‘Your Honour, the accused is charged with assault and possession of an illegal substance. He also threatened the arresting police officer. And we have the matter of some polaroid photos found at his premises.’

‘Let’s deal with the photos first,’ said the magistrate. ‘While they are certainly unpleasant, unless you can put names to the subjects in those photos, we can’t extrapolate as to their origins. And what’s more, I can already see a problem with your case.’ His tone was dry and uninterested. ‘The accused has a lawful prescription for the drug—even though the drug itself is now illegal. Do you have toxicology on the wine at the Commercial Hotel?’

‘Not yet, Your Honour,’ said the prosecutor. ‘It was only lodged this morning.’

‘Well, I’m looking at the accused and I can see injuries to his face …’

The prosecutor jumped in. ‘Senior Detective Pollard is here, Your Honour.’ He turned and pointed to me.

‘You don’t appear to be injured,’ the magistrate noted, eyeing me with distaste. The implication hung in the air.

I jumped to my feet and addressed the bench. ‘No, Your Honour. I was able to subdue the accused straight away.’ I fought to keep my voice neutral. I hated men like him. I imagined Charlie Buckley going home to his perfect wife and his perfect daughters—Wozza had told me he had three—in their perfect world untouched by crime. He had no idea that every time he dismissed a woman in court, the world was made less safe for all women—including the ones in his family.

‘You say he threatened to’—Buckles looked down at the paperwork in front of him—‘come after you when you least expect it?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘Well, people threaten police all the time in the heat of the moment. In my opinion, that risk is part of your job.’

‘Your Honour, the accused followed me out of the pub and grabbed me—’

‘Detective!’ Buckles’ voice boomed and crashed around the small courtroom. ‘Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?’ His voice switched in a heartbeat as he turned and smirked at the prosecutor and the defence lawyers, both men. ‘Maybe she should come up and take my place.’ He laughed and the two men laughed with him, all three turning to me. I could feel my blood boil. I clenched my fists and imagined punching the judge in the face.

When he had stopped laughing at his own joke, Buckles looked from Jack—broad shoulders, tall—to me, shorter and slight in stature. I knew what was coming. With a flick of his pen, the magistrate granted Jack bail and told the lawyers he hoped they would conduct a close examination of the circumstances surrounding Jack’s arrest injuries.

Jack’s look of triumph as he left the courtroom suggested he had won.

‘It’s only round one,’ I said under my breath.