Detective Inspector Matthew Stannard wiped away the sweat on his upper lip, and leant his elbow on the wooden barrier beside him.  As he did so, his eyes inadvertently strayed towards the public gallery.
     For two hours he had managed to look everywhere except the dock and the gallery.  For there were enemies, boxed in as he was.  He had heard their tribal murmurs as clearly as if they had been banging drums.  Their bodies pressed against the barrier, tips of wet, pink flesh protruding from their panting mouths as they picked up the scent of blood.
     His blood.  For they knew, as indeed he knew, words were about to be pronounced that would finish him.  The courtroom inhabitants held their breath.
     The judge, long-nosed and jowl-cheeked, glared at Matthew censoriously, then turned and stared amiably at the man in the dock.
     'Wilfred Pike,' he intoned, 'you leave this court a free man without a stain on your character.'
     The public gallery erupted with a raucous cheer, triumphant in its volume and breadth.  Matthew felt nausea flood his stomach.  He squeezed his eyes shut.
     Around him was all bustle, a scurrying of bodies, voices becoming individual, a dozen conversations going on around him.
     He opened his eyes.  Wilfred Pike stood before him, strong, vein-streaked hands splayed on the barrier.  He was grinning.  Never a pretty sight, the grin disfigured his face horribly.  To his own disgust, Matthew swallowed. 
     Pike winked, then lifted his right hand and drew the forefinger across his neck in an unmistakeable gesture.  Pike laughed, an ugly gurgling laugh as an old woman, probably his mother, the resemblance was strong, pulled at his arm to take him away.
     Matthew watched them go and join up with others, relations and friends in the criminal community, he had no doubt.  As they exited, they sang a song in which Pike's and his name featured strongly.
     He sat as the courtroom emptied, realising that not one of his colleagues nor any of the familiar faces of the court spoke to him.  He wasn't surprised.  No one would want to know him now.  He was a despised breed.  No one liked a bent copper.
     'I need to clear the court, sir.'
     Matthew looked up at the clerk who stood pensively before him.  His old face showed sympathy, perhaps even understanding.  Matthew nodded.  'I know, Peter.  Sorry if I've held you up.'  He stood and pulled on his grey overcoat.  Peter opened the gate for him.
     'Your hat, Mr Stannard,' he called hurriedly, reaching back into the stall.
 Matthew took it with an appreciative nod and turned to go.
     'I know why you did it, sir,' Peter halted him.  'He's a wrong 'un, that Pike.  Been up in the dock of this courthouse more times than I can remember.  The old judge would've known.  But what with the war…'
     'I shouldn't have done it,' Matthew interrupted, fingering the brim of his hat.  'It's ironic, Peter.  I've known coppers who have done what I did, and done worse, and no one ever suspected, 'cept me.  The first time I do it, and the only time I ever planned to, Peter, I swear, I get caught.  Just my luck, eh?'
     'Rotten luck, Mr Stannard,' Peter agreed.  'What will 'appen to you now?'
     Matthew laughed hollowly.  'I'll be out of a job, I expect.'
     'They wouldn't do that to you.  After all you've done?'
     'Plenty more where I come from.'
     'Now you know that's not true, Mr Stannard,' Peter shook his head reprovingly.  'Them's that aren't in the war ain't no good.  That Pike, fer example.  Why he ain't been drafted long before this, I'll never know.'
     'Pike was declared unfit,' Matthew said, buttoning his coat.
     'Unfit,' Peter scoffed.  'The only thing he's unfit for is decent society.  Should've been locked up years ago.'
     'I agree.  But it’s out of my hands now.  Who knows, maybe I'll get drafted.'
     Peter looked downcast.  'We'll lose the best copper in this borough then, Mr Stannard.'
     Matthew wanted to leave.  He felt absurdly grateful to this old man whose presence he had hardly noticed before.  'Thank you, Peter,' he said, patting his arm.  He pushed his hat onto his head and left.
     He was stopped outside on the pavement.  'Sir,' Constable Sitwell greeted him.  'The Super wants to see you back at the station.'
     'Of course he does,' Matthew sighed.  'Are you taking me back, or do I have to take the bus?'
     'Car's outside, sir,' Sitwell said with some embarrassment. 'I'll take you back.'
     'Thank you, Constable.  Be sure to make the most of it, won't you?  It'll be the last time you get to chauffeur me about.'

     Superintendent Harold Winter’s office was as cold as his name suggested.  Walls painted institution grey, floor covered in cracked and ripped linoleum.  One rickety desk, with more ringmarks than clear wood, two large new filing cabinets and one table against the wall, stacked high with bulging files.  Above this hung a framed map of London, a pale blue snake dividing north from south.  Behind the desk, hung a picture of the king.
     George V eyed Matthew interrogatively as he stood to attention before the desk.  Winter pursed his lips as he flicked through pages in a folder before him, tutting every now and then as he came across a particularly irksome passage.  With an unpleasant sniff, he closed the file and looked up.
     ‘Well, Stannard.  What have you to say for yourself?’
     ‘Nothing,’ repeated Winter contemptuously.  ‘Nothing to say about tarnishing this station’s good name, nothing to say about the perversion of justice?’
     ‘I made a mistake, sir –‘
     ‘You’re bloody well right you did, Stannard.’
     ‘But Wilfred Pike,’ Matthew continued as though Winter had not spoken, ‘killed that old lady.  I didn’t need proof –‘
     ‘The jury needed proof,’ Winter yelled, slamming his fist on his desk.  ‘You planted evidence, Stannard.  That’s a crime.  Think yourself lucky you’re not the one going to prison.’
     “Where am I going, sir?’
     Winter glared at him.  ‘You’re going out of this station, that is all I know and all I care about.  What you do after is your own affair.’
     ‘You’re firing me?’ Matthew said calmly as if asking for confirmation.
     ‘That surprises you?’
     ‘No, sir.  But I thought I might have to face a disciplinary board –‘
     ‘We’re fighting a war, Stannard.  We don’t have time to waste determining the best place for you is off the force.’
     Angered into action, Matthew stepped forward and leaned over his desk.  ‘I’ve been in this force since I was eighteen, Winter.  I stayed in it when I could’ve joined up.  And I’ve had a few white feathers for staying.  I planted evidence because I knew Pike did that old girl.  You knew it, we all knew it, but we couldn’t make it stick.  I’ve done more for this nick than all the other coppers put together.  And now you tell me I’m not even going to get a fair hearing.  Christ Almighty, even a toe rag like Pike got a trial.’
     ‘Have you finished?’ Winter said coldly.  ‘I’m not unmindful of your contribution, Stannard.  But it doesn’t excuse what you’ve done.  You will clear your desk and be gone within the hour.  Do I make myself clear?’
     Matthew pushed away from the desk and straightened his jacket.  ‘Perfectly, sir.’  He yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind him.