Martina’s office hasn’t changed too much since the last time Susan was in here. The walls are shabbier, the oak desk is unchanged except it’s a little more scratched and the leather inlay on the top is faded and bruised, still accompanied by the same chairs. The computer, though, has that fresh from the manufacturer sheen to it and there’s an enormous monitor and webcam on the wall opposite the sofa where Susan’s spent the last twenty minutes trying to find a comfy spot, holdall at her feet. Martina must use this sofa for visitors she doesn’t like. It’s been, what, six years since Dad last brought her here?

Same collection of legal texts, though. Indistinguishable from the one Dad brought home the month after the funeral. They’ve been taking up space and feeding silverfish in the attic ever since. Susan has been reading them, trying to glean wisdom from them to help her ace her law A-level and smooth her passage into university. Martina helped her go through Mum’s collection for the most useful ones.

Martina doesn’t visit very often these days. Dad is always polite when she drops by, about every five or six weeks, but there’s no warmth between the two of them that Susan can see, a frostiness that’s developed over the years. Susan wants to shake him when he’s curt with Martina, who had been there in the days after Mum’s death to cook, to pick up after the two of them when they’d been rendered incapable by grief. It was Martina who’d taken on the maternal duties of bra shopping and first period, as if she hadn’t had other pressing duties. Susan doesn’t expect Dad to fall to his knees in gratitude, but a little kindness wouldn’t go amiss.

Martina bustles into the room, followed my the reek of menthol cigarettes. Prime ministers would do well to mimic her style, Susan thinks. There’s a severity to the cut of her suit which puts Susan ill at ease and the deepening wrinkles on her face render it almost cruel in aspect, except when she smiles, when it transforms into an icon of jollity.

“Susan,” Martina says. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

“It’s fine.”

“People just won’t see sense,” Martina grumbles, stowing her briefcase behind her desk. “I wonder if they’re illiterate or just plain stupid. The law is so clear, I just don’t know sometimes.”

Martina sinks into her chair.

“You realise that’s the naughty seat, right?” she says, grinning at Susan.

“Does it help?”

Martina laughs, throaty and deep.

“It’s not about punishment really,” Martina says. “You don’t always send messages in emails or letters. This is one way to show a person what the true situation is. A little mortification of the flesh can be very motivating. Please, grab that chair and we can both be comfy.”

Susan moves the indicated chair and places it in front of the desk and sits.

“How’s your Dad?”

Susan shrugs.

“Same as ever,” she says. “Nothing ever seems to change. He works, he cooks, he hides in his office. We get by.”

“How are you?”

“I think I’m in trouble, Martina.”

Martina frowns.

"What sort of trouble?”

Susan looks down at her hands folded in her lap, not out of shame, rather a plan to play for time. She wants Martina to say it.

“Susan, is it man trouble? Are you pregnant?”

Susan shakes her head.

“I can lend you money if you need it.”

“No, Martina, it’s…”

“Are you in the Police sort of trouble? Whatever it is, I will help you.”

There it is. Susan looks up.

“Yeah, it’s legal trouble. I need a lawyer.”

Martina scans Susan’s face as if it were covered in blemishes. Susan sits up in her chair, poker face radiating a calm she doesn’t feel. Martina sighs and nods.

“Consider me hired, then,” she says. “Out with it then, this problem of yours.”

“I stole something valuable,” Susan says, “and I want to return it to its rightful owner.”

Martina’s chair squeaks as she reclines into it. Her eyes narrow.

“Were you caught stealing it?”

“No.”

“Then leave it in a police station. Leave it to them to return it.”

“I said I want to return it to its rightful owner.”

“Susan, I. What exactly did you steal, Susan?” There’s a tired note in Martina’s voice. “Help me help you.”

“It’s in that bag,” Susan says, nodding at her holdall.

“You brought it here?”

“I thought you could help me return it,” Susan says. “You said, and I quote, ‘whatever it is, I will help you.’”

“I know what I said.”

“Remember the other time you said it?”

Martina’s face is turning an unpleasant shade of red.

“It’s what Kelly would want,” Susan says.

“Don’t you say that! Don’t you dare use her against me!” Martina jerks to her feet, finger impaling the air between them.

Susan purses her lips. There’s a quavering in the pit of her stomach, like she’s on a ship in a storm. How far can she trust Martina? How far can she push her? The laws are clear. Martina would have done anything for Kelly, but Susan doesn’t have that history with Martina. Would Martina risk her career, her freedom, because of assurances she gave a child eight years ago, given at a funeral to comfort that child?

Susan takes a deep breath. She could simply walk out, say it was a misunderstanding and hope that Martina drops it. Or she could be like her mother and hang on like a pit bull mid-bite, locked in. She thinks of Mum, stood in the doorway for the last time, leaving to fight for those who’d already wanted to give up. She can start here, pick up the torch. Leaving would mean wasting the effort she’s already made.

"Look in the bag, Martina,” Susan says, her voice small. “Please. You’ll understand.”

“Fine.” Martina is staring daggers at Susan. She gets up and struggles to pick up the bag.

“Careful, please. It’s fragile.”

Martina lowers the bag onto her desk. She unzips it and spreads the zip wide. Her head snaps up and she stares wide-eyed at Susan.

“What the -” she says. “Susan, is, is this what I think it is?”

“What do you think it is?”

Martina reaches inside the bag with exquisite tenderness and pulls out a casting of bronze, seven figures atop a dais. She rests it on her desk, and slumps into her chair.

“I think this is the Benin bronze stolen from the British museum five days ago,” she says, her chest heaving. “I think I’ve spent ten years of my career fighting to have this returned to its place in a temple in Edo.”

“Not just your career.”

“How did you do this? More importantly, how am I supposed to smuggle this into Nigeria?”

“Call up your contacts in the Nigerian embassy and have it packed into a diplomatic bag,” Susan says. “Maybe fly it out of a private airport in the dead of night packed in a cello case.”

“This is about your Mum, isn’t it?”

“I can’t be her, Martina. I can’t do what she did. I can’t not do it, either.”

Martina shakes her head.

“You’re more like her than you think. The same righteous anger,” she says. “You know, I only got into this kind of law because she made me feel guilty.”

“She was good at that.”

“Funny how she was the making of us both, isn’t it?”

“So you’ll help me?”

“Yes, Susan, of course I’ll help you.”

“Do you know anyone else I can help this way?”

Martina’s eyes slide back to Susan’s, and she smiles.