Page 51 of The Girl You Left Behind
•••
The police around here do not come out for vanished handbags. They give the woman, whose name is Liv, a crime number, and promise a letter about victim support, and tell her they’ll be in touch if they find anything. It’s clear to everyone that they do not expect to be in touch.
By the time she’s off the phone the bar is long empty. Greg unlocks the door to let them out, and Liv reaches for her jacket. “I’ve a guest staying. She’s got a spare key.”
“You want to call her?” Paul proffers his phone.
She looks blankly at him. “I don’t know her number. But I know where she works.”
Paul waits.
“It’s a restaurant about ten minutes’ walk from here. Toward Blackfriars.”
It’s midnight. Paul gazes at the clock. He is tired and his son is being dropped off at 7:30 tomorrow morning. But he cannot leave a drunk woman, who has plainly spent the best part of an hour trying not to cry, to walk the back streets of the South Bank at midnight.
“I’ll walk with you,” he says.
He catches her look of wariness, the way she prepares to decline. Greg touches her arm. “You’re okay, sweetheart. He’s an ex-cop.”
Paul feels himself being reassessed. The woman’s makeup has smudged beneath one eye, and he has to fight the urge to wipe it.
“I can vouch for his good character. He’s genetically wired to do this, kind of like a St. Bernard in human form.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Greg.”
She puts on her jacket. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be really kind of you.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Paul. And good luck, Miss Liv. Hope it all gets sorted.” Greg waits until they are some way down the road, then closes and locks the door.
•••
They walk briskly, their feet echoing in the empty cobbled streets, the sound bouncing off the silent buildings around them. It has begun to rain, and Paul rams his hands deep into his pockets, his neck hunched into his collar. They pass two young men in hoodies, and he is conscious of her moving slightly closer to him.
“Did you cancel your cards?” he says.
“Oh. No.” The fresh air is hitting her hard. She looks despondent, and every now and then she stumbles a little. He would offer his arm, but he doesn’t think she would take it. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Can you remember what you have?”
“One MasterCard, one Barclays.”
“Hold on. I know someone who can help.” He dials a number. “Sherrie?... Hi. It’s McCafferty.... Yeah, fine, thanks. All good. You?” He waits. “Listen—could you do me a favor? Text me the numbers for stolen bank cards? MasterCard and a Barclays. Friend’s just had her bag nicked.... Yeah. Thanks, Sherrie. Say hi to the guys for me. And, yeah, see you soon.”
He dials the texted numbers, hands her the phone. “Cops,” he says. “Small world.” And then walks silently as she explains the situation to the operator.
“Thank you,” she says, handing the phone back.
“No problem.”
“I’d be surprised if they manage to get any money out on them anyway.” Liv smiles ruefully.
They are at the restaurant, a Spanish place. The lights are off and the doors locked. He ducks into the doorway and she peers in through the window, as if willing it to show some distant sign of life.
Paul consults his watch. “It’s a quarter past twelve. They’re probably done for the night.”
Liv stands and bites her lip. She turns back to him. “Perhaps she’s at mine. Please can I borrow your phone again?” He hands it over, and she holds it up in the sodium light, better to see the screen. He watches as she taps a number, then turns away, one hand riffling unconsciously through her hair. She glances behind her and gives him a brief, uncertain smile, then turns back. She types in another number, and a third.
“Anyone else you can call?”
