‘Nick . . .’ Chandler began, but there was no point trying to stop his officer’s ardent imagination. For the next ten minutes Chandler listened to the fruits of Nick’s informal studies, listing the infamous – Chandler had stopped him when he proclaimed them ‘the great’ – Australian serial killers including Worrell and Miller, who strangled seven women around Adelaide in the seventies, Peter Dupas, who killed at least three in Victoria, before moving on to the top dog Ivan Milat. Even Chandler had heard of him, a man hard to forget, the psycho who had murdered seven backpackers around Belanglo State Forest in the late eighties and early nineties.

‘You know, Sarge,’ said Nick, breaking off from his gruesome biography, ‘maybe this guy’s a copycat, picking up young travellers, finishing them off, before dumping them on the Hill.’

This gave Chandler further concern. Maybe he did have the new Ivan Milat in the cells. Or wandering the town.

Nick carried on. ‘There was also John Wayne Glover in the late eighties. He killed six elderly women ’cause he hated his mother-in-law. He eventually hung himself in prison—’

This statement induced a moment of dread. They had taken all the necessary precautions in removing belts and laces from their prisoner but the necklace cutting into Heath’s skin . . .

Chandler charged to the door leading to the cells, hoping to hear some movement, an echo, a snore, anything. He got more than that.

‘I overheard you in there,’ said Heath, his voice desperate, his breathing choked.

Opening the slit, Chandler peered in. Heath wasn’t swinging from the window bars as he had feared, but was bright red, still playing with the cross, twisting it into his flesh as if trying to force God to help him.

His prisoner approached the gap, leaning down and twisting his head as if to try and squeeze through. ‘I’m not a killer.’

Chandler took a step back, keeping his distance.

‘I’m no monster either,’ he said, pleading. ‘Do I look like one?’

Nick’s voice rebounded off the bare walls. ‘Ted Bundy looked normal, he even volunteered on helplines; Robert Lee Yates too, and he killed thirteen prostitutes. Dean Corll was vice-president of a candy factory and murdered at least—’

Chandler interrupted his colleague. ‘Nick, we get the point. You’re upsetting our guest.’

In a flash of unexpected speed Heath slapped his hand off the solid steel door, letting out a howl of pain. ‘Of course I’m upset,’ he spluttered. ‘I haven’t done anything but I’m locked up like I’m Hannibal Lecter.’

‘You have to be patient, Mr Barwell. If you’re as innocent as you say, I’ll find out.’

‘I am,’ whimpered Heath, looking at a hand that was now as red as his face.

‘Plus, I’ll need that necklace,’ said Chandler.

‘Why?’

‘To prevent any accidents,’ said Chandler.