The Girl You Left Behind

talked
     about it often.’
    ‘Is she still alive?’
    ‘No. I said so in the
     letter.’
    ‘Forgive me. What was your
     grandfather’s name?’
    ‘Anton Perovsky.’ She spells out
     his surname, pointing at his notes as she does so.
    ‘Any surviving members of the family
     who might know about it?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you know if the work has ever been
     exhibited?’
    ‘No.’
    He’d known it would be a mistake to
     start advertising, that it would lead to flaky cases like this. But Janey had insisted.
     ‘We need to be proactive,’ she had said, her vocabulary skewed by
     management-speak. ‘We need to stabilize our market share, consolidate our
     reputation. We need to be all over this market like a bad suit.’ She hadcompiled a list of all the other tracing and recovery companies and
     suggested they send Miriam to their competitors as a fake client, to see their methods.
     She had appeared completely unmoved when he had told her this was crazy.
    ‘You’ve done any basic searches
     on its history? Google? Art books?’
    ‘No. I assumed that was what I’d
     be paying you for. You’re the best in the business, yes? You found this
     Lefèvre painting.’ She crosses her legs, glances at her watch. ‘How
     long do these cases take?’
    ‘Well, it’s a piece-of-string
     question. Some we can resolve fairly swiftly, if we have the documented history and
     provenance. Others can take years. I’m sure you’ve heard that the legal
     process itself can be quite expensive. It’s not something I would urge you to
     embark upon lightly.’
    ‘And you work on
     commission?’
    ‘It varies, but we take a small
     percentage of the final settlement, yes. And we have an in-house legal department
     here.’ He flicks through the folder. There is nothing in it other than a few
     pictures of the painting, a signed affidavit from Anton Perovsky saying that Kandinsky
     had given him a painting in 1938. They were driven from their home in 1941 and never saw
     it again. There is a letter from the German government acknowledging the claim. There is
     a letter from the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam gently denying that it’s in its
     possession. It’s a pretty thin skeleton to hang a claim on.
    He is trying to calculate whether it has any
     merit at all when she speaks again: ‘I went to see the new firm. Brigg and
     Sawston’s? They said they’d charge one per cent less than you.’
    Paul’s hand stills on the paper.
     ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Commission. They said they’d
     charge one per cent less than you to recover the painting.’
    Paul waits a moment before he speaks.
     ‘Miss Harcourt, we operate a reputable business. If you want us to use our years
     of skill, experience and contacts to trace and potentially recover your family’s
     beloved work of art, I will certainly consider that and give you my best advice as to
     whether it will be possible. But I’m not going to sit here and haggle with
     you.’
    ‘Well, it’s a lot of money. If
     this Kandinsky is worth millions, it’s in our interests to get the best deal
     possible.’
    Paul feels a tightening in his jaw. ‘I
     think, given that you didn’t even know you had a link to this painting eighteen
     months ago, if we do recover it, you’re likely to get a very good deal
     indeed.’
    ‘Is this your way of saying you
     won’t consider a more … competitive fee?’ She looks at him
     blankly. Her face is immobile, but her legs cross elegantly, a slingback dangling from
     her foot. A woman used to getting what she wants, and doing so without engaging a shred
     of feeling or emotion.
    Paul puts down his pen. He closes the file
     and pushes it towards her. ‘Miss Harcourt. It was nice to meet you. But I think
     we’re done here.’
    There is a pause. She blinks.
     ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘I don’t think you and I have
     anything more to say to each other.’
    Janey is crossing the office, holding up a
     box of Christmas chocolates when she stops at the commotion.
    ‘You are the rudest man I have ever
     met,’ Miss Harcourt is hissing at him. Her expensive handbag is tucked under her
     left arm, and he is thrusting her folder of letters at her as he shepherds her towards
     the door.
    ‘I very much doubt that.’
    ‘If you think this is any way to run a
     business then you’re more of a fool than I thought you were.’
    ‘Then it’s just as well
     you’re not entrusting me with the epic search for the painting you clearly love so