As hard as it was to keep up with and write down the exchanges flying across the hardwood table, Jules persevered. She took a moment to glance up at Shah, however, to see how he was doing. The soldier-turned-businessman remained impassive. Palmer was making a concerted effort to break him down, but Downing was spoiling all of his attacks.

‘When last I checked, Detective, the licensing of military-grade security contractors in the Northern Territory was not the responsibility of the local police. Final authority rests with the federal government, and they act on advice from the Free Port Development Authority. I will stand corrected, of course, but I don’t think the development authority is even required to consult with you on such matters.’

Surely Downing had pushed it too far now. Palmer looked as angry as Julianne had ever seen a man look without reaching for a weapon. A vein throbbed dark and purple on the side of his neck and he jutted his chin at the Falklander like a gun turret. Shah pre-empted him before he could fire back a reply.

‘Is there any news of my friend, Detective?’

Palmer stared at him, uncomprehending, for a heartbeat.

‘Mr Ross . . . Rhino,’ Shah added. ‘We have had no word of him since the explosion. I understand he was evacuated to one of the American ships in port. I wonder if you might have any information about that or his condition.’

The big policeman gave his head a quick shake – not to answer the question in the negative, more to throw off his surprise at it. He patted his jacket pocket as if searching for something. ‘Sorry, I ah . . . Just give me a second, would you?’

Palmer pushed himself back from the table and stood up to leave, exiting via a door next to the one-way mirror.

‘What the fu –’ Jules began.

Downing tapped the back of her hand with two fingers and shook his head, almost imperceptibly. He rolled his eyes around the room. They were, of course, still being observed.

Jules nodded and did her best to tidy up the appalling mess of notes she’d scribbled all over her legal pad. She circled a few questions she had written down for herself. Who had informed Palmer that Shah had been down at the marina? Was it significant that the cop didn’t seem to know who she was? Why had they been dragged into the station to answer a couple of questions that, as Downing had pointed out, could just as easily have been dealt with over the phone? The obvious threat to Shah’s business – was it credible? Did anyone stand behind it, or was Palmer overreaching?

‘I’m dreadfully sorry about all this, Mr Shah,’ Downing said, breaking the silence. ‘There really is no reason for you to have to put up with it. This is the lowest form of harassment and quite unacceptable. Give me the word and I will make a formal complaint.’