The Girl You Left Behind

does she specifically refer to
     this painting.’
    Angela Silver sits.
    ‘Can we call Marianne
     Andrews?’
    The woman in lime green stands heavily,
     makes her way to the stand and, after being sworn in, gazes around her, blinking
     slightly. Her grip on her handbag turns her oversized knuckles white. Liv starts when
     she remembers where she has seen her before: a sun-baked back-street in Barcelona,
     nearly a decade previously, her hair blonde instead of today’s raven black.
Marianne Johnson.
    ‘Mrs Andrews. You are the only
     daughter of Louanne Baker.’
    ‘Ms Andrews. I am a widow. And, yes, I
     am.’ Liv recalls that strong American accent.
    Angela Silver points to the painting.
     ‘Ms Andrews. Do you recognize the painting – the copy of the painting – that sits
     in the court before you?’
    ‘I certainly do. That painting sat in
     our drawing room my whole childhood. It’s called
The Girl You Left
     Behind
, and it’s by Édouard Lefèvre.’ She pronounces it
     ‘Le Fever’.
    ‘Ms Andrews, did your mother ever tell
     you about the souvenir she refers to in her article?’
    ‘No, ma’am.’
    ‘She never said it was a
     painting?’
    ‘No, ma’am.’
    ‘Did she ever mention where the
     painting came from?’
    ‘Not to me, no. But I’d just
     like to say there is no way Mom would have taken that painting if she’d thought it
     belonged to a victim of those camps. She just wasn’t like that.’
    The judge leans forward. ‘Ms Andrews,
     we have to stay within the boundaries of what is known. We cannot ascribe motives to
     your mother.’
    ‘Well, you all seem to be.’ She
     huffs. ‘You didn’t know her. She believed in fair play. The souvenirs she
     kept were things like shrunken heads or old guns or car number-plates. Things that
     nobody would have cared for.’ She thinks for a minute. ‘Well, okay, the
     shrunken heads might have belonged to someone once, but you can bet they didn’t
     want them back, right?’
    There is a ripple of laughter around the
     courtroom.
    ‘She was really very upset by what
     happened in Dachau. She could barely talk about it for years afterwards. I know she
     would not have taken anything if she thought it might be hurting one of those poor souls
     further.’
    ‘So you do not believe that your
     mother took this painting from Berchtesgaden?’
    ‘My mother never took a thing from
     anyone. She paid her way. That was how she was.’
    Jenks stands. ‘This is all very well,
     Ms Andrews, but asyou’ve said, you have no idea how your
     mother got this painting, do you?’
    ‘Like I said, I know she wasn’t
     a thief.’
    Liv watches the judge as he scribbles in his
     notes. She looks at Marianne Andrews, grimacing as her mother’s reputation is
     destroyed in front of her. She looks at Janey Dickinson, smiling with barely concealed
     triumph at the Lefèvre brothers. She looks at Paul, who is leaning forward, his
     hands clasped over his knees, as if he is praying.
    Liv turns away from the image of her
     painting, and feels a new weight, like a blanket, settle over her, shutting out the
     light.
    ‘Hey,’ she calls, as she lets
     herself in. It is half past four but there is no sign of Mo. She walks through to the
     kitchen and picks up the note on the kitchen table: ‘Gone to Ranic’s. Back
     tomorrow. Mo’.
    Liv lets the note fall and releases a small
     sigh. She has become used to Mo pottering around the house – the sound of her footsteps,
     distant humming, a bath running, the smell of food warming in the oven. The house feels
     empty now. It hadn’t felt empty before Mo came.
    Mo has been a little distant for days. Liv
     wonders if she has guessed what happened after Paris. Which brings her, like everything,
     back to Paul.
    But there is little point in thinking about
     Paul.
    There is no post, except a mail-shot for
     fitted kitchens, and two bills.
    She takes off her coat and makes herself a
     mug of tea. She rings her father, who is out. His booming answer-phone message urges her
     to leave her name and number.‘You must! We’d LOVE to
     hear from you!’ She flicks on the radio, but the music is too irritating, the news
     too depressing. She doesn’t want to go online: there are unlikely to be any emails
     offering work and she is afraid to see something about the court case. She doesn’t
     want the pixelated fury of a million people who don’t know her to slide across her
     computer and into her head.
    She doesn’t