فصل 34

34

Henry is waiting for her by the rear entrance. There are television cameras, as well as the protesters at the front of the High Court for the last day. He had warned her there would be. She emerges from the taxi, and when he sees what she is carrying, his smile turns into a grimace. Is that what I … You didnt have to do that! If it goes against us wed have made them send a security van. Jesus Christ, Liv! You cant just carry a multi-million-pound work of art around like a loaf of bread.

Livs hands are tight around it. Is Paul here?

Paul? Hes hurrying her towards the courts, like a doctor ferrying a sick child into a hospital.

McCafferty.

McCafferty? Not a clue. He glances again at the bundle. Bloody hell, Liv. You could have warned me.

She follows him through Security and into the corridor. He calls the guard over and motions to the painting. The guard looks startled, nods, and says something into his radio. Extra security is apparently on its way. Only when they actually enter the courtroom does Henry begin to relax. He sits, lets out a long breath, rubs at his face with both palms. Then he turns to Liv. You know, its not over yet, he says, smiling ruefully at the painting. Hardly a vote of confidence.

She says nothing. She scans the courtroom, which is fast filling around them. Above her in the public gallery the faces peer down at her, speculative and impassive, as if she herself is on trial. She tries not to meet anyones eye. She spies Marianne in tangerine, her plastic earrings a matching shade, and the old woman gives a little wave and an encouraging thumbs-up a friendly face in a sea of blank stares. She sees Janey Dickinson settle into a seat further along the bench, exchanging a few words with Flaherty. The room fills with the sound of shuffling feet, polite conversation, scraping chairs and dropped bags. The reporters chat companionably to each other, swigging at polystyrene cups of coffee and sharing notes. Someone hands someone else a spare pen. Shes trying to quell a rising sense of panic. Its nine forty. Her eyes stray towards the doors again and again, watching for Paul. Have faith, she thinks. He will come.

She tells herself the same thing at nine fifty, and nine fifty-two. And then at nine fifty-eight. Just before ten oclock, the judge enters. The courtroom rises. Liv feels a sudden panic. Hes not coming. After all this, hes not coming. Oh, God, I cant do this if hes not here. She forces herself to breathe deeply and closes her eyes, trying to calm herself.

Henry is paging through his files. You okay?

Her mouth appears to have filled with powder. Henry, she whispers, can I say something?

What?

Can I say something? To the court? Its important.

Now? The judge is about to announce his verdict.

This is important.

What do you want to say?

Just ask him. Please.

His face shows incredulity, but something in her expression convinces him. He leans forward, muttering to Angela Silver. She glances behind her at Liv, frowning, and after a short exchange, she stands and asks for permission to approach the bench. Christopher Jenks is invited to join them.

As barristers and judge consult quietly, Liv feels her palms beginning to sweat. Her skin prickles. She glances around her at the packed courtroom. The air of quiet antagonism is almost palpable. Her hands tighten on the painting. Imagine you are Sophie, she tells herself. She would have done it.

Finally the judge speaks.

Apparently Mrs Olivia Halston would like to address the court. He glances at her from over the top of his spectacles. Go ahead, Mrs Halston.

She stands, and makes her way to the front of the court, still clutching the painting. She hears each footstep on the wooden floor, is acutely aware of all the eyes upon her. Henry, perhaps still fearful about the painting, stands a few feet from her.

She takes a deep breath. I would like to say a few words about The Girl You Left Behind. She pauses for a second, registering the surprise on the faces around her, and continues, her voice thin, wavering slightly in the silence. It seems to belong to someone else.

Sophie Lefèvre was a brave, honourable woman. I think – I hope this has become clear through whats been heard in court. She is vaguely aware of Janey Dickinsons face, scratching something in her notebook, the muttered boredom of the barristers. She closes her fingers around the frame, and forces herself to keep going.

My late husband, David Halston, was also a good man. A really good man. I believe now that, had he known Sophies portrait, the painting he loved, had this – this history, he would have given it back long ago. My contesting this case has caused his good name to be removed from the building that was his life and his dream, and that is a source of immense regret to me, because that building – the Goldstein – should have been his memorial.

She sees the reporters look up, the ripple of interest that passes over their bench. Several of them consult, start scribbling.

This case – this painting – has pretty much destroyed what should have been his legacy, just as it destroyed Sophies. In this way they have both been wronged. Her voice begins to break. She glances around her. For that reason I would like it on record that the decision to fight was mine alone. If I have been mistaken, Im so very sorry. Thats all. Thank you.

She takes two awkward steps to the side. She sees the reporters scribbling furiously, one checking the spelling of Goldstein. Two solicitors on the bench are talking urgently. Nice move, says Henry, softly, leaning in to her. Youd have made a good lawyer.

I did it, she tells herself silently. David is publicly linked to his building now, whatever the Goldsteins do.

The judge asks for silence. Mrs Halston. Have you finished pre-empting my verdict? he says wearily.

Liv nods. Her throat has dried. Janey is whispering to her lawyer.

And this is the painting in question, is it?

Yes. She is still holding it tightly to her, like a shield.

He turns to the court clerk. Can someone arrange for it to be placed in safe custody? Im not entirely sure it should be sitting out here. Mrs Halston?

Liv holds out the painting to the court clerk. Just for a moment her fingers seem oddly reluctant to release it, as if her inner self has decided to ignore the instruction. When she finally lets go, the clerk stands there, briefly frozen, as if she has handed him something radioactive.

Im sorry, Sophie, she says, and, suddenly exposed, the girls image stares back at her.

Liv walks unsteadily back to her seat, the empty blanket balled under her arm, barely hearing the growing commotion around her. The judge is in conversation with both barristers. Several people make for the doors, evening-paper reporters perhaps, and above them the public gallery is alive with discussion. Henry touches her arm, muttering something about how she has done a good thing.

She sits, and gazes down at her lap, at the wedding ring she twists round and round her finger, and wonders how it is possible to feel so empty.

And then she hears it.

Excuse me?

It is repeated twice before it can be heard over the mêlée. She looks up, following the swivelling gaze of the people around her, and there, in the doorway, is Paul McCafferty.

He is wearing a blue shirt and his chin is grey with stubble, his expression unreadable. He wedges the door open, and slowly pulls a wheelchair into the courtroom. He looks around, seeking her out, and suddenly it is just the two of them. You okay? he mouths, and she nods, letting out a breath she hadnt realized she was holding.

He calls again, just audible above the noise. Excuse me? Your Honour?

The gavel cracks against the desk like a gunshot. The court falls silent. Janey Dickinson stands and turns to see what is happening. Paul is pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair down the central aisle of the court. She is impossibly ancient, hunched over like a shepherds crook, her hands resting on a small bag.

Another woman, neatly dressed in navy, hurries in behind Paul, consults with him in whispers. He gestures towards the judge.

My grandmother has some important information regarding this case, the woman says. She speaks with a strong French accent, and as she walks down the centre aisle, she glances awkwardly to the people on either side.

The judge throws up his hands. Why not? he mutters audibly. Everyone else seems to want to have a say. Lets see if the cleaner would like to express her view, why dont we?

The woman waits, and he says, exasperated, Oh, for goodness sake, Madame. Do approach the bench.

They exchange a few words. The judge calls over the two barristers, and the conversation extends.

What is this? Henry keeps saying, beside Liv. What on earth is going on?

A hush settles over the court.

It appears we should hear what this woman has to say, the judge says. He picks up his pen and leafs through his notes. Im wondering if anybody here is going to be interested in something as mundane as an actual verdict.

The old womans chair is wheeled round and positioned near the front of the court. She speaks her first words in French, and her granddaughter translates.

Before the future of the painting is decided, there is something you must know. This case is based on a false premise. She pauses, stooping to hear the old womans words, then straightens up again. The Girl You Left Behind was never stolen.

The judge leans forward a little. And how would you know this, Madame?

Liv lifts her face to look up at Paul. His gaze is direct, steady and oddly triumphant.

The older woman lifts a hand, as if to dismiss her granddaughter. She clears her throat and speaks slowly and clearly, this time in English. Because I am the person who gave it to Kommandant Hencken. My name is Édith Béthune.