‘So you were in her class?’

‘Yes. She care for us, for our English. And we knew people would come for us after she died.’

‘What people?’

An arm shot forward, pointing out the window. ‘Out there in the town. They blame us for what happened to Mrs Abbott. They say we done it.’

Manolis nodded knowingly. ‘And that’s all Mrs Abbott was to you, your teacher?’

Ahmed’s face went blank. ‘Yes,’ he said hesitantly. ‘What else?’

‘Not a lover, a girlfriend?’

Ahmed stiffened, a look of acute irritation crossing his face, his eyebrows turning in. ‘I am married,’ he said firmly, ‘I have wife.’

‘To some people, that means nothing,’ said Manolis. ‘I need to know if you were at all romantically involved with her.’

The detainee fixed the detective with a long, steady gaze. ‘No,’ he finally said. ‘A hundred times no. I not romantic with her. I am married. I have wife. We have child.’

Deep inside his chest, Manolis felt a nasty beat to his heart. He sat forward and said, ‘Ahmed, now listen. I need to ask where you were last Friday night.’

The detainee’s face darkened. Manolis saw his dancing pupils, could see his brain working. Ahmed’s eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw twitching beneath his skin.

‘First you ask if I love her, now you think I kill her? Because I am Muslim and because we stone people?’ His voice had raised an octave.

‘Please, Ahmed. Yes, I’m here to help. But I can’t help you if you don’t help me. So please, just tell me where you were last Friday.’

Ahmed stood, his broad sandalled brown feet spaced to match his shoulders.

‘Who saying this?’ he demanded. ‘Are you asking others? Many Muslims are in facility. Why pick on me?’

Deacon stood, reached for his holster. Manolis gestured that he should sit down, that everything was under control. The detective held up his hands to Ahmed, his open palms requesting calm.

‘We’re not picking on you,’ he reassured him. ‘We are asking others.’

Ahmed took two steps towards the door, as if preparing to run. His face was blotchy, red and white at the same time.

‘If I kill someone, they send me home. If I kill, I die.’

His voice broke on the final words, and he appeared to visibly calm down. The guard sat.

Manolis thought a moment before he spoke again. He’d wanted to tell Ahmed that he was being questioned because he broke curfew. But instead, he approached from a different angle.

‘Maybe if you kill someone, you stay here. If you go home, you may not serve jail time. So you stay here and go to jail, swap a death sentence for a life sentence. Sounds smart to me. When you’re released, you go home. The war will probably be over.’