‘Your Honour, we would suggest that this – and Liesl’s failure to give her last name – is pretty clear evidence of somebody trying to disguise or even destroy any sign of where the painting had come from. Well, she certainly succeeded.’

As he pauses, a member of his legal team crosses the court and hands him a piece of paper. He reads it and takes a breath. His eyes scan the courtroom.

‘German census records we have just obtained show that Sophie Lefèvre contracted Spanish influenza shortly after she arrived at the camps at Ströhen. She died there shortly afterwards.’

Liv hears his words through a buzzing in her ears. They vibrate within her, like the aftershock of a physical blow.

‘Your Honour, as we have heard in this court, a great injustice was done to Sophie. And a great injustice has been done to her descendants. Her husband, her dignity, her freedom and ultimately her life were taken from her. Stolen. What remained – her image – was, according to all the evidence, taken from her family by the very man who had done her the greatest wrong.

‘There is only one way to redress this wrong, belated as it might be – the painting must be returned to the Lefèvre family.’

She barely takes in the rest of his words. Paul sits with his forehead in his palms. She looks over at Janey Dickinson, and when the woman meets her eye, she realizes with a faint shock that for some other participants, too, this case is no longer just about a painting.

Even Henry is downcast when they leave the court. Liv feels as if they have all been run over by a juggernaut.

Sophie died in the camps. Sick and alone. Never seeing her husband again.

She looks at the smiling Lefèvres across the court, wanting to feel generous towards them. Wanting to feel as if some great wrong is about to be righted. But she recalls Philippe Bessette’s words, the fact that the family had banned even the mention of her name. She feels as if, for a second time, Sophie is about to be handed over to the enemy. She feels, weirdly, bereaved.

‘Look, who knows what the judge will decide,’ Henry says, as he sees her to the rear security area. ‘Try not to dwell on it too much over the weekend. There’s nothing more we can do now.’

She tries to smile at him. ‘Thanks, Henry,’ she says. ‘I’ll – call you.’

It feels strange out here, in the wintry sunlight, as if they have spent much longer than an afternoon in the confines of the court. She feels as if she has come here straight from 1945. Henry hails a taxi for her, then leaves, nodding farewell. It is then that she sees him, standing at the security gate. He looks as if he has been waiting there for her, and walks straight over.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his face grim.

‘Paul, don’t –’

‘I really thought – I’m sorry for everything.’

His eyes meet hers, one final time, and he walks away, blind to the customers exiting the Seven Stars pub, the legal assistants dragging their trolleys of files. She sees the stoop to his shoulders, the uncharacteristic dip of his head and it is this, on top of everything else that has happened today, that finally settles something for her.

‘Paul!’ She has to yell twice to be heard over the sound of the traffic. ‘Paul!’

He turns. She can see the points of his irises even from here.

‘I know.’ He stands very still for a minute, a tall man, a little broken, in a good suit. ‘I know. Thank you … for trying.’

Sometimes life is a series of obstacles, a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, she realizes suddenly, it is simply a matter of blind faith. ‘Would you … would you like to go for that drink some time?’ She swallows. ‘Now, even?’

He glances at his shoes, thinking, then up at her again. ‘Would you give me one minute?’

He walks back up the steps of the court. She sees Janey Dickinson deep in conversation with her lawyer. Paul touches her elbow, and there is a brief exchange of words. She feels anxious – a little voice nagging: What is he telling her now? – and she turns away, climbing into the taxi, trying to quell it. When she looks up again through the window, he is walking briskly back down the steps, winding a scarf around his neck. Janey Dickinson is staring at the taxi, her files limp in her arms.

He opens the door, and climbs in, slamming it shut. ‘I quit,’ he says. He lets out a breath, reaches over for her hand. ‘Right. Where are we going?’

32

Greg’s face betrays nothing as he answers the door. ‘Hello again, Miss Liv,’ he says, as if her appearance on the doorstep is entirely to be expected. He steps back into the hallway as Paul peels her coat from her shoulders, shushing the dogs, which rush to greet her. ‘I’ve ruined the risotto, but Jake says it doesn’t matter as he doesn’t like mushrooms anyway. So we’re thinking maybe pizza.’

‘Pizza sounds great. And my treat,’ says Paul. ‘It may be our last for a while.’

They had held hands in stunned silence halfway down Fleet Street. ‘I lost you your job,’ she’d said finally. ‘And your big bonus. And your chance to buy a bigger flat for your son.’

He had gazed straight ahead of him. ‘You didn’t lose me any of it. I walked.’

Greg raises an eyebrow. ‘A bottle of red has been open in the kitchen since around half past four. This has nothing whatsoever to do with me looking after my nephew for the day. Does it, Jake?’

‘Greg says it’s always wine o’clock in this house,’ a boy’s voice calls from the other room.