He’s a stunning man. It’s not so much his looks, as the way he carries himself. Like he’s a downed wire full of crackling sparks and electricity. There’s an air of mischief about him and a palpable confidence that says he’s unconcerned by the way people view him.

“Mr Fitzpatrick,” my stepfather addresses the prosecution QC. “Could we proceed to the portion of the day where you actually ask a question?”

My companion giggles as a wave of laughter sweeps the benches. It’s hastily quelled by a glare from my stepfather. I take that as a reminder that I’m supposed to be working here, so I pull out my sketchbook and pencil from my satchel. It’s lain in there for the last few hours, as I’d been absorbed by the drama of the court process. And Magnus Carlsen. I have to admit he draws the eye and attention. And he knows it, I remind myself.

Opening the pad to a clean page, I start to sketch with sure movements of my fingers. The familiar motions are comforting, and I fall into a haze as I draw my stepfather’s stubborn jaw and rather pugnacious expression as he listens to the counsel for the prosecution.

I could’ve felt the old lady’s gaze from a mile away, and I’m not surprised when she leans in. “Blimey, that’s good,” she breathes. “You’ve got him down pat, love.”

I smile at her. “You think so?”

She nods. “Oh, definitely. Although why you’re drawing that old sort when you could be sketching Mr Carlsen, I don’t know. I’d pay for a picture of him.”

I smile at her and then look at Magnus. The prosecution QC is moving back to his seat, and Magnus is rising to his feet. He stretches almost idly and then prowls to the witness, who perks up visibly.

“Is it still May?” Magnus asks in a conversational tone, and several of the jury members laugh.

“Mr Carlsen,” my stepfather warns.

“My apologies.” Magnus’s voice clearly conveys no such thing. I can’t help my smile and watch him intently as he launches into his questions. Within minutes, he’s exposed a crucial flaw in the prosecution’s case that will probably turn the case on its head, but he still leans almost casually against the bench. His voice is rich and warm, his posture is relaxed and almost meditative, but his eyes belie the pose. They’re razor-sharp and focused on the witness.