by Jojo Moyes
'No. They just want the painting.'
Marianne Andrews shakes her head. 'I bet they do.' She uncrosses her knees, wincing as if it causes her discomfort. 'I think this whole case stinks. I don't like the way my mom's name is being dragged through the mud. Or Mr Halston's. He loved that painting.'
Paul looks down at the cat. 'It is just possible Mr Halston had a good idea of what it was really worth.'
'With respect, Mr McCafferty, you weren't there. If you're trying to imply that I should feel cheated, you're talking to the wrong woman.'
'You really don't care about its value?'
'I suspect you and I have different definitions of the word "value".'
The cat looks up at him, its eyes greedy and faintly antagonistic at the same time.
Marianne Andrews stubs out her cigarette. 'And I feel plain sick about poor Olivia Halston.'
He hesitates, and then he says softly, 'Yeah. Me too.'
She raises an eyebrow.
He sighs. 'This case is ... tricky.'
'Not too tricky to chase the poor girl to bankruptcy?'
'Just doing my job, Ms Andrews.'
'Yeah. I think Mom heard that phrase a few times too.'
It is said gently, but it brings colour to his cheeks.
She looks at him, for a minute, then suddenly lets out a great hah!, frightening the cat, which leaps off his lap. 'Oh, for goodness' sakes. Do you want something a bit stronger? Because I could do with a real drink. I'm sure that sun is somewhere near the yardarm.' She gets up and walks over to a cocktail cabinet. 'Bourbon?'
'Thanks.'
He tells her then, the bourbon in his hand, the accent of his homeland in his ears, his words coming out in fits and starts, as if they had not expected to break the silence. His story starts with a stolen handbag and ends with an all-too-abrupt goodbye outside a courtroom. New parts of it emerge, without his awareness. His unexpected happiness around her, his guilt, this permanent bad temper that seems to have grown around him, like bark. He doesn't know why he should unburden himself to this woman. He doesn't know why he expects her, of all people, to understand.
But Marianne Andrews listens, her generous features grimacing in sympathy. 'Well, that's some mess you've got yourself into, Mr McCafferty.'
'Yeah. I get that.'
She lights another cigarette, scolds the cat, which is yowling plaintively for food in the open-plan kitchen. 'Honey, I have no answers for you. Either you're going to break her heart by taking that painting or she's going to break yours by losing you your job.'
'Or we forget the whole thing.'
'And break both your hearts.'
Her words lay it bare. They sit there in silence. Outside the air is thick with the sound of barely moving traffic.
Paul sips his drink, thinking. 'Ms Andrews, did your mother keep her notebooks? Her reporting notebooks?'
Marianne Andrews looks up. 'I did bring them back from Barcelona but I'm afraid I had to throw a lot out. They'd been eaten to nothing by termites. One of the shrunken heads too. Perils of a brief marriage in Florida. Although ...' She stands up, using her long arms for leverage. 'You've made me think of something. I may still have a bunch of her old journals in the hall cupboards.'
'Journals?'
'Diaries. Whatever. Oh, I had a crazy idea that someone might want to write her biography one day. She did so many interesting things. Maybe one of my grandchildren. I'm almost sure there's a box of her cuttings and some journals out there. Let me get the key and we'll go have a look.'
Paul follows Marianne Andrews out into the communal hallway. Breathing laboriously, she leads him down two flights to where the stairs are no longer carpeted, and a tranche of bicycles lines the walls.
'Our apartments are pretty small,' Marianne Andrews says, waiting as Paul pulls open a heavy fire door, 'so some of us rent spare caretaker's cupboards. They're like gold dust. Mr Chua next door offered me four thousand pounds to take over the lease for this one last year. Four thousand! I told him he'd have to treble it, and then some.'
They come to a tall blue door. She checks through her ring of keys, muttering to herself until she finds the one she wants. 'Here,' she says, flicking a switch. Inside the dim light bulb reveals a long dark cupboard. One side is lined with metal garage shelves, and the floor is thick with cardboard boxes, piles of books, an old lamp. It smells of old newspapers and jars of beeswax.
'I should really clear it all out.' Marianne sighs, wrinkling her nose. 'But somehow there's always something more interesting to do.'
'You want me to get anything down?'
Marianne hugs herself. 'You know what, honey? Would you mind very much if I left you to dig around? All the dust aggravates my asthma. There's nothing there of any value. You just lock up and give me a shout if you find anything. Oh, and if you find a teal blue handbag with a gold clasp, bring that up. I'd love to know where it disappeared to.'
Paul spends an hour in the cramped cupboard, moving boxes out into the dimly lit hallway when he suspects they might be useful, piling them up against the wall. There are newspapers dating back to 1941, their pages yellowed and corners missing. The tiny windowless room is like a Tardis. Its contents pile up in the hallway as it empties - suitcases full of old maps, a globe, hatboxes, moth-eaten fur coats, another leathery shrunken head, grimacing at him with its four oversized teeth. He stacks them all against the wall, covering the head with a tapestry cushion cover. Dust coats his hands, settles into the creases of his face. There are magazines with New Look skirts, pictures of the Coronation, reel-to-reel tapes. He takes them out, placing them on the floor beside him. His clothes become grey with dirt, his eyes gritty. He finds a handful of notebooks, helpfully dated on the front covers: 1968, Nov. 1969, 1971. He reads about the plight of striking firemen in New Jersey, the trials of the President. Occasionally there are notes scrawled in the margins: 'Dean! Dance Friday 7 p.m.' or 'Tell Mike that Frankie called'. There is nothing relevant to wartime, or to the painting.
He works methodically through each box, checking between the leaves of every book, scanning the contents of every folder. He opens every box and crate, piling its contents up and then replacing them neatly. An old stereo, two boxes of old books, a hatbox of souvenirs. It is eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, half past. He looks down at his watch, realizing it's hopeless.
Paul straightens, dusting his hands on his trousers, keen to escape the airless, cluttered space. He longs suddenly for the bare whiteness of Liv's house, its clean lines, its airiness.
He has emptied the whole thing. Wherever the truth is to be found, it's not in this overstuffed cupboard just north of the A40. And then, near the back, he spies the strap of an old leather satchel, dried out and snapped in two, like a thin slice of beef jerky.
He reaches under the shelving system and pulls at it.
He sneezes twice, wipes his eyes, then lifts the flap. Inside are six hardbound A4 exercise books. He opens one, and sees the intricate copperplate handwriting on the first page. His eyes flick up to the date. 1941. He opens another: 1944. He races through them, dropping each in his haste to find it - and there it is, the second to last: 1945.
He stumbles out into the hall, where the light is brighter, and leafs through the pages under the neon strip-light.
30 April 1945
Well, today sure didn't turn out like I expected. Four days ago, Lt Col Danes had told me I could go into Konzentrationslager Dachau ...
Paul reads on for a few more lines, and curses twice, with increasing vehemence. He stands immobile, the weight of what he is holding becoming more significant with every second. He flicks through the pages and curses again.
His mind races. He could stuff this back into the far corner of the cupboard, go back to Marianne Andrews right now, tell her he had found nothing. He could win his case, collect his bonus. He could give Sophie Lefevre to her legal owners.
Or ...
He sees Liv, head down, battered by a tide of public opinion, the
harsh words of strangers, impending financial ruin. He sees her bracing her shoulders, her ponytail askew, as she walks into another day in court.
He sees her slow smile of pleasure the first time they had kissed.
If you do this, you cannot go back.
Paul McCafferty drops the book and the satchel beside his jacket and starts stacking the boxes inside the cupboard.
She appears at the doorway as he clears the last of the boxes away, sweating and dusty after his exertions. She is smoking a cigarette in a long holder, like a 1920s flapper. 'Goodness - I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you.'
He straightens, wipes his brow. 'I found this.' He lifts the teal blue handbag.
'You did? Oh, you're a darling!' She claps her hands together, takes it from him and smoothes it lovingly. 'I was so afraid I'd left it somewhere. I'm such a clutterbrain. Thank you. Thank you so much. Heaven knows how you found it in all this chaos.'
'I found something else too.'
Her gaze slides upwards.
'You mind if I borrow these?' He holds up the satchel with the journals in it.
'Is that what I think it is? What do they say?'
'They say ...' he takes a breath, exhales '... that the painting was indeed gifted to your mother.'
'I told you all!' Marianne Andrews exclaims. 'I told you my mother wasn't a thief! I told you all along.'
There is a long silence.
'And you're going to give them to Mrs Halston,' she says slowly.
'I'm not sure that would be wise. This journal will effectively lose us our case.'
Her expression clouds. 'What are you saying? That you're not going to give them to her?'
'That's exactly what I'm saying.'
He reaches into his pocket for a pen. 'But if I leave them here, there's nothing to stop you giving them to her, right?' He scribbles a number and hands it to her. 'That's her cell.'
They gaze at each other for a minute. She beams, as if something has been reasserted. 'I'll do that, Mr McCafferty.'
'Ms Andrews?'
'Marianne. For goodness' sakes.'
'Marianne. Best keep this to ourselves. I don't think it would go down well in certain quarters.'
She nods firmly. 'You were never here, young man.' She's seemingly struck by a thought. 'You don't even want me to tell Mrs Halston? That it was you who ...'
He shakes his head, pops his pen back in his pocket. 'I think that ship may have sailed. Seeing her win will be enough.' He stoops and kisses her cheek. 'The important one is April 1945. The journal with the bent corner.'
'April 1945.'
He feels almost dizzy with the enormity of what he has done. TARP, the Lefevres, will now lose the case. They have to, based on what he has seen. Is it still a betrayal if you're doing it for the right reasons? He needs a drink. He needs some air. Something. Have I gone crazy here? All he can see is Liv's face, her relief. He wants to see that smile breaking out again, slow and wide, as if surprised by its own arrival.
He picks up his jacket to leave, holds out the cupboard keys. Marianne touches his elbow, halting him. 'You know, I'll tell you something about being married five times. Or married five times and still friends with my surviving ex-husbands.' She counts them on gnarled fingers. 'That would be three.'
He waits.
'It teaches you damn all about love.'
Paul begins to smile, but she hasn't finished. Her grip on his arm is surprisingly strong. 'What it does teach you, Mr McCafferty, is that there's a whole lot more to life than winning.'
31
Henry meets her at the rear gate of the courts. He is speaking through a cloud of pain au chocolat crumbs. His face is pink, and he is almost incomprehensible. 'She won't give it to anyone else.'
'What? Who won't?'
'She's at the front entrance. Come. Come.'
Before she can ask any more, Henry is propelling her through the back of the courts, through a network of corridors and flights of stone stairs, out to the security area at the top of the main entrance. Marianne Andrews is waiting by the barriers, dressed in a purple coat and a wide tartan hairband. She sees Liv and lets out a theatrical sigh of relief. 'Lord, you're a hard woman to get hold of,' she scolds, as she holds out a musty-smelling satchel. 'I've been calling and calling you.'
'I'm sorry,' Liv says, blinking. 'I don't answer my phone any more.'
'It's in there.' Marianne points to the journal. 'Everything you need. April 1945.'
Liv stares at the old books in her hand. And looks up in disbelief. 'Everything I need?'
'The painting,' the older woman says, exasperated. 'For goodness' sakes, child. It's not a recipe for prawn gumbo.'
Events move at some speed. Henry runs to the judge's chambers and requests a brief adjournment. The journals are photocopied, highlighted, their contents sent to the Lefevres' lawyers under the rule of disclosure. Liv and Henry sit in a corner of the office, scanning the bookmarked pages, while Marianne talks non-stop with some pride of how she had always known her mom was not a thief and how that darned Mr Jenks could go boil his head.
A junior lawyer brings coffee and sandwiches. Liv's stomach is too taut to eat. They sit untouched in their cardboard packet. She keeps staring at the journal, unable to believe that this dog-eared book might hold the answer to her problems.
'What do you think?' she says, when Angela Silver and Henry have finished talking.
'I think it could be good news,' he says. His smile belies his cautious words.
'It seems fairly straightforward,' Angela says. 'If we can prove that the last two exchanges were innocent, and there is inconclusive evidence for the first exchange, then we are, as they say, back in the game.'
'Thank you so much,' Liv says, not daring to believe this turn of events. 'Thank you, Ms Andrews.'
'Oh, I could not be more delighted,' Marianne says, waving a cigarette in the air. Nobody has bothered to tell her not to smoke. She leans forward, places a bony hand on Liv's knee. 'And he found my favourite handbag.'
'I'm sorry?'
The old woman's smile falters. She busies herself with refixing a brooch. 'Oh, nothing. Take no notice of me.'
Liv keeps staring at her, as the faint flush of colour dies down. 'Don't you want these sandwiches?' Marianne says briskly.
The phone rings. 'Right,' says Henry, when he puts down the receiver. 'Is everyone okay? Ms Andrews - are you ready to read some of this evidence to the court?'
'I have my best reading glasses in my bag.'
'Right.' Henry takes a deep breath. 'Then it's time to go in.'
30 April 1945
Well, today sure didn't turn out like I expected. Four days ago, Lt Col Danes had told me I could go into Konzentrationslager Dachau with them. He's not a bad guy, Danes. A little sniffy at first about hacks, as most of them are, but since I came ashore with the Screaming Eagles at Omaha Beach, and he's worked out I'm not some green housewife who's going to press him for cookie recipes, he's backed off a little. The 102nd Airborne call me an honorary fellow now, say that when I have my armband on, I'm just one of them. So, the deal was, I was going to follow them into the camp, write my piece about the folks inside, maybe get a few interviews with some of the prisoners about the conditions, and then file. WRGS radio wanted a short piece too, so I had my tape all wound up and ready.
Well, there I was, ready at 6 a.m., armband on and almost shipshape, and darned if he didn't knock on my door. 'Why, Lieutenant,' I joked. I was still fixing my hair. 'You never told me you cared.' It's a running joke with us. He says he's got pairs of marching boots older than I am.
'Change of plan, Toots,' he says. He was smoking, which was unlike him. 'I can't take you.'
My hands stilled on my head. 'You are kidding me, right?' The Register's editor was all lined up for this piece. They'd cleared me two pages and no ads.
'Louanne, it's ... it's beyond what we thought we'd find. I'm under orders to let nobody through till tomorrow.'
'Oh, co
me on.'
'Seriously.' He lowered his voice. 'You know I'd have you in there with me. But, well, you wouldn't believe what we saw in there yesterday ... I've been up all night, me and the boys. There are old ladies, kids walking round in there, like ... I mean, little kids ...' He shook his head and looked away from me. He's a big man, Danes, and I swear he was about to sob like a baby. 'There was a train outside, and the bodies were just ... thousands of them ... It ain't human. That's for sure.'
If he was trying to put me off it had the opposite effect. 'You gotta get me in there, Lieutenant.'
'I'm sorry. Strictest orders. Look, one more day, Louanne. Then I'll give you all the access you need. You'll be the only reporter in there, I promise.'
'Yeah. And you'll still love me afterwards. Oh, come on ...'
'Louanne, nobody but the military and the Red Cross is going in or coming out today. I need every man I have to help out.'
'Help out with what?'
'Taking the Nazis into custody. Helping the prisoners. Stopping our men killing those SS bastards for what they seen. Young Maslowicz, when he saw what they done to the Poles, he was like a madman, crying, going crazy. I had to put a non-com on his gun. So I gotta have an airtight guard. And -' he gulped '- we gotta work out what to do with the bodies.'
'Bodies?'
He shook his head. 'Yeah, bodies. Thousands of them. They made bonfires. Bonfires! You wouldn't believe ...' He blew out his cheeks. 'Anyway, Toots. This is where I need to ask you a favour.'
'You need to ask me a favour?'
'I need to leave you in charge of the storage facility.'
I stared at him.
'There's a warehouse, out on the edge of Berchtesgaden. We opened it up last night and it's pretty much stacked to the gills with works of art. The Nazis, Goering, have looted stuff like you wouldn't believe. The top brass reckons there's a hundred million dollars' worth of stuff in there, most of it stolen.'
'What has this got to do with me?'
'I need someone I can trust to watch over it, just for today. You'll have a fire crew at your disposal, and two marines. It's chaos in the town, and I need to make sure nobody goes in there and nobody goes out. There's some serious haul in there, Toots. I don't know much about art, but it's like - I don't know - the Mona Lisa or something.'
Do you know how disappointment tastes? Like iron filings in cold coffee. That's what I tasted when old Danes drove me down to the facility. And that was before I found out that Marguerite Higgins had got into the camps the previous day, with Brigadier General Linden.
