The Girl You Left Behind

flap. Inside are six hardbound A4 exercise books. He opens one, and sees the
     intricate copperplate handwriting on the first page. His eyes flick up to the date.
     1941. He opens another: 1944. He races through them, dropping each in his haste to find
     it – and there it is, the second to last: 1945.
    He stumbles out into the hall, where the
     light is brighter, and leafs through the pages under the neon strip-light.
30 April 1945
    Well, today sure didn’t turn out like I expected. Four days ago, Lt Col
     Danes had told me I could go into Konzentrationslager Dachau …
    Paul reads on for a few more lines, and
     curses twice, with increasing vehemence. He stands immobile, the weight of what he is
     holding becoming more significant with every second. He flicks through the pages and
     curses again.
    His mind races. He could stuff this back
     into the far corner of the cupboard, go back to Marianne Andrews right now, tell her he
     had found nothing. He could win his case, collect his bonus. He could give Sophie
     Lefèvre to her legal owners.
    Or …
    He sees Liv, head down, battered by a tide
     of public opinion, the harsh words of strangers, impending financial ruin. He sees her
     bracing her shoulders, her ponytail askew, as she walks into another day in court.
    He sees her slow smile of pleasure the first
     time they had kissed.
    If you do this, you cannot go back.
    Paul McCafferty drops the book and the
     satchel beside his jacket and starts stacking the boxes inside the cupboard.
    She appears at the doorway as he clears the
     last of the boxes away, sweating and dusty after his exertions. She is smoking a
     cigarette in a long holder, like a 1920s flapper. ‘Goodness – I was beginning to
     wonder what had happened to you.’
    He straightens, wipes his brow. ‘I
     found this.’ He lifts the teal blue handbag.
    ‘You did? Oh, you’re a
     darling!’ She claps her hands together, takes it from him and smoothes it
     lovingly. ‘I was so afraid I’d left it somewhere. I’m such a
     clutterbrain. Thank you. Thank you so much. Heaven knows how you found it in all this
     chaos.’
    ‘I found something else
     too.’
    Her gaze slides upwards.
    ‘You mind if I borrow these?’ He
     holds up the satchel with the journals in it.
    ‘Is that what I think it is
?
What do they say?’
    ‘They say …’ he takes a
     breath, exhales ‘… that the painting was indeed gifted to your
     mother.’
    ‘I told you all!’ Marianne
     Andrews exclaims. ‘I told you my mother wasn’t a thief! I told you all
     along.’
    There is a long silence.
    ‘And you’re going to give them
     to Mrs Halston,’ she says slowly.
    ‘I’m not sure that would be
     wise. This journal will effectively lose us our case.’
    Her expression clouds. ‘What are you
     saying? That you’re not going to give them to her?’
    ‘That’s exactly what I’m
     saying.’
    He reaches into his pocket for a pen.
     ‘But if I leave them here, there’s nothing to stop you giving them to her,
     right?’ He scribbles a number and hands it to her. ‘That’s her
     cell.’
    They gaze at each other for a minute. She
     beams, as if something has been reasserted. ‘I’ll do that, Mr
     McCafferty.’
    ‘Ms Andrews?’
    ‘Marianne. For goodness’
     sakes.’
    ‘Marianne. Best keep this to
     ourselves. I don’t think it would go down well in certain quarters.’
    She nods firmly. ‘You were never here,
     young man.’ She’s seemingly struck by a thought. ‘You don’t even
     want me to tell Mrs Halston? That it was you who …’
    He shakes his head, pops his pen back in his
     pocket. ‘I think that ship may have sailed. Seeing her win will be enough.’
     He stoops and kisses her cheek. ‘The important one is April 1945. The journal with
     the bent corner.’
    ‘April 1945.’
    He feels almost dizzy with the enormity of
     what he has done. TARP, the Lefèvres, will now lose the case. They have to, based
     on what he has seen.
Is it still a betrayal ifyou’re doing
     it for the right reasons?
He needs a drink. He needs some air. Something.
Have I gone crazy here?
All he can see is Liv’s face, her relief. He
     wants to see that smile breaking out again, slow and wide, as if surprised by its own
     arrival.
    He picks up his jacket to leave, holds out
     the cupboard keys. Marianne touches his elbow, halting him. ‘You know, I’ll
     tell you something about being married five times. Or married five times and still
     friends with my