‘Miriam?’ Paul stands, offers her his chair, but she refuses.

‘Really,’ she says. ‘I’m fine.’ She keeps nodding, as if to confirm this to herself.

‘You’re falling into Unresolved Disputes 1996,’ he says. He wants to add: And I can see halfway up your skirt.

‘Really, I’m quite comfortable.’

‘Miriam. Honestly, I can just –’

‘Miriam’s fine, Paul. Really.’ Janey adjusts her spectacles on her nose.

‘Oh, yes. I’m very comfortable here.’ She keeps nodding until he looks away. It makes him feel bad.

‘So that’s where we are, as far as the staffing and office issues stand. Where are we all at?’

Sean, the lawyer, begins to run through his upcoming schedule; an approach to the Spanish government to return a looted Velázquez to a private collector, two outstanding sculpture recoveries, a possible legal change to restitution claims. Paul leans back in his chair and rests his ballpoint against his pad.

And she’s there again, smiling ruefully. Her burst of unexpected laughter. The sadness in tiny lines around her eyes. I was great at drunk sex. Really. I was.

He doesn’t want to admit to himself how disappointed he had been when he emerged from the bathroom that morning to find she’d simply let herself out. His son’s duvet had been straightened, and there was just an absence where the girl had been. No scribbled message. No phone number. Nothing.

‘Is she a regular?’ he had asked Greg, casually, on the phone that evening.

‘Nope. Not seen her before. Sorry to land you with her like that, bro.’

‘No problem,’ he had said. He hadn’t bothered to tell Greg to watch out in case she came back. Something told him she wouldn’t.

‘Paul?’

He drags his thoughts back to the A4 pad in front of him. ‘Um … Well, as you know, we got the Nowicki painting returned. That’s headed for auction. Which is obviously – um – rewarding.’ He ignores Janey’s warning glance. ‘And coming up this month I’ve got a meeting about the statuette collection from Bonhams, a trace on a Lowry that’s been stolen from a stately home in Ayrshire and …’ He leafs through his papers. ‘This French work that was looted in the First World War and turned up in some architect’s house in London. I’m guessing, given the value, they won’t give it up without a bit of a fight. But it looks fairly clear cut, if we can establish it really was stolen initially. Sean, you might want to dig out any legal precedent on First World War stuff, just in case.’

Sean scribbles a note.

‘Apart from that, I’ve just got the other cases from last month that I’m carrying forward, and I’m talking to some insurers about whether we want to get involved with a new fine art register.’

‘Another?’ says Janey.

‘It’s the scaling down of the Art and Antiques Squad,’ Paul said. ‘The insurers are getting nervous.’

‘Might be good news for us, though. Where are we on the Stubbs?’

He clicks the end of his pen. ‘Deadlock.’

‘Sean?’

‘It’s a tricky one. I’ve been looking up precedent, but it may well go to trial.’

Janey nods, then glances up as Paul’s mobile phone rings. ‘Sorry,’ he says, and wrenches it from his pocket. He stares at the name. ‘Actually, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should take this. Sherrie. Hi.’

He feels Janey’s eyes burning into his back as he steps carefully over his colleagues’ legs and into his office. He closes the door behind him. ‘You did? … Her name? Liv. Nope, that’s all I got … There is? Can you describe it? … Yup – that sounds like her. Mid-brown hair, maybe blonde, shoulder length. Wearing it in a ponytail? … Phone, wallet – don’t know what else. No address? … No, I don’t. Sure – Sherrie, do me a favour? Can I pick it up?’

He stares out of the window.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. I just realized – I think I’ve worked out how to get it back to her.’

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Liv?’

‘No.’

He pauses. ‘Um … is she there?’

‘Are you a bailiff?’

‘No.’

‘Well, she’s not here.’

‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

‘Are you sure you’re not a bailiff?’

‘I am definitely 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 has found 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.’