The caretaker had screamed. The pervert had escaped, raising his collar as he did so. Simple but effective, because the caretaker hadn’t managed to get a good look at his face.

When the girl had been questioned, with the help of a nice lady psychologist, it had emerged that this hadn’t been the first time. Not even the second or third time.

The police had done their job well. They’d identified the pervert, and had photographed him secretly. Outside the council office where he worked-amodel employee. The girl had recognized him. She’d pointed at the photograph, her teeth chattering, and then looked away.

When the police had gone to arrest him, they’d found a collection of photos. Photos straight out of a nightmare.

The photos I’d seen that morning, in the file.

I wanted to smash someone’s face. The pervert’s, if I could. Or his lawyer’s. The lawyer had written that “the little girl’s statements are clearly unreliable, the result of morbid fantasies typical of certain individuals at a prepubescent age”. I’d really have liked to smash his face. I’d also have liked to smash the faces of the appeal court judges, who’d put the paedophile under house arrest. According to their ruling, “to avoid the risk of repetition of admittedly serious acts of the kind at issue in this case, restriction of personal freedom in the lesser form of house arrest is sufficient”.

They were right. Technically, they were right. I knew that perfectly well, I was a lawyer. I myself had upheld the same principle many times. For my own clients. Thieves, con men, armed robbers, fraudulent bankrupts. Even a few drug dealers.