The Girl You Left Behind

not a bailiff. I have
     her handbag.’
    ‘Are you a bag thief? Because if
     you’re trying to blackmail her, you’re wasting your time.’
    ‘I am not a bag thief. Or a bailiff. I
     am a man who hasfound her bag and is trying to get it back to
     her.’ He pulls at his collar.
    There is a long pause.
    ‘How did you get this
     number?’
    ‘It’s on my phone. She borrowed
     it when she tried to ring home.’
    ‘You were with her?’
    He feels a little germ of pleasure. He
     hesitates, tries not to sound too keen. ‘Why? Did she mention me?’
    ‘No.’ The sound of a kettle
     boiling. ‘I was just being nosy. Look – she’s just on her annual trip out of
     the house. If you drop by around four-ish she should be back by then. If not I’ll
     take it for her.’
    ‘And you are?’
    A long, suspicious pause.
    ‘I’m the woman who takes in
     stolen handbags for Liv.’
    ‘Right. So what’s the
     address?’
    ‘You don’t know?’
     There’s another silence. ‘Hmm. I tell you what, come to the corner of Audley
     Street and Packers Lane, and someone will meet you down there –’
    ‘I’m not a bag thief.’
    ‘So you keep saying. Ring when
     you’re there.’ He can hear her thinking. ‘If nobody answers, just hand
     it to the woman in the cardboard boxes by the back door. Her name’s Fran. And if
     we do decide to meet you, no funny business. We have a gun.’
    Before he can say anything else, she has
     rung off. He sits at his desk, staring at his phone.
    Janey walks into his office without
     knocking. It has started to annoy him, the way she does this. It makes him think
     she’s trying to catch him in the middle ofsomething.
     ‘The Lefèvre painting. Have we actually sent off the opening letter
     yet?’
    ‘No. I’m still doing checks on
     whether it has been exhibited.’
    ‘Did we get the current owners’
     address?’
    ‘The magazine didn’t keep a
     record of it. But it’s fine – I’ll send it via his workplace. If he’s
     an architect he shouldn’t be hard to find. The company will probably be in his
     name.’
    ‘Good. I just got a message saying the
     claimants are coming to London in a few weeks and want a meeting. It would be great if
     we could get an initial response before then. Can you throw some dates at me?’
    ‘Will do.’
    He stares at his computer screen very hard,
     even though only the screensaver is in front of him, until Janey takes the hint and
     leaves.
    Mo is at home. She is a strangely
     unobtrusive presence, even given the startling inky black of her hair and clothing.
     Occasionally Liv half wakes at six and hears her padding around, preparing to leave for
     her morning shift at the care home. She finds the presence of another person in the
     house oddly comforting.
    Mo cooks every day, or brings back food from
     the restaurant, leaving foil-covered dishes in the fridge and scrawled instructions on
     the kitchen table. ‘Heat up for 40 mins at 180. That would mean SWITCHING ON THE
     OVEN’ and ‘FINISH THIS AS BY TOMORROW IT WILL CLIMB OUT OF ITS CONTAINER AND
     KILL US.’ The house no longer smells of cigarettesmoke. Liv
     suspects Mo sneaks the odd one out on the deck, but she doesn’t ask.
    They have settled into a routine of sorts.
     Liv rises as before, heading out on to the concrete walkways, her feet pounding, her
     head filled with noise. She has stopped buying coffee, so she makes tea for Fran, eats
     her toast and sits in front of her desk trying not to worry about her lack of work. But
     now she finds she half looks forward to the sound of the key in the lock at three
     o’clock, Mo’s arrival home. Mo has not offered to pay rent – and she is not
     sure that either of them wants to feel this is a formal arrangement – but the day after
     she heard about Liv’s bag, a pile of crumpled cash had appeared on the kitchen
     table. ‘
Emergency council tax,
’
the note with it
     read
. ‘
Don’t start being all weird about it.
’
    Liv didn’t get even remotely weird
     about it. She didn’t have a choice.
    They are drinking tea and reading a London
     free-sheet when the phone rings. Mo looks up, like a gundog scenting the air, checks the
     clock and says, ‘Oh. I know who this is.’ Liv turns back to the newspaper.
     ‘It’s the man with your handbag.’
    Liv’s mug stalls in mid-air.
     ‘What?’
    ‘I forgot to tell you. He rang up
     earlier. I told him to wait on the corner and we’d come down.’
    ‘What kind of