The Girl You Left Behind

wasn’t sure you …’ He blows out
     his cheeks. ‘It’s amazing. Tracking down that man’s family. They said
     you were good, but –’
    Paul shakes his head. ‘Just doing my
     job.’
    He and Jason look at the old man, who is
     still staring at the image of the painting. He seems to have diminished in size, as if
     the weight of the events of several decades ago have come crushing down on him. The same
     thought seems to cross both their minds at once.
    ‘Are you okay, Dad?’
    ‘Mr Nowicki?’
    He straightens a little, as if only just
     remembering that they are there. His hand is resting on the photograph.
    Paul sits back in his chair, his pen a
     bridge between his hands. ‘So. Returning the painting. I can recommend a
     specialist art-transport company. You need a vehicle that is high security, climate
     controlled and has air-ridesuspension. And I would also suggest you
     insure it before it comes to you. I don’t need to tell you that a painting such as
     this is –’
    ‘Do you have contacts at the auction
     house?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    Mr Nowicki has regained his colour.
     ‘Do you have contacts at any auction houses? I spoke to one a while back but they
     wanted too much money. Twenty per cent, I think it was. Plus tax. It’s too
     much.’
    ‘You … want to get it valued
     for insurance?’
    ‘No. I want to sell it.’ He
     opens his battered leather wallet without looking up and slides the photograph inside.
     ‘Apparently this is a very good time to sell. Foreigners are buying
     everything …’ He waves a hand dismissively.
    Jason is staring at him. ‘But,
     Dad …’
    ‘This has all been expensive. We have
     bills to pay.’
    ‘But you said –’
    Mr Nowicki turns away from his son.
     ‘Can you look into it for me? I’m assuming you will invoice me your
     fee.’
    Outside, a door slams in the street; the
     sound reverberates off the frontages of the buildings. In the next office Paul can hear
     Miriam’s muffled telephone conversation. He swallows. Keeps his voice level.
     ‘I’ll do that.’
    There is a long silence. Finally the old man
     rises from his seat.
    ‘Well, that is very good news,’
     he says finally, and gives him a tight smile. ‘Very good news indeed. Thank you
     very much, Mr McCafferty.’
    ‘No problem,’ he says. He stands
     and holds out his hand.
    When they leave, Paul McCafferty sits down in
     his chair. He closes the file, then his eyes.
    ‘You can’t take it
     personally,’ Janey says.
    ‘I know. It’s just –’
    ‘It’s not our business.
     We’re just here for recovery.’
    ‘I know. It’s just that Mr
     Nowicki had gone on and on about how personal this painting was to the family and how it
     represented everything they’d lost and –’
    ‘Let it go, Paul.’
    ‘This never happened in the
     Squad.’ He stands up and paces around Janey’s cramped office. He stops by
     the window and gazes out. ‘You got people their stuff back and they were just
     happy.’
    ‘You don’t want to go back to
     the police.’
    ‘I know. I’m just saying. It
     gets me every time with these restitution cases.’
    ‘Well, you earned our fee on a case
     where I wasn’t sure you’d be able to. And it’s all money towards your
     house move, yes? So we should both be happy. Here.’ Janey pushes a folder across
     her desk. ‘This should cheer you up. Came in last night. It looks pretty
     straightforward.’
    Paul takes the papers out of the folder. A
     portrait of a woman, missing since 1916, its theft only discovered a decade ago during
     an audit of the artist’s work by his surviving family. And there, on the next
     sheet of paper, an image of the painting in question, now hanging boldly on a minimalist
     wall. Published in a glossy magazine several years ago.
    ‘First World War?’
    ‘Statute of limitations doesn’t
     apply, apparently. It seems pretty clear cut. They say they have evidence thatGermans stole the painting during the war, and it was never seen
     again. A few years ago some family member opens an old glossy magazine and what do you
     think is sitting there in the centre spread?’
    ‘They’re sure it’s the
     original?’
    ‘It’s never been
     reproduced.’
    Paul shakes his head, the morning’s
     events briefly forgotten, conscious of that brief, reflexive twinge of excitement.
     ‘And there it is. Nearly a hundred years later. Just hanging on some rich
     couple’s wall.’
    ‘The feature just says