Liv glances around before she realizes that Fran is pointing towards a small milk crate. She pulls it over and sits down. A pigeon walks across the cobbles towards her. Fran reaches into a crumpled paper bag and throws it a crust. It’s oddly peaceful out here, hearing the Thames lap gently at the shore, the distant sounds of traffic. Liv thinks wryly of what the newspapers would say if they could see the society widow’s breakfast companion. A barge emerges through the mist and floats silently past, its lights disappearing into the grey dawn.

‘Your friend left, then.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Sit here long enough you get to know everything. You listen, see?’ She taps the side of her head. ‘Nobody listens any more. Everyone knows what they want to hear, but nobody actually listens.’

She stops for a minute, as if remembering something. ‘I saw you in the newspaper.’

Liv blows on her coffee. ‘I think the whole of London has seen me in the newspaper.’

‘I’ve got it. In my box.’ She gestures towards the doorway. ‘Is that it?’ She points to the bundle Liv is holding under her arm.

‘Yes.’ She takes a sip. ‘Yes, it is.’ She waits for Fran to add her own take on Liv’s crime, to list the reasons why she should never have attempted to keep the painting, but it doesn’t come. Instead she sniffs, looks out at the river.

‘That’s why I don’t like having too much stuff. When I was in the shelter people was always nicking it. Didn’t matter where you left it – under your bed, in your locker – they’d wait till you was going out, and then they’d just take it. It got so’s you didn’t want to go out, just for fear of losing your stuff. Imagine that.’

‘Imagine what?’

‘What you lose. Just trying to hang on to a few bits.’

Liv looks at Fran’s craggy, weathered face, suddenly suffused with pleasure as she considers the life she is no longer missing out on.

‘It’s a kind of madness,’ Fran says.

Liv stares along the grey river, and her eyes fill unexpectedly with tears.

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 didn’t have to do that! If it goes against us we’d have made them send a security van. Jesus Christ, Liv! You can’t just carry a multi-million-pound work of art around like a loaf of bread.’

Liv’s hands are tight around it. ‘Is Paul here?’

‘Paul?’ He’s 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, it’s 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 anyone’s 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. She’s trying to quell a rising sense of panic. It’s 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 o’clock, the judge enters. The courtroom rises. Liv feels a sudden panic. He’s not coming. After all this, he’s not coming. Oh, God, I can’t do this if he’s 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? It’s 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.