The Girl You Left Behind (22 page)

She no longer sees the friends she had back
then, the Cherrys, the Jasmines. The women who would remember the girl she had been. It
was too complicated to explain. And she didn’t particularly like what it said
about her.

‘Well, I think you should meet her
before she goes. I used to love watching the two of you head out together, pair of young
goddesses that you were.’

‘When are you going to call
Caroline?’ she says, wiping crumbs from the stripped-pine kitchen table and
scrubbing at a ring of red wine.

‘She won’t talk to me. I left
fourteen messages on her mobile phone last night.’

‘You need to stop sleeping with other
people, Dad.’

‘I know.’

‘And you need to earn some
money.’

‘I know.’

‘And you need to get dressed. If I
were her and came home and saw you like this I’d turn around and walk straight out
again.’

‘I’m wearing her
dressing-gown.’

‘I guessed.’

‘It still carries her scent.’ He
inhales Caroline’s sleeve, an expression of deep tragedy across his face, and his
eyes fill with tears. ‘What am I supposed to do if she doesn’t come
back?’

Liv stills, her expression hardening
momentarily. She wonders if her father has any idea what day it is today. Then she looks
at the battered man in his women’s dressing-gown, the way his blue veins stand
proud on his crêpy skin, and turns away to the washing-up. ‘You know what, Dad?
I’m not really the person to ask.’

The old man lowers himself gingerly into
the chair and lets out a sigh, as if crossing the room has been some effort. His son,
standing with his hand under his elbow, watches anxiously.

Paul McCafferty waits, then glances at
Miriam, his secretary. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ she asks.

The old man gives a small shake of his head.
‘No, thank you.’ The way he looks up says,
Let’s just get on,
shall we?

‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Miriam backs out of the little office.

Paul opens his folder. He lays his hands on
the desk, feeling Mr Nowicki’s eyes on him. ‘Well, I asked you here today
because I have some news. When you initially approached me I warned you that I thought
this case would be tricky because of the lack of provenance on your side. As you know,
many galleries are reluctant to hand over work without the most solid proof of
–’

‘I remember the painting
clearly.’ The old man lifts a hand.

‘I know. And you know that the gallery
in question was very reluctant to engage with us, despite the holes in their own
provenance. This case was complicated by the sharp increase in value of the work in
question. And it was particularly hard, given that you had no image we could go
on.’

‘How am I meant to describe such a
drawing perfectly?
I was ten when we were forced from our house – ten
years old. Could you tell me what was on your parents’ walls when you were
ten?’

‘No, Mr Nowicki, I
couldn’t.’

‘Were we meant to know then we would
never be allowed to go back to our own home? It is ridiculous, this system. Why should I
have to prove that something was stolen from us? After all we have been
through …’

‘Dad, we’ve been over
this …’ The son, Jason, places a hand on his father’s forearm, and the
old man’s lips press together reluctantly, as if he is used to being quelled.

‘This is what I wanted to talk to you
about,’ Paul says. ‘I did warn you that we didn’t have the strongest
case. When we had our meeting in January, you said something to me about your
mother’s friendship with a neighbour, Artur Bohmann, who moved to
America.’

‘Yes. They were good neighbours. I
know he had seen the painting in our house. He visited us many times. I played ball with
his daughter … but he died. I told you he died.’

‘Well, I managed to track down his
surviving family, in Des Moines. And his granddaughter, Anne-Marie, went through the
family albums and tucked away in one of them she found this.’ Paul pulls a sheet
of paper from his folder and slides it across the desk to Mr Nowicki.

It is not a perfect copy, but the
black-and-white image is clearly visible. A family sits in the stiff embrace of a
tightly upholstered sofa. A woman smiles cautiously, holding a button-eyed baby firmly
on her lap. A man with a vast moustache reclines, his arm running along the back. A boy
grins broadly, a missing tooth clearly visible.
Behind them, on the
wall, hangs a painting of a young girl dancing.

‘That’s it,’ Mr Nowicki
says quietly, an arthritic hand rising to his mouth. ‘The Degas.’

‘I checked it against the image bank,
then with the Edgar Degas Foundation. I sent this picture to their lawyers, along with a
statement from Artur Bohmann’s daughter, saying that she, too, remembered seeing
this painting in your parents’ house, and hearing your father discuss how he
bought it.’

He pauses. ‘But that’s not all
Anne-Marie remembers. She says that after your parents fled, Artur Bohmann had gone one
night to the apartment to try to collect your family’s remaining valuables. He
told his wife, Anne-Marie’s grandmother, that when he arrived he believed
he’d got there in time as the apartment seemed undisturbed. It was only as he was
leaving that he saw the painting was missing.

‘She says that because nothing else
was disturbed he had always assumed your family had taken it with them. And then, of
course, because you only corresponded with each other some years later, the matter never
arose.’

‘No,’ the old man says, staring
at the image. ‘No. We had nothing. Just my mother’s wedding and engagement
rings.’ His eyes fill with tears.

‘It is possible that the Nazis had
earmarked the painting. There is evidence of systematic removal of important works of
art during the Nazi period.’

‘It was Mr Dreschler. He told them. I
always knew he told them. And he called my father his friend!’ His hands tremble
on his knees. It is not an unusual response, despite
the more than
sixty years that have elapsed. Many of the claimants Paul sees can recall images and
events from the 1940s far more clearly than they can remember how they arrived at his
office.

‘Yes, well, we’ve looked into Mr
Dreschler’s records, and there are a number of unexplained trades with the Germans
– one that refers simply to a Degas. It’s not clear which Degas but the dates and
the fact that there can’t have been many in your area at the time does add weight
to your argument.’

He turns slowly to face his son.
You
see?
his expression says.

‘Well, Mr Nowicki, last night I had a
response from the gallery. Do you want me to read it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dear Mr McCafferty,

In light of the new evidence provided, and our own gaps in provenance, as well
as our discovery of the extent of the suffering endured by Mr Nowicki’s
family, we have decided not to contest the claim for “Femme,
dansant” by Degas. The trustees of the gallery have instructed their
lawyers not to proceed further, and we await your instructions with regards the
transfer of the physical item.’

Paul waits.

The old man seems lost in thought. Finally
he looks up. ‘They are giving it back?’

He nods. He cannot keep the smile from his
face. It has been a long and testing case, and its resolution has been gratifyingly
swift.

‘They are really giving it back to us?
They agree that it was stolen from us?’

‘You have only to let them know where
you want it sent.’

There is a long silence. Jason Nowicki tears
his gaze from his father. He lifts the heels of his hands and wipes tears from his
eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘I don’t know why …’

‘It’s not unusual.’ Paul
pulls a box of tissues from under his desk and hands it to him. ‘These cases are
always emotional. It’s never just a painting.’

‘It’s been such a long time
coming. The loss of that Degas has been like a constant reminder of what my father, my
grandparents suffered in the war. And I 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-ride
suspension. 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 that
Germans 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 central London.
All those
Ideal Home
type features do. They don’t want to encourage
burglars by giving the exact address. But I’m guessing it shouldn’t be too
hard to trace them – it names the couple after all.’

Paul shuts the folder. He keeps seeing Mr
Nowicki’s tight mouth, the way the son had looked at his father as if he’d
never seen him before. ‘You’re American, yes?’ the old man had said to
him, as they stood at his office door. ‘You cannot possibly understand.’

Janey’s hand is resting lightly on his
arm. ‘How’s the house hunting going?’

‘Not great. Everything good seems to
get snapped up by cash buyers.’

‘Well, if you want cheering up, we
could go and get a bite to eat. I’m not doing anything tonight.’

Paul raises a smile. He tries not to notice
the way Janey’s hand moves to her hair, the painfully hopeful slant to her smile.
He steps away. ‘I’m working late. Got a couple of cases I want to get on top
of. But thanks. I’ll get on to the new file first thing in the morning.’

Liv arrives home at five, having cooked her
father a meal and vacuumed the ground floor of his house. Caroline rarely vacuums, and
the colours of the faded Persian runners had been noticeably more vivid when she
finished. Around her, the city seethes on a warm late summer day, the traffic noises
filtering up, with the smell of diesel rising from the tarmac.

‘Hey, Fran,’ she says, as she
reaches the main door.