The Girl You Left Behind

premises. Each
     time Janey looks at him as if it’s the first time she has heard this, and says,
     yes, yes, good idea. And then does nothing about it.
    ‘Miriam?’ Paul stands, offers
     her his chair, but she refuses.
    ‘Really,’ she says.
     ‘I’m fine.’ She keeps nodding, as if to confirm this to herself.
    ‘You’re falling into Unresolved
     Disputes 1996,’ he says. He wants to add:
And I can see halfway up your
     skirt.
    ‘Really, I’m quite
     comfortable.’
    ‘Miriam. Honestly, I can just
     –’
    ‘Miriam’s fine, Paul.
     Really.’ Janey adjusts her spectacles on her nose.
    ‘Oh, yes. I’m very comfortable
     here.’ She keeps nodding until he looks away. It makes him feel bad.
    ‘So that’s where we are, as far
     as the staffing and office issues stand. Where are we all at?’
    Sean, the lawyer, begins to run through his
     upcoming schedule; an approach to the Spanish government to return a looted Velázquez to
     a private collector, two outstanding sculpture recoveries, a possible legal change to
     restitution claims. Paul leans back in his chair and rests his ballpoint against his
     pad.
    And she’s there again, smiling
     ruefully. Her burst of unexpected laughter. The sadness in tiny lines around her eyes.
I was great at drunk sex. Really. I was.
    He doesn’t want to admit to himself
     how disappointed he had been when he emerged from the bathroom that morning to find
     she’d simply let herself out. His son’s duvet had been straightened, and
     there was just an absence where the girl had been. No scribbled message. No phone
     number. Nothing.
    ‘Is she a regular?’ he had asked
     Greg, casually, on the phone that evening.
    ‘Nope. Not seen her before. Sorry to
     land you with her like that, bro.’
    ‘No problem,’ he had said. He
     hadn’t bothered to tell Greg to watch out in case she came back. Something told
     him she wouldn’t.
    ‘Paul?’
    He drags his thoughts back to the A4 pad in
     front of him. ‘Um … Well, as you know, we got the Nowicki painting
     returned. That’s headed for auction. Which is obviously – um – rewarding.’
     He ignores Janey’s warning glance. ‘And coming up this month I’ve got
     a meeting about the statuette collection from Bonhams, a trace on a Lowry that’s
     been stolen from a stately home in Ayrshire and …’ He leafs through his
     papers. ‘This French work that was looted in the First World War and turned up in
     some architect’s house in London. I’m guessing, given the value, they
     won’t give it up without a bit of a fight. But it looks fairly clear cut, if we
     can establish it really was stolen initially. Sean, you might want to dig out any legal
     precedent on First World War stuff, just in case.’
    Sean scribbles a note.
    ‘Apart from that, I’ve just got
     the other cases from last month that I’m carrying forward, and I’m talking
     to some insurers about whether we want to get involved with a new fine art
     register.’
    ‘Another?’ says Janey.
    ‘It’s the scaling down of the
     Art and Antiques Squad,’ Paul said. ‘The insurers are getting
     nervous.’
    ‘Might be good news for us, though.
     Where are we on the Stubbs?’
    He clicks the end of his pen.
     ‘Deadlock.’
    ‘Sean?’
    ‘It’s a tricky one. I’ve
     been looking up precedent, but it may well go to trial.’
    Janey nods, then glances up as Paul’s
     mobile phone rings. ‘Sorry,’ he says, and wrenches it from his pocket. He
     stares at the name. ‘Actually, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should take
     this. Sherrie. Hi.’
    He feels Janey’s eyes burning into his
     back as he steps carefully over his colleagues’ legs and into his office. He
     closes the door behind him. ‘You did? … Her name? Liv. Nope,
     that’s all I got … There is? Can you describe it? … Yup – that
     sounds like her. Mid-brown hair, maybe blonde, shoulder length. Wearing it in a
     ponytail? … Phone, wallet – don’t know what else. No
     address? … No, I don’t. Sure – Sherrie, do me a favour? Can I pick it
     up?’
    He stares out of the window.
    ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. I just realized – I
     think I’ve worked out how to get it back to her.’
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Is that Liv?’
    ‘No.’
    He pauses. ‘Um … is she
     there?’
    ‘Are you a bailiff?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, she’s not
     here.’
    ‘Do you know when she’ll be
     back?’
    ‘Are you sure you’re not a
     bailiff?’
    ‘I am definitely