‘Last Friday was the end of a fortnightly roster, so the staff changes over,’ Onions said. ‘We usually have a few casual drinks here to celebrate – a happy hour, if you will. Last Friday ended up being a lock-in. It’s safer than letting people drive back to town drunk.’

Manolis scribbled. ‘I see. So, you were all here last Friday night?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you had been drinking?’

‘Yes, I’d a few drinks to unwind with my staff. But I can vouch for them and they can vouch for me. We were all here.’

Manolis thought that was a rather convenient outcome. He finished drawing the last two lines on the stick body of a hangman swinging from gallows.

‘I need to ask one more thing. I know this is somewhat of an issue in the town, but do you at all have a problem with drugs here in the centre?’

Onions’s reply was unequivocal. ‘No. Searches are conducted daily, and whenever people return to the facility. Contraband is confiscated on the spot, while drugs are illegal and would risk visa applications. Even the children are searched when they return from school. That may sound harsh, but we are thorough and run a tight ship.’

The facility manager stood and showed Manolis out, walking swiftly and via the shortest, most direct route. At the gate, he shook the detective’s hand firmly and said he looked forward to his next visit. Manolis did not tell him that would be the very next morning.

Chapter 23

Chapter 23

THE COP STATION was locked, darkened. His face slicked with sweat, Manolis peered in through the windows but heard no sound and saw no movement. A single crow harked mournfully in a nearby tree. Another day was done. Manolis drove home.

Against his better judgement, he parked outside the front office. Inside, there were raised voices again. Manolis walked on. He soon heard a screen door slam, and Rex muttering prayers and curses to himself.

In the sheriff’s office, there was a plate of rubbery chops waiting in the fridge. They were stacked high, to the point of toppling over, swimming in a pool of their own blood. Manolis decided to leave the plate of meat on the verandah and let nature do its work. The carbonised wreck of his Val lay silent. He made another cheese toastie, left a black thumbprint on the butter. He rolled and smoked a slow cigarette, watching a flock of spinifex pigeons forage for vegetable matter and insects in the disappearing light. The stars soon came out. He stared longingly at them, in awe of the whitish smear, the mighty Milky Way.