The events of the night of Tuesday 8 October were a blur to Blake, though he recalled glimpses of what occurred, which became a little clearer over time. None of what he now remembered helped him very much when he appeared in court the next morning, with a bandage strapped around his head. The judge had briefed him separately to the court on hearing from the police of the night’s events, and the jury were kept waiting for two hours while the matter was dealt with in the most efficient way possible.
‘What were you doing in Genet’s house?’ he was asked.
‘I’ve told the police – I was looking for something to clear my name. A photograph, perhaps, which showed what I now know to be the case – Birna Aronsdóttir and her stepbrother are the ones you need to be talking to, not me. I saw naked pictures of them, as adults, and as children. It was awful. They tried to kill me last night!’
‘Where are these photographs? Do you have any proof of an attack?’
He was silent. Inspecteur Roland Sauveur spoke up, quietly. ‘Monsieur Président, this morning we found Monsieur Knox in the most compromising situation. There is evidence that he broke into the crime scene through smashing a window using a brick wrapped in a towel that he admits is his. He was found by our Officers unconscious on the floor of the artist’s studio, early this morning. A phone call about a possible break-in was received by the local gendarmerie, who alerted us. On Blake’s person were photographs he appears to have found in a box under the floorboards in the room. We have looked carefully through the photographs and can find none that match the ones he has just spoken about to you. They are artistic nudes, nothing more or less offensive than the ones already shown to the court.’
‘And? I sense that there is something else?’ asked the judge.
‘Yes. I am not sure how this will complicate the matters of the court, but the missing painting, Tjörnin 9AM was found back on the easel. It has been defaced by a false-signature JosK written over the original in ink – or we suspect – in toner dissolved in water. A tube with the dark liquid in it was found beside him in the studio, also with what appears to be the accused’s fingerprints on it. Tests should confirm this later today.’
‘And the physical injuries?’
‘Unclear at this stage, but it looks as though he has had a fall, perhaps down the stairs. There is alcohol in his bloodstream.’
‘My goodness,’ said the président to Blake. ‘This is a dramatic end, which no doubt shows your artistic flair and something of your clever imagination. Perhaps you have tried to find a way to slow the trial by making these unprovable accusations and starting the police on a no-doubt fruitless search of Genet’s house for evidence of assault. Nevertheless, we will not include this particular postscript in the matters before the jury, which has already come to its conclusion on the earlier evidence. Inspecteur Sauveur is free to pursue further investigations as he sees fit. The court will resume for the verdict in fifteen minutes.’
Blake had been so dumbfounded by the turn of events that he protested very little at this, and was soon led into court. He stood mute as the doors were opened to the public and an air of excitement swept through the formerly sombre room. Unlike the slow pace of the last week, this moment seemed to take place at high speed. He felt groggy from his fall – or bashing, as he suspected – and ill with the alcohol he had consumed. Was it only two glasses of scotch? His body told him that he had drunk more. Had someone forced something down his throat? He could remember the heavy torch, and the swinging arm of the half-brother drummer without the tattoos, who he only remembered hearing, and not seeing: ‘We heard there was a party!’
And Birna’s reply, surely: ‘Don’t be an idiot! Give him this, instead.’
The sharp sting of whisky, violent sputtering, sudden darkness.
Hadn’t he written somewhere about being wary of parties?
He listened intently as the jury was asked a series of questions:
‘Did the jury find sufficient evidence to convict Blake Knox of the murder of Michel Genet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did the jury find evidence to suggest that the murder was premeditated?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did the jury see evidence of extenuating circumstances to explain the violence of the crime?’
‘No.’
Before he had time to take this in, or to meet the frozen eyes of his parents, or see the distraught expression on Elizabeth’s face, he was sentenced to eighteen years in a high-security prison, with two-thirds of the sentence to be served before an early release could be considered on the basis of good behaviour. He was told that he could appeal the decision to the Cour de cassation, and then the président began a short lecture about the public role of intellectuals and writers and the shame when a man of obviously high intelligence used that wit for harm and evil instead of contributing something to the social good. Raising himself, he managed only, ‘But… hang on…’
And then was led away in handcuffs.