THE SENTINEL 

By Tessa Harvey

    Detective Inspector Alistair Sutherland wondered at the light that was fading over the plateau. Trick of light, he thought, from the town on the horizon as he strode purposefully to where "Tony Smith" was beginning to get up, somewhat shakily.
    "Terrible storm," he was muttering. "So much lightning, awful thunder. Trying to save my boy," he added, alert to the fact that must be a senior constable at least, suddenly standing so so close.
    But the detective was not listening. He had heard such cries of innocence for a long time, and few were genuine. "Your mates have dobbed you in, Karl, or "Mr. Smith" or whatever. Two attacks on helpless women."
    You can't prove it," snarled the wrongdoer, now securely shackled and his rights explained by another constable.
    "This time we can," replied the police officer , and let his junior colleague lead him away.
    Alistair paused and spoke to the pale occupant of the other vehicle, a middle-aged woman. He remembered the name. "The mills of God grind slowly," he said, in parting, "but they grind exceeding small."    "I think that's the quote, Mrs. Schonbaum. God bless You. Justice served!"

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