by Peter Murphy
‘Your Honour,’ Julian continues, ‘my learned friend cannot ask this witness for an opinion as to whether the painting the jury have seen is genuine. He is not qualified as an expert in the authentication of art, let alone seventeenth-century Dutch art. If my learned friend wishes to go down that road, she will have to call an expert who is qualified in that field.’
Susan seems a bit irritated by the objection.
‘If my learned friend had studied his brief more closely,’ she replies pointedly, ‘including the witness statements, he would have seen that the Crown does propose to call Dr Edgar Smalling, an acknowledged expert in the field of Dutch art. I would also like to point out that there can hardly be any dispute that the painting in question is not genuine,’
I look at her quizzically. I half expect Julian to be upset at the rather personal nature of her comment, but instead he is grinning, which only serves to irritate Susan even more.
‘Your Honour,’ Susan continues, ‘as I told the jury in my opening speech, the original “Woman drinking Wine with a Drunken Soldier” is in a private collection. It is certainly not standing on an easel in the Bermondsey Crown Court. The jury will be shown a catalogue photograph of it in due course, and Dr Smalling will explain the situation when he gives evidence.’
I look at Julian.
‘Mr Blanquette, if that’s right, I can’t quite understand why you should object to Mr Pratfall being asked about it. It may well be that he is not technically qualified, but if there is no dispute –’
‘Oh, there is very much a dispute,’ he replies. ‘The problem is with the use of the word “genuine”, which, as your Honour no doubt knows, is something of a loaded word in connection with works of art.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t know that at all, Mr Blanquette,’ I admit. ‘I must confess I have always thought that something is either genuine or not. It’s a bit like being pregnant, isn’t it? You either are, or you’re not.’
‘I’m afraid not, your Honour. Now, if my learned friend had used the word “original” instead of “genuine”, I would have no objection. When Dr Smalling – whose witness statement’ (he turns towards Susan) ‘I have in fact read with some care – gives evidence, I hope to make the distinction between the two words quite clear to your Honour, the jury, and even to my learned friend.’
Susan has now assumed a look of thunder.
‘I look forward to my learned friend enlightening us all in due course,’ she comments icily.
‘So do I,’ I say. ‘But for the moment, so that the jury are not unduly delayed, would you have any objection to re-phrasing the question?’
‘I will do so, your Honour,’ she replies, ‘pending my enlightenment.’
Julian is positively beaming. ‘I am much obliged to my learned friend.’
I ask Dawn to bring the jury back and sit back in my chair to wait, when there is an unexpected interruption from the witness box.
‘Excuse me, your Honour,’ Pratfall says, ‘but aren’t you supposed to say “sustained” or “overruled”?’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Pratfall?’
‘In California, the judge has to say “sustained” or “overruled” whenever there is an objection. Otherwise he doesn’t make a record, and the parties have to insist on that, because if the judge doesn’t say one or the other, he hasn’t ruled, and the parties can’t appeal if he gets it wrong.’
I see Susan looking at Pratfall in dismay.
‘How interesting,’ I reply. ‘That’s not the practice here, I’m afraid.’
‘I am surprised to hear that,’ Pratfall adds.
‘But if it will make you feel more at home,’ I say, ‘I will ask if counsel would like me to say “sustained” or “overruled”.’
I smile blandly at both.
‘That won’t be necessary, your Honour,’ Susan positively growls.
‘Actually, I can’t believe you people still argue points like that,’ Pratfall says, apparently under the impression that he has stumbled into a symposium on comparative law. His tone sounds mildly disapproving.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I ask.
‘Points of evidence like that. Even sending the jury out, instead of just approaching the bench. I mean, it is really archaic. I thought rules of evidence pretty much went out with the Ark.’
Susan now looks incandescent, and is trying her best to get Pratfall’s attention to tell him to shut up, but he is staring straight at me and can’t see her.
‘You don’t have technicalities like rules of evidence in California, do you, Mr Pratfall?’ I ask. ‘Jurisprudence hasn’t quite reached that level of sophistication in California, has it?’
Pratfall waves the question away with a hand across his face.
‘Reached that level? No, sir. We are way past that level. That stuff was OK during the Gold Rush, I guess, but today, we have the Truth in Evidence Act. Witnesses can say whatever they have to say.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘The Truth in Evidence Act? Does that mean that all witnesses in California tell the truth?’
Pratfall ponders this for a while.
‘No, your Honour, I don’t guess it does.’
‘Well then, it’s not really much of a Truth in Evidence Act, is it?’
‘It’s just that we don’t have many rules of evidence anymore.’
Julian Blanquette and Jan van Planck are thoroughly enjoying the show, but I decide it is time to bring it to an end.
‘Do you still have contempt of court in California?’ I ask.
Pratfall is saved from the consequences of any further injudicious remarks when Dawn puts her head around the door to tell me that the jury are ready to come back. But at that exact moment, the phone purrs quietly. My clerk, Carol, answers, then stands and turns around to speak to me.
‘I’m sorry, Judge,’ she whispers. ‘Stella says could you rise, please, and meet her in chambers? Apparently, something urgent has come up.’
‘Did she say what it is about?’
‘No, Judge. Just that you were to rise immediately, if you would.’
I signal to Dawn to stand the jury down, and announce that I am adjourning for a time, as yet unspecified, to deal with an administrative matter. Pratfall looks put out. Perhaps they don’t have adjournments in California since the Gold Rush, either.
When I get back to my chambers, to my consternation, I find Stella and our building manager, Bob, standing together in front of my desk, hands folded in front of them like naughty children summoned to the headmaster’s study. They both look a bit white around the gills and are conveying the distinct impression that something dreadful has occurred. This is nothing unusual for Stella, who always exudes the aura of impending disaster, but Bob is generally a calm enough fellow, and his obviously troubled demeanour does cause me some concern. For a terrible moment, I speculate that Hubert must have snuffed it. He looked perfectly all right when I last saw him on Friday, but you never know at his age, and the way he tucks into the kitchen’s dish of the day so recklessly every lunch hour, you have to think it is only a matter of time.
‘Would you mind coming with us, Judge?’ Bob asks.
I extend an arm to invite them to lead the way, which they do at a good pace, and we arrive at the judicial mess, where Bob throws the door wide open. For a moment I see nothing. But then, my gaze alights on the series of portraits of RJs past, and my eyes open wide in horror. The portrait of Terry McVeigh has been grotesquely defaced. Someone has added to his face what is quite unmistakably a handlebar moustache executed in black paint, a moustache which is rather too large to be strictly realistic and indeed extends along almost the entire width of the canvas.
‘I found it this morning, Judge,’ Bob says, ‘when I came in to check they had cleared everything away after Friday.’
‘I don’t believe my eyes!’ I exclaim involuntarily. �
��How in God’s name has this happened?’
‘Someone must have been in and done it,’ Bob replies, stating the obvious with a shrug.
‘Whoever it was,’ Stella adds, ‘they weren’t very tidy about it, were they?’ She points to a number of spots of black paint on the sideboard and carpet close to the portrait.
‘I will start an inquiry immediately, Judge, of course,’ Bob volunteers.
‘An inquiry?’ I ask, momentarily taken aback. But I realise at once that he is quite right. This is not an accident or an act of God. Someone has deliberately given Terry a huge moustache in black paint, and given that it must have been someone with access to this part of the building, the list of suspects must be quite limited.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Yes, I suppose you should. How will you go about it?’
‘I suppose I will have to question the staff, one by one.’
‘We could call the police,’ Stella suggests.
Bob and I shake our heads in unison as we share a vision of how this is going to look on the front page of the Sun. It is surprising how often visions like that creep into one’s head in the course of judicial business.
‘I think we ought to look into the matter ourselves at this stage,’ I reply. ‘You had better take the picture down for now and put it somewhere safe before the culprit can strike again.’
‘Right you are, Judge,’ Bob says.
There is an awkward silence.
‘I don’t suppose you have any suspects in mind?’ I ask.
Bob and Stella exchange furtive glances.
‘I don’t want to say anything before I have the chance to question everyone, Judge,’ Bob says. ‘It wouldn’t be fair.’
‘No, quite,’ I agree.
‘On the other hand,’ he continues, ‘and I don’t intend any disrespect, Judge, but you probably know yourself that Judge McVeigh wasn’t, how shall I put it, universally popular with the court staff.’
That is something of an understatement. ‘Remote’, ‘unfriendly’ and ‘abrasive’ were among some of the more favourable judgments about Terry that filtered out to other courts from Bermondsey during his tenure as RJ. It suddenly occurs to me that Bob’s inquiry may not be an easy one, despite the apparently limited number of possible suspects.
‘And we will have to find someone to advise us about whether the picture can be restored, won’t we, Judge?’ Stella asks. ‘We can’t just throw it away, can we? Not after the amount of money it cost.’
No, we can’t. Neither, on the other hand, can we mount a twenty-four-hour watch over it. And the one person I need to consult about restoration is the one person I can’t talk to at the moment, and quite possibly, depending on the outcome of the case, for a considerable time to come. I look at my watch. It is by now well after twelve o’clock. I need to think.
‘You had better tell everyone in the van Planck case they are released until two o’clock,’ I say to Stella.
And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos. I hope.
When I take my seat in the judicial mess, there is an awkward atmosphere. Marjorie and Legless are tucking into lunches they have brought from home. Marjorie’s looks like a dreadfully healthy bean-shoot and pepper concoction in a brand new plastic container. Legless has a far more prosaic hearty bacon and egg sandwich in front of him. I have the distinct impression that they are grinning at each other between bites, and resisting an urge to laugh. Hubert has ignored my arrival completely. He is tucking into the dish of the day, billed as chicken and wild mushroom risotto, with a vengeance, a copy of the Times by his side, and he is giving every impression of being absorbed in an article about something going on in Malaysia. But as I am making a start on my sandwich, he finally deigns to acknowledge my presence.
‘Oh, there you are, Charlie,’ he says. ‘Good of you to join us. What have you got in your list today?’
The question proves too much for Legless, who almost chokes on a piece of bacon. I take a deep breath.
‘You know perfectly well what I have in my list, Hubert,’ I reply. ‘I am trying Jan van Planck on a count of fraud.’
He looks up as if astounded.
‘By Jove, that’s quite a coincidence. That’s not the same van Planck we had to lunch on Friday, is it, the one who painted Terry’s portrait? How remarkable. I didn’t see his name in the list on Friday, you see, so of course I had no idea.’
Legless and Marjorie are by now sniggering openly. I pause in the act of bringing my sandwich up to my mouth and replace it on my plate.
‘There is no call for sarcasm, Hubert,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘You know perfectly well it is the same Jan van Planck. And yes, I invited him to lunch for the unveiling of Terry’s portrait, which is, after all, his work. And yes, I did ask myself whether it was the right thing to do. On balance, I thought it was. Applying the presumption of innocence to which Jan van Planck is just as entitled as any other defendant who comes before this court, I thought it would be wrong to tell him that he was not allowed to attend the unveiling of his own work.’ I pause. ‘I do understand that you may not all agree with that decision, but that was the view I took.’
‘How does the case look for him?’ Legless asks.
‘Not too good,’ I reply.
Marjorie makes a face and shakes her head.
‘I think that might have been the wrong call, Charlie,’ she says.
‘Very likely,’ I admit, finally.
Hubert shrugs. ‘Well, no point in arguing about it now,’ he says, returning his attention to the Times. ‘Water under the bridge. If we had lunch last Friday with a shady art dealer who is about to be convicted of fraud, it wasn’t our finest hour. But there it is. We will just have to get on with it and ignore everyone at other courts laughing at us. I hope you’ve asked Bob to walk round the building and make sure all our other art work is still on the walls. It would be even more embarrassing if we were to find any of our pieces for sale on London Bridge Road for the knock-down price of fifty quid, wouldn’t it?’
I raise my eyebrows. I wasn’t aware we had anything other than the van Planck collection which could fetch anything close to fifty quid, especially on special offer.
‘It’s interesting you should say that, Hubert,’ I reply. ‘Because, as I am sure you have all noticed, a piece is in fact missing from this very room.’
All three pretend not to have noticed, and look up at the wall far too obviously to be credible.
‘Well, I never,’ Marjorie says with feigned surprise. ‘Terry’s portrait is missing.’
‘So it is,’ Legless agrees. ‘What’s happened to it, Charlie?’
‘Van Planck probably nicked it,’ Hubert says. ‘It‘s probably hanging in his studio as we speak, waiting to be sold on as a Dutch masterpiece. Well, the Dutch part would be true, wouldn’t it?’
I wait patiently for the laughter to die away.
‘Thank you all for your concern,’ I reply. ‘Since you ask, Terry’s portrait has been removed and taken into protective custody.’
‘Come again?’ Legless says.
‘Someone has committed an act of artistic vandalism,’ I say, ‘or to use the legal term, an act of serious criminal damage. Bob is conducting an inquiry to find out who it was, and when he does so, I have every intention of calling in the police.’
Actually, I have no such intention whatsoever, since that would mean getting the Grey Smoothies involved and risking some awkward questions about the portrait fund, but I’m getting a bit irritated with the air of levity, and I want to get their attention. Apparently I have succeeded. Legless and Marjorie look concerned, and even Hubert looks up from the Times.
‘Vandalism?’ Marjorie asks. ‘What kind of vandalism?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you,’ I reply. ‘I understand the police like to withhold some details of crimes in case a suspect m
akes a mistake and comes out with something he should have no way of knowing.’
‘Oh, come on, Charlie,’ Marjorie insists.
‘Oh, all right,’ I reply with a show of reluctance. ‘Someone has painted a large black moustache over his face. God only knows how much it’s going to cost to restore it. Bob thinks it’s probably a disgruntled member of staff – someone who wasn’t particularly fond of Terry – and yes, I am aware that that doesn’t narrow down the field very much. I will keep you up to date, of course.’
‘Well, I think you might have to call in the police, if it’s a staff member,’ Legless says, reasonably enough. ‘There are security issues if we have someone who is prepared to go to lengths like that and who has access to the building. I don’t think we can just let it slide.’
‘No, we can’t,’ I agree. ‘Anyway, at least it’s safe from further depredations for now. I don’t know what the world’s coming to when we have to lock the art work away inside a court to keep it safe from the staff.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t the staff,’ Hubert says. ‘Perhaps it was van Planck himself.’
‘Really?’ I reply. ‘First you think he might have nicked it, now you think he might have defaced his own work. And how do you suggest he gained access to the judicial mess to do the wicked deed?’
‘Clever people, the Dutch,’ Hubert says. ‘It doesn’t do to underestimate them.’
I shake my head and, after a last desultory bite of my sandwich, I return to chambers.
* * *
Monday afternoon
After a few more questions, Susan abandons Elmer G Pratfall to cross-examination.
‘Let’s see if I have this right, Mr Pratfall,’ Julian begins. ‘When you go looking for works of art to collect, the first thing you look for is something that would look nice hanging on your wall? Is that correct?’