‘The case starts tomorrow,’ he says, when she still doesn’t speak. He can’t stop looking at her.

‘I know.’

‘We’re not meant to talk to each other.’

‘No.’

‘We could both get in a lot of trouble.’

He stands there, waiting. Her expression is so tense, framed by the collar of her thick black coat, her eyes flickering as if a million conversations are taking place inside her that he cannot know. He begins an apology. But she speaks first.

‘Look. I know this probably doesn’t make any sense, but could we possibly forget about the case? Just for one evening?’ Her voice is too vulnerable. ‘Could we just be two people again?’

It is the slight catch in her voice that breaks him. Paul McCafferty makes as if to speak, then leans forward and picks up her suitcase, dragging it into the hallway. Before either of them can change their mind, he pulls her to him, wraps his arms tightly around her and stays there until the outside world goes away.

‘Hey, sleepyhead.’

She pushes herself upright, slowly registering where she is. Paul is sitting on the bed, pouring coffee into a mug. He hands it to her. He seems astonishingly awake. The clock says 6:32 a.m. ‘I brought you some toast too. I thought you might want time to go home before …’

Before …

The case. She takes a moment to let this thought penetrate. He waits while she rubs her eyes, then leans over and kisses her lightly. He has brushed his teeth, she notes, and feels briefly self-conscious that she hasn’t.

‘I didn’t know what you wanted on your toast. I hope jam’s okay.’ He picks it off the tray. ‘Jake’s choice. Ninety-eight per cent sugar or something.’

‘Thank you.’ She blinks at the plate on her lap. She cannot remember the last time anybody brought her breakfast in bed.

They gaze at each other. Oh, my, she thinks, remembering the previous night. All other thoughts disappear. And, as if he can read her mind, Paul’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

‘Are you … coming back in?’ she says.

He shifts over to her, so that his legs, warm and solid, are entwined in hers. She moves so that he can place his arm around her shoulders, then leans into him and closes her eyes, just relishing the feel of it. He smells warm and sleepy. She just wants to rest her face against his skin and stay there, breathing him in until her lungs are entirely full of tiny molecules of Paul. She has a sudden recollection of a boy she dated as a teenager; she had adored him. When they had finally kissed, she had been shocked to find that his skin, his hair, all of him, had smelt wrong. It was as if some fundamental part of him was chemically composed to repel her. Paul’s skin – she could just lie there and inhale it, like really good scent.

‘You okay?’

‘Better than okay,’ she says. She takes a sip of coffee.

‘I have a new love for Sunday evenings. I can’t imagine why.’

‘Sunday evenings are definitely underrated.’

‘As are unexpected visitors. I was a little worried you were Jehovah’s Witnesses.’ He thinks. ‘Although if Jehovah’s Witnesses did what you did last night I’m guessing they’d get a lot better reception.’

‘You should tell them.’

‘I may just do that.’

There is a long silence. They listen to the dustcart reversing outside, the muffled clash of the bins, eating toast in companionable silence.

‘I missed you, Liv,’ he says.

She tilts her head and rests against him. Outside, two people are talking loudly in Italian. Her muscles ache pleasurably, as if she has let go of some long-held tension that she had barely been aware of. She feels like someone she had forgotten. She wonders what Mo would say about this, then smiles when she realizes she knows the answer.

And then Paul’s voice breaks into the silence: ‘Liv – I’m afraid this case is going to bankrupt you.’

She stares at her mug of coffee.

‘Liv?’

‘I don’t want to talk about the case.’

‘I’m not going to talk about it in any … detail. I just have to tell you I’m worried.’

She tries to smile. ‘Well, don’t be. You haven’t won yet.’

‘Even if you win. It’s a lot of money on legal fees. I’ve been here a few times so I have a good idea what it’s costing you.’ He puts down his mug, takes her hand in his. ‘Look. Last week I talked to the Lefèvre family in private. My fellow director, Janey, doesn’t even know about it. I explained a little of your situation, told them how much you love the painting, how unwilling you are to let her go. And I got them to agree to offer you a proper settlement. A serious settlement, a good six figures. It would cover your legal fees so far and then some.’

Liv stares at their hands, her own enfolded in his. Her mood evaporates. ‘Are you … trying to persuade me to back down?’

‘Not for the reasons you think.’

‘What does that mean?’

He gazes ahead of him. ‘I found stuff.’

Some part of her grows very still. ‘In France?’

He compresses his mouth as if trying to work out how much to tell her. ‘I found an old newspaper article, written by the American journalist who owned your painting. She talks about how she was given your painting from a store of stolen artwork near Dachau.’

‘So?’

‘So these works were all stolen. Which would lend weight to our case that the painting was obtained illegally and taken into German possession.’