Judgement Call Read Free

to send the little beast squealing and cartwheeling over a low wall.
    â€˜Rape,’ the sergeant said, drawing out the word and lowering his jaw so his triple chins expanded like a toad.
    â€˜Yes, sarge,’ Henry said respectfully.
    â€˜Mm.’ The sergeant’s lips rubbed together, but in opposite directions, like a loom. ‘OK,’ he said at length, and turned to the prisoner. ‘Anything to say about that?’
    â€˜Not guilty.’ Kaminski shook himself free from Henry’s grip and sneered contemptuously at him. He had stony eyes and a pinched, rodent-like face, his cheeks pock-marked and pitted. Henry glared back with equal contempt, not fazed by the hard man, but aware it had been an uphill battle to subdue him and if the double-crewed section van hadn’t turned up when it did, he might have had to admit defeat and let the bastard go.
    â€˜Circumstances?’ The sergeant directed the word at Henry.
    â€˜Attended the report of a sexual assault, took the report – and this man is the alleged offender. Ran off when I told him he was under arrest.’
    The sergeant pushed his half-glasses back up his bulbous, booze-reddened nose. ‘You’re sure about this?’
    â€˜Yes, sarge,’ Henry answered, puzzled, wondering why he wouldn’t be.
    The sergeant’s lips now tightened into a disapproving knot, but he reached under the desk and came out with a blank charge sheet which he placed with a flourish on the desktop. He extracted a torpedo-shaped fountain pen from his shirt pocket, unscrewed the lid and dipped the nib into the already open bottle of Quink and refilled the pen using the lever on its side. All the while he kept a beady eye on the two people in front of him. He tapped the tip of the nib on the rim of the ink bottle and was now ready to write and record details.
    â€˜Name,’ he said to the prisoner, even though he already knew it.
    â€˜Vladimir Kaminski.’
    Once the name, address and date of birth were recorded, then the prisoner’s property, the sergeant instructed Henry to take him down to the cells and put him in number one. He could have used any of the cells that morning because they were all empty. It was a quiet morning at this end of the valley.
    â€˜This way,’ Henry said. He placed a hand on Kaminski’s huge right forearm to direct him to the cell corridor.
    Kaminski spun fiercely. Henry reared back, expecting to be attacked as the prisoner bunched his immense fists. ‘Don’ you fuckin’ touch me again,’ he growled.
    Suddenly, behind Kaminski there was a blur of speed and power as the sergeant leaned over and smacked the prisoner across the ear with a grizzly bear-like, open-handed blow that sent him spinning across the tiled floor, up against the wall.
    Henry knew what he had witnessed, knew he’d seen it, something he’d only ever heard whispered about before – but the stunning blow had been delivered so quickly and accurately and apparently effortlessly that it was almost impossible to actually say it had really happened, other than for the sound of the smack and the prisoner hitting the wall a moment later.
    Sergeant Bill Ridgeson’s legendary forehand smash.
    Kaminski was bent over double, his hands clamped over his head like a protective helmet, glaring at the officers.
    The sergeant hadn’t moved from his position. Calmly he repositioned his glasses on the bridge of his nose, picked up his mug of tea and said, ‘I do not allow any form of aggression in my police station … except from me.’ He took a slurp of tea, nodded at Henry. ‘Cell one, please.’
    â€˜Yes, sarge.’ He walked over to Kaminski. ‘Up,’ he said, jerking his thumb.
    Scowling through a pain-ravaged face, hand cupping a throbbing ear, his head ringing like a church bell in a vestry, he rose and this time allowed Henry to steer him down to the cells and into number one,