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statement from her saying she is sorry for wasting our time and that she wasn’t in fact raped, and then release Kaminski … Actually, do it the other way around. Release him, then get her statement of retraction.’
    â€˜What if she won’t make one?’
    Fanshaw-Bayley looked at Henry as though he was a dim child. ‘Oh, she will. Trust me.’

TWO
    W ith Kaminski’s bright blue and white Adidas trainers in his hand, Henry slid the key into the cell door and turned it hard, the mechanism grating rustily as the door unlocked. He pulled the heavy steel door open – outwards – as most cell doors were designed. One that opened inwards could lead to all sorts of problems with a non-compliant prisoner. Opening out gave the incumbent no hiding place.
    This prisoner wasn’t hiding.
    He was sitting on the bench directly opposite the door and Henry could see him clearly. Henry stood on the threshold, framed by the door.
    Kaminski looked coldly at him. ‘What? You come to beat me up?’
    Henry allowed a beat to pass. ‘I wish,’ he said, and even as he spoke he could feel a tremor throughout his body at the rage he was experiencing at the prospect of letting this man walk free. He didn’t care that the prosecution against him might come to nothing. That was the way of the world. But he wanted to subject Kaminski to the process: interview, charge, remand in custody. Get him standing in front of a court. Let him know that the cops meant business, even if subsequently his girlfriend didn’t have the will or courage to see it through. Henry wanted to interview him, throw the allegations at him, take his fingerprints and photograph, and do what he had promised for the girl who, whether or not she was lacking morals, he was certain had been raped. It was probably all part of her existence, but a crusading Henry wanted to show her that it didn’t have to be like that.
    Just to let the smug bastard have his liberty, to be able to do it again – and again – was screwing the young constable up. Tight.
    Kaminski’s face turned to a grin.
    Henry took a step back into the cell corridor, made a sweeping ‘after you’ gesture with his right arm.
    Kaminski got to his feet and walked, bare footed, up to Henry, so they were standing only inches away from each other. Kaminski was slightly shorter, maybe five-eleven, but he was broader, his muscles bigger and more defined from countless hours spent with weights and steroids. Henry realized he had done well to pin him down earlier and he could see why Kaminski was the so-called cock of the town. His physical presence aligned with a violent streak would be enough to intimidate and beat anyone.
    â€˜I told you, you can’t keep me.’
    â€˜Maybe not this time,’ Henry said unsteadily. ‘But I’ll be back for you. And in the meantime, don’t be surprised if your hard-man reputation gets a big fat dint in it.’
    â€˜How you mean?’
    â€˜Trust me … people will find out that you’re a rapist and that you beat up women.’
    An expression of sheer ferocity filled Kaminski’s face – one of those expressions Henry had seen often in disaffected young men like Vladimir. Intense, primal hatred. Henry wasn’t fazed and he returned Kaminski a lovely smile. At the same time he imagined head-butting him to put him down. Not that Henry had ever head-butted anyone in his life. It was just a pleasant thought, that was all. He knew he would probably misjudge it anyway and end up breaking his own nose.
    â€˜It’s incredible how such things can get out,’ Henry said.
    Kaminski’s body relaxed. ‘No one would care, anyway.’
    â€˜The ladies might,’ Henry said. But he knew the truth. The level of Rossendale society in which Kaminski lived and operated would probably regard him as a hero.
    Henry and Kaminski broke their deadlock glare and turned towards