Manolis wanted to hurl a stream of abuse at the disrespectful youths, tell them those cars were tin cans beside his Val. He thought to collar the punks, drag their skinny arses in for vandalism. But taking charge of the case himself would mean filling in paperwork, preparing a brief, and so on. And he hadn’t been sent here to do that.

Filling his lungs, Manolis strode over to the kids. Identifying himself as a policeman did little to garner their attention. It was only when he mentioned he was a ‘detective from the city’ that he swiftly ended their fun.

‘Now, gentlemen, I want your names and addresses,’ he said calmly. He pulled a notepad from his pocket and began scratching away with a supermarket biro.

The boys answered one after the other, stony-faced, no tone.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Manolis finally said. ‘Have a nice day.’

Reefing the steering wheel clockwise, he drove on.

The wooden cop shop came into view. As Manolis pulled up, a strange rattling sound came from beneath the bonnet. That wasn’t there before, he thought. Surely it wasn’t the kids at the servo as well. Was it? He reminded himself to get it looked at on his return to the city.

Manolis sat, watched, waited. The station was as lifeless as the town. Porter had never said anything about this. Manolis checked his phone – no reception. Approaching the station door, he bashed twice, called out. He peered through the window, obscured by metallic mesh security grilles. Seeing nothing, he crunched back to the street and gathered his thoughts under a brutal sky of boundless blue.

‘What in God’s name am I doing here…?’ he asked himself. Cobb had certainly laid out the welcome mat.

Behind him, the sound of a deadbolt lock being opened. He swung around to see a hard face scowling at him.

‘You Manolis?’

‘Yes. Hi.’

The face softened, a thin arm extended. ‘Constable Andrew Smith, but everyone calls me Sparrow. Come in.’

Sparrow was a callow stripling who spoke with an easy, laid-back drawl. He had skin the colour of dark ale, which made a striking contrast against his powder-blue shirt. He wore pressed navy shorts, long white socks and sensible black shoes.

Manolis was surprised to find more blowflies inside the cop shop than out on the street.

‘Welcome to Cobb,’ Sparrow said. ‘Boss told me to expect you.’

‘Is that Fyfe? Where’s he?’

‘Up at the brown house, trying to sort out the —’

‘Wait, he’s where?’

‘The brown house,’ said Sparrow. ‘You’ll hear people call it that around Cobb. It’s the new immigration detention centre at the northern end of town. You’re here about the homicide on Friday night, yair?’

Chapter 3

Chapter 3