‘Not necessarily.’

She digests this. ‘Well, what are we talking – five figures?’

‘I would bank on six. It depends on their firepower. But they do have precedent on their side.’ Henry shrugs. ‘We can prove that you have good title. But there do seem to be gaps in this painting’s history, as it stands, and if they have evidence that it was removed in wartime, then …’

‘Six figures?’ she says, standing and pacing around the room. ‘I can’t believe this. I can’t believe someone can just walk into my life and demand to take something that belongs to me. Something I’ve owned for ever.’

‘Their case is far from watertight. But I have to point out that the political climate is in favour of claimants at the moment. Sotheby’s sold thirty-eight such works last year. It sold none a decade earlier.’

She feels electrified, her nerve endings still jangling from the encounter. ‘He’s – they’re not having her,’ she says.

‘But the money. You implied you were stretched already.’

‘I’ll remortgage,’ she says. ‘Is there anything I can do to keep the costs down?’

Henry leans over his desk. ‘If you choose to fight this, there’s a lot you can do. Most importantly, the more you can find out about the painting’s provenance, the stronger position we’ll be in. Otherwise I have to put someone here on to it, and charge you an hourly rate, and that’s without the cost of expert witnesses once we go to court. I suggest that if you can do that we’ll see where we are and I’ll look into instructing a barrister.’

‘I’ll start the search.’

She keeps hearing the certainty of their voices. Our case is very strong. We have a body of precedent that lends weight to our cause. She sees Paul’s face, his fake concern: It is in everybody’s interests for this to be settled amicably.

She sips the whisky, and deflates a little. She feels suddenly very alone. ‘Henry, what would you do? If it were you, I mean.’

He presses his fingertips together and rests them against his nose. ‘I think this is a terribly unfair situation. But, Liv, I would personally be cautious about proceeding to court. These cases can get … ugly. It might be worth your while just thinking further about whether there is any way you could settle.’

She keeps seeing Paul’s face. ‘No,’ she says baldly. ‘He is not having her.’

‘Even if –’

‘No.’

She feels his eyes on her as she gathers up her things and leaves the room.

Paul dials the number for the fourth time, rests his finger above the dial button, then changes his mind and sticks his telephone in his back pocket. Across the road a man in a suit is arguing with a traffic warden, gesticulating wildly as the warden gazes at him impassively.

‘Are you coming for lunch?’ Janey appears at the door. ‘The table is booked for one thirty.’

She must have just applied perfume. It punctures the air, even on his side of his desk. ‘You really need me there?’ He is not in the mood for small talk. He doesn’t want to be charming, to detail the company’s astonishing track record in recovery. He doesn’t want to find himself seated beside Janey, to feel her leaning against him as she laughs, her knee gravitating towards his. More pertinently, he does not like André Lefèvre, with his suspicious eyes and his downturned mouth. He has rarely taken such an instant dislike to a client.

‘Can I ask when you first realized the painting was missing?’ he had asked.

‘We discover it through an audit.’

‘So you didn’t miss it personally?’

‘Personally?’ He had shrugged at the use of the word. ‘Why should someone else benefit financially from a work that should be in our possession?’

‘You don’t want to come? Why?’ says Janey. ‘What else have you got on?’

‘I thought I’d catch up with some paperwork.’

Janey lets her gaze rest on him. She is wearing lipstick. And heels. She does have good legs, he thinks absently.

‘We need this case, Paul. And we need to give André the confidence that we’re going to win.’

‘In that case I think my time would be better spent doing background than having lunch with him.’ He doesn’t look at her. His jaw seems to have set at a mulish angle. He’s been sour with everyone all week. ‘Take Miriam,’ he says. ‘She deserves a nice lunch.’

‘I don’t think our budget stretches to treating secretaries as and when we feel like it.’

‘I don’t see why not. And Lefèvre might like her. Miriam? Miriam?’ He keeps his gaze steadily on Janey’s, leans back in his chair.

She pokes her head around the door, her mouth half full of tuna sandwich. ‘Yes?’

‘Would you like to take my place at a lunch with Monsieur Lefèvre?’

‘Paul, we –’ Janey’s jaw clenches.

Miriam glances between the two of them. She swallows her mouthful. ‘That’s very kind. But …’

‘But Miriam has a sandwich. And contracts to type up. Thank you, Miriam.’ She waits until the door closes, purses her lips in thought. ‘Is everything all right, Paul?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Well.’ She cannot keep the edge from her voice. ‘I see I can’t persuade you. I’ll look forward to hearing what you’ve turned up on the case. I’m sure it’ll be conclusive.’