedings in silence
     as their barrister, Christopher Jenks, outlines their case. She stares at them, taking
     in their dour expressions, the way they cross their arms over their chests, as if
     predisposed to dissatisfaction. Maurice and André Lefèvre are the trustees of
     the remaining works and legacy of Édouard Lefèvre, he explains to the court.
     Their interest, he says, is in safeguarding his work, and protecting his legacy for the
     future.
    ‘And lining their pockets,’ she
     mutters. Henry shakes his head.
    Jenks strolls up and down the courtroom,
     only occasionally referring to notes, his comments directed at the judge. As
     Lefèvre’s popularity had increased in recent years, his descendants had
     conducted an audit of his remaining works, which uncovered references to a portrait
     entitled
The Girl You Left Behind
, which had once been in the possession of the
     artist’s wife, Sophie Lefèvre.
    A photograph and some written journals have
     turned up the fact that the painting hung in full view in the hotel known as Le Coq
     Rouge in St Péronne, a town occupied by the