The Girl You Left Behind

blow hot and cold. I’ve got some
     modelling clay upstairs that I use for voodoo dolls. Can you get some cocktail sticks
     ready? Or some skewers? I’m all out.’
    Mo grabs the spare key, salutes her with the
     folded bread, and is gone before Liv can respond.
    In the previous five years TARP has
     returned more than two hundred and forty works of art to owners, or descendants of
     owners, who had believed they might never see them again. Paul has heard stories of
     wartime brutality more appalling than anything he encountered while workingin the NYPD; they are repeated with a clarity of recall that
     suggests they might have happened yesterday, rather than sixty years ago. He has seen
     pain, borne like a precious inheritance through the ages and writ large on the faces of
     those left behind.
    He has held the hands of old women who have
     wept bittersweet tears at having been in the same room as a little portrait that was
     stolen from their murdered parents, the silent awe of younger members of a family seeing
     a long-missed painting for the first time. He has had stand-up arguments with the heads
     of major national art galleries, and bitten his lip when long-fought-over sculptures
     were returned to families, then immediately put up for sale. But for the most part this
     job, in the five years he has done it, has allowed him to feel he is on the side of some
     basic right. Hearing the stories of horror and betrayal, of families murdered and
     displaced by the Second World War, as if those crimes were committed yesterday, and
     knowing that those victims still lived with the injustices every day, he has relished
     being part of some small degree of recompense.
    He has never had to deal with anything like
     this.
    ‘Shit,’ says Greg.
     ‘That’s tough.’
    They are out walking Greg’s dogs, two
     hyperactive terriers. The morning is unseasonably cold and Paul wishes he had worn an
     extra jumper.
    ‘I couldn’t believe it. The
     actual painting. Staring me in the face.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    Paul pulls his scarf up around his neck.
     ‘I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think what to say. I
     just … left.’
    ‘You ran?’
    ‘I needed time to think about
     it.’
    Pirate, the smaller of Greg’s dogs,
     has shot across the heath like a guided missile. The two men stop to watch, waiting to
     determine his eventual target.
    ‘Please don’t let it be a cat,
     please don’t let it be a cat. Oh, it’s okay. It’s Ginger.’ In
     the far distance Pirate hurls himself joyously at a springer spaniel and the two dogs
     chase each other manically in ever-widening circles in the long grass. ‘And this
     was when? Last night?’
    ‘Two nights ago. I know I should ring
     her. I just can’t work out what I’m going to say.’
    ‘I guess “Give me your damn
     painting” isn’t your best line.’ Greg calls his older dog to heel, and
     lifts his hand to his brow, trying to track Pirate’s progress. ‘Bro, I think
     you may have to accept that Fate has just blown this particular date out of the
     water.’
    Paul shoves his hands deep in his pockets.
     ‘I liked her.’
    Greg glances sideways at him. ‘What?
     As in really liked her?’
    ‘Yeah. She … she got under
     my skin.’
    His brother studies his face. ‘Okay.
     Well, this has just gotten interesting … 
Pirate. Here!
Oh, man.
     There’s the Vizsla. I hate that dog. Did you speak to your boss about
     it?
’
    ‘Yeah. Because Janey would definitely
     want to talk to me about some other woman. No. I just checked with our lawyer about the
     strength of the case. He seems to think we would win.’
    There’s no time bar on these
     cases, Paul
,
Sean had said, barely looking up from his papers
. You
     know that.
    ‘So what are you going to do?’
     Greg clips his dog back on to the lead and stands there, waiting.
    ‘Not a lot I can do. The picture has
     to go back to its rightful owners. I’m not sure how well she’s going to take
     that.’
    ‘She might be okay. You never
     know.’ Greg strides over the grass towards where Pirate is running around, yapping
     dementedly at the sky, warning it to come no closer. ‘Hey, if she’s broke
     and there’s proper money involved, you may actually be doing her a favour.’
     He starts to run and his last words fly over his shoulder on the breeze. ‘And she
     might feel the same way about you and just not give a shit about anything else.
     You’ve got to keep in mind, bro,