The manager shook his head gently. ‘Afraid I can’t allow that. It’s not in our protocols.’

Manolis considered the manager, his starched white shirt and perfectly straight-hanging tie. ‘Then here,’ he said. ‘But I need somewhere secure, ideally a private room.’

Onions turned away, eyed the centre guardedly. A few seconds passed. Finally, he snapped his needle-like fingers. ‘Actually, on second thought… yes, I can approve an official escort to the station.’

Manolis was surprised. ‘No, here is perfectly fine. I’m flexible.’

‘No,’ Onions said firmly. ‘Your request can be arranged. I’ll organise the two men to be at the station within the hour. You can head back there now. Thank you and good day.’

He barked an order straight from the parade ground, and the bull-necked guard hurried away. Onions followed. Manolis watched them leave with a questioning, unsettled gaze.

ON HIS RETURN to the station, Manolis found the frozen peas sitting on the collapsible tearoom table, the bag now watery and malodorous in the heat. Sparrow had gone. Manolis guessed he might’ve left to fetch another variety of frozen vegetable or meat, but had more than likely gone home.

The detective cleaned up and prepared the tearoom for interview. He soon heard a large vehicle pulling up outside. Doors slammed; voices were raised, argumentative and full of protest. The station door was flung open, and a uniformed, sunglassed Deacon bundled a limp body inside, presenting it to Manolis like a beaten old tyre.

The man stopped arguing with Deacon the moment he saw Manolis. He was tall, slender, brown-skinned, with unkempt shaggy hair, and a thick moustache that concealed much of his mouth. The canyon of an old scar shone in the sunlight. He was just as Searle had described. The look on the man’s face was one of sheer terror, his eyes wide, his body not moving a muscle.

Manolis walked over to the window, peered through the open blinds. The darkened outlines of two individuals remained seated inside a four-wheel drive, unmoving.

He looked back to the moustachioed man and his squareshouldered escort. ‘Right this way,’ he said, showing them the tearoom.

Manolis sat, offered the man a flimsy plastic chair. He remained standing, frozen. But Deacon sat, lifted sunglasses onto his head, exhaled. He crossed a leg and made himself comfortable. Manolis fired him a cold stare.

‘I’d prefer to conduct the interview alone,’ he said.

Deacon smiled canine teeth. ‘Consider me his lawyer.’

Manolis considered him. ‘Well, because you’re very clearly not his lawyer, I’d appreciate if you sat over there,’ he said, indicating the furthest wall. ‘I’d like some privacy during questioning. This is a police station, not the detention centre, and this is now official police business.’ His voice was strong, categorical.

Deacon mumbled something under his breath and reluctantly dragged his garden furniture away. He lit a cigarette, repositioned the sunglasses onto his pushed-in face, and turned to the window.