‘Can you describe it?’ asked Chandler. He looked at the two-way mirror and hoped Tanya was getting all this. It had been nearly a year since the last recorded interview in here. A domestic violence case. June Tiendali taking offence to her husband spending evenings with his pigeons rather than her and snapping his arm with a hockey stick.

‘A boxy car. Don’t remember the make. The badge had fallen off I think. Dark brown . . . but that could have been the dust, which even covered the windows. One of the brake lights was out, I remember that much. I half-jogged towards it thinking that they might drive off at any moment.’ Gabriel looked at Chandler ruefully. ‘I wish he had.’

‘Licence number?’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘Covered in dust too. Maybe on purpose.’

‘Okay, go on.’

‘So I got in. Maybe I should’ve looked first but I needed to get work quick. Get housed, get fed.’

‘So what did he . . . this Heath . . . look like?’ Chandler readied his pen for a description. He hoped that it was more descriptive than that for the car: unknown make, unknown licence number, a dusty, boxy vehicle. Similar to most of the shit on the roads around here.

Gabriel closed his eyes and took a breath. Chandler let the silence play out. He glanced to the two-way mirror and his reflection. A weary cop stared back at him, the sharpness of his cool blue eyes highlighting the shadowy tiredness ringing them.

‘Short . . . a few inches shorter than me. Brown hair. Tanned, like he worked outdoors. Stocky too. Said he was thirty like me, but seemed kinda . . . I dunno . . . nervous.’ Gabriel paused. ‘I probably should have spotted it then that there was something dark about him.’

‘What do you mean “dark”?’

‘Something . . . off,’ said Gabriel. ‘His beard disguised his features. As if he was slowly becoming a shadow.’

Gabriel stared at Chandler as if seeking confirmation that the words made some sense outside of his skull.

‘And you don’t have to remind me how stupid it is to hitch around here,’ he added, suddenly on the defensive. ‘He seemed okay, or my brain persuaded me that he looked okay. I knew . . . or thought I knew . . . if he tried anything I could defend myself. He said his name was Heath and he was travelling back from town with supplies. Even that made me feel better. I mean, no killer introduces themselves . . . do they?’