'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 crepy skin, and turns away to the washing-up. 'You know what, Dad? I'm not really the person to ask.'
13
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.
The woman, woollen hat rammed low over her head despite the heat, nods a greeting. She is digging around in a plastic bag. She has an endless collection of them, tied with twine or stuffed inside each other, which she endlessly sorts and rearranges. Today she has moved her two boxes, covered with a blue tarpaulin, to the relative shelter of the caretaker's door. The previous caretaker tolerated Fran for years, even using her as an unofficial parcel stop. The new one, she says, when Liv brings her down a coffee, keeps threatening to move her. Some residents have complained that she is lowering the tone. 'You had a visitor.'
'What? Oh. What time did she go?' Liv had not left out either a note or a key. She wonders whether she should stop by the restaurant later to make sure Mo is okay. Even as she thinks it, she knows she won't. She feels vaguely relieved at the prospect of a silent, empty house.
Fran shrugs.
'You want a drink?' Liv says, as she opens the door.
'Tea would be lovely,' Fran says, adding, 'Three sugars, please,' as if Liv has never made her one before. And then, with the preoccupied air of someone who has far too much to do to stand around talking, she goes back to her bags.
She smells the smoke even as she opens the door. Mo is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the glass coffee-table, one hand around a paperback book, the other resting a cigarette against a white saucer.
'Hi,' she says, not looking up.
Liv stares at her, her key in her hand. 'I - I thought you'd left. Fran said you'd gone.'
'Oh. The lady downstairs? Yeah. I just got back.'
'Back from where?'
'My day shift.'
'You work a day shift?'
'At a care home. Hope I didn't disturb you this morning. I tried to leave quietly. I thought the whole desk-drawer thing might wake you. Getting up at six kind of kills the whole "welcome houseguest" vibe.'
'Desk-drawer thing?'
'You didn't leave a key.'
Liv frowns. She feels as if she is two steps behind in this conversation. Mo puts her book down and speaks slowly. 'I had to have a little dig around till I found the spare key in your desk drawer.'
'You went in my desk drawer?'
'It seemed like the most obvious place.' She turns a page. 'It's okay. I put it back.' She adds, under her breath, 'Man, you like stuff tidy.'
She returns to her book. David's book, Liv sees, checking out the spine. It is a battered Penguin Introduction to Modern Architecture, one of his favourites. She can still picture him reading it, stretched out on the sofa. Seeing it in someone else's hands makes her stomach tighten with anxiety. Liv puts her bag down, and walks through to the kitchen.
The granite worktops are covered with toast crumbs. Two mugs sit on the table, brown rings bisecting their insides. By the toaster, a bag of sliced white bread sits collapsed and half open. A used teabag squats on the side of the sink and a knife emerges from a pat of unsalted butter, like the chest of a murder victim.
Liv stands there for a moment, then begins to tidy, sweeping
the detritus into the kitchen bin, loading cups and plates into the dishwasher. She presses the button to draw back the ceiling shutters, and when they are fully open, she presses the button that will open the glass roof, waving her hands to get rid of the lingering smell of smoke.
She turns to find Mo standing in the doorway. 'You can't smoke in here. You just can't,' she says. There is a weird edge of panic to her voice.
'Oh. Sure. I didn't realize you had a deck.'
'No. Not on the deck either. Please. Just don't smoke here.'
Mo glances at the work surface, at Liv's frantic tidying. 'Hey - I'll do that before I leave. Really.'
'It's fine.'
'It obviously isn't, or you wouldn't be having a heart attack. Look. Stop. I'll clean up my own mess. Really.'
Liv stops. She knows she is overreacting, but she can't help it. She just wants Mo gone. 'I've got to take Fran a cup of tea,' she says.
Her blood thumps in her ears the whole way down to the ground floor.
When she gets back the kitchen is tidy. Mo moves quietly around the space. 'I'm probably a bit lazy when it comes to clearing up straight away,' she says, as Liv walks back in. 'It's the whole clearing-up-at-work thing. Old people, guests at restaurants ... You do so much of it in the day, you kind of rebel against it at home.'
Liv tries not to bristle at her use of the word. It is then she becomes aware of the other smell, under the smoke. And the oven light is on.
She bends down to peer inside it and sees her Le Creuset dish, its surface bubbling with something cheesy.
'I made some supper. Pasta bake. I just threw together what I could get from the corner shop. It'll be ready in about ten minutes. I was going to have mine later, but seeing as you're here ...'
Liv cannot remember the last time she even turned the oven on.
'Oh,' says Mo, reaching for the oven gloves. 'And someone rang from the council.'
'What?'
'Yeah. Something about council tax.'
Liv's insides turn briefly to water.
'I said I was you, so he told me how much you owe. It's quite a lot.' She hands her a piece of paper with a figure scribbled on it.
As Liv's mouth opens to protest, she says, 'Well, I had to make sure he had the right person. I thought he must have made a mistake.'
She had known roughly how much it would be, but seeing it in print is still a shock. She feels Mo's eyes on her and, in her uncharacteristically long silence, she knows that Mo has guessed the truth.