DI Armstrong said, ‘I’ll do what I can to smooth things for you but my hands are tied. You are in serious trouble.’
Lucy nodded, grateful for the promise of a friend, however useless, within the system that would judge her.
‘There’s been a development in the Schwermann trial,’ DI Armstrong said, letting compassion slip out — evidently divining Lucy’s undisclosed interest in the verdict. ‘I don’t know what has happened but I expect it will be on the news. You can watch it with me. That is something I can do for you.’
3
After the fanfare of headlines and solemn bells, the picture shifted to live coverage of the lead story at the Old Bailey
Lighting stands and trails of wiring flanked the court entrance. Banks of cameras and boom microphones like slender cranes arched over metal railings on either side. Police officers in fluorescent yellow safety jackets stood at prescribed intervals around a pool of harsh, consuming light. High above the doors was the inscription read by Anselm at the outset of the trial: ‘Defend the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer.’
A home affairs correspondent explained that after his sensational acquittal Schwermann had been escorted back to the cells, where a discreet exit had been planned. However, as he was about to depart an unidentified male had presented himself to court staff, seeking an urgent interview on what was understood to be a private matter. Upon hearing the name of the man concerned, Schwermann had consented to a meeting.
‘One thing we do know is that the consultation is over,’ said the reporter. ‘We’re expecting them to emerge through these doors behind me at any moment. We understand this individual may well be a survivor who… in fact, there’s some movement…’
The reporter shifted to one side as the court entrance jolted and opened, casting black, cutting shadows across the walls. A small man stepped out, shielding his eyes.
Lucy recognised the gentleman who’d sat beside her in the public gallery day after day giving her encouragement when it had no rational foundation; the man who had become a friend, Mr Salomon Lachaise. He moved to one side as Schwermann made his way forward. Microphones on angled poles followed him, clawing through the air at his neck and back.
Schwermann stood on the pavement, transfixed by the light, one hand nervously feeling the lower hem of his jacket. The camera position shifted closer, revealing Max Nightingale behind a policeman, his fists pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket.
Questions shot out from all sides, making it impossible to hear what was being said except for the constant repetition of Schwermann’s name. Salomon Lachaise looked on from a step — to Anselm’s eyes as if from a judgment seat; to Lucy all of a sudden a man in mourning. When Schwermann looked up from the floor to the cameras the questions abruptly ended.
Salomon Lachaise stepped back into shadow as Schwermann spoke:
‘This court has released me and declared me innocent. Before the eyes of the whole world I committed no crime.’ He started to laugh, his face contracted with pain as if gripped by a spreading cramp. ‘I started the war as one person, came to Paris… and overnight I became someone else… but I carried on doing what I’d done before.’ Small explosions of flashlight struck his face as though he were standing by a crackling, angry fire. ‘I admit I didn’t cry “stop”… but I did do something worthwhile… and it gave me a reason to live… a reason to escape… a reason to fight this trial. All I want to say is this…’
Max Nightingale shifted his stance from behind the policeman to get a clearer view of his grandfather.
‘Victor Brionne told the truth… but even he didn’t know what he was saying…’ Schwermann fell into a menacing, private fascination. The fine, smooth clattering of the cameras grew faster and louder; sheets of instantaneous flame danced and died, one after the other. Quietly, remonstrating with the light, he said, ‘A boy was saved.’
His right hand shakily fingered his jacket hem. Eyes wide, like a painted toy he said, ‘Hasn’t that made a difference?’
Eduard Walter Schwermann suddenly fell to his knees. The face of Salomon Lachaise moved into the light. A policeman lunged a step and halted, confused, as Schwermann, lifting the lower flap of his jacket, pulled at the inside lining. He fished something out and put it in his mouth, closed his eyes, bit and dropped like a marionette whose strings had been severed with a single cut.
As the commotion unfurled, the discerning viewer could easily see the diminutive figure of Salomon Lachaise in the background, walking heavily away from the pandemonium, into the shadows and out of sight.
4
Wilma unplugged the television and left the bedroom. The door clipped shut. For a long while Anselm tried to read the motionless face of the woman waiting to die. Nothing moved. There was just a slow blinking and then a welling-up of tears that ran into the soft creases of her skin.
Now was as good a time as any, thought Anselm. On this day of death there should be powerful words about life. He cleared his throat. ‘Agnes, I have something to tell you.’
She raised a finger off the bedspread.
‘I know you had a son, Robert, and that he was taken away from you.
She reached for his hand.
‘You have lived as though he were dead.’
She turned her head, applying the lightest of pressure to Anselm’s fingers.
‘Victor did not betray you. He took your boy and protected him. I have met Robert. He is very much alive.’
Agnes suddenly raised herself from the bed, startling Anselm, and rasped out a thick sound of pain or wonder. She fell back, gripping Anselm’s hand. Her mouth moved round the shape of words but nothing broke into sound.
Anselm said, ‘He’s tall.’ A squeeze.
‘In comparison to me, moderately handsome.’ A squeeze.
‘I understand he’s a prodigy on the piano.’
A frail, lingering squeeze.
‘He’s married to a charming woman. She’s called Maggie.’
Her strength had gone; her fingers lay warm and still within Anselm’s hands.
‘They have five children. Some of them are married and they, too, have children. Agnes, you are not only a mother… you are a grandmother and a great-grandmother.’
Her lips pursed into a loop, her eyes wide and swimming. Somehow the years were stripped back and Anselm sensed the ambiance of youth, captured by Victor Brionne in the photograph seen earlier that afternoon. He immediately recognised her for who she was, and who she had become; they were one and the same.
Wilma bustled in, carrying a teaspoon, a saucer and a bowl of ice cubes.
5
Lucy was taken back to her cell. Half an hour later the heavy door swung open with a bang. Lucy was waved out by an impatient hand and taken to the Custody Sergeant’s desk. Father Conroy was still there, beside DI Armstrong, who said: ‘The Detective Superintendent says you can go home. You’re bailed for a week. When you come back there’ll be an interview After that you may be charged.’
