There was a long pause before Ahmed replied. A deep sigh preceded his answer. ‘I was in jail, of course.’ He drank his words down thirstily, draining the mug in a single motion.

Manolis sipped at his own mug pensively, considering the young man’s emotionless face. His reply was equally protracted. ‘So you were there, in the detention centre?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘The same as any other night…’

It wasn’t sleeping. He explained that most detainees rested during the day because it was too dangerous to sleep at night.

Glancing over his shoulder, Ahmed checked whether Deacon was listening. He appeared to have fallen asleep behind his dark sunglasses, his breathing steady, slow. Ahmed turned back, watched the floor with intense concentration. Careful with his words, he began.

‘In the dead of night, blood pours from the bodies of young men, just as it had on the Friday she was killed.’

Arterial gushings – in their trembling brown hands were orange razors, disposable, single blade.

‘This is the men,’ Ahmed said. ‘For women, is even worse.’

He said the female detainees avoided the toilet block after dusk for fear of being raped. They would sooner wet their beds than go to the toilets, which were some distance from the accommodation dongas and didn’t have locks.

‘This is what goes on, what happens,’ he said.

Manolis cringed. He was beginning to form a picture.

‘I very happy my family not here,’ Ahmed went on. ‘I did not promise them this, to come be raped. You can stay in Iraq and do that.’

Manolis stroked his chin, heard a scratching sound. ‘How old is your daughter?’

‘Four when I leave, now ten.’

Manolis inspected Ahmed’s arms, tried to see if there were slash marks, but his sleeves were too long. Instead, the detective wrote in his notepad. He was deeply concerned about the reference to sexual assaults.

‘Did this happen on Friday?’ Manolis asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And you were there all night?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were asleep or awake?’

‘Both.’

Ahmed checked over his shoulder again; Deacon remained still. The detainee turned back and said the facility staff regularly cut off their electricity and water when detainees self-harmed, as punishment to others.

‘I sleep two hours, maybe three. The rest is nightmare.’

‘And when did you last see Mrs Abbott?’

Manolis expected Ahmed to say Thursday, which was Molly’s last scheduled English class. But he didn’t. Instead, he told the truth.

‘Friday afternoon. I go to her school, we talk about my visa.’

‘Your visa?’

‘Yes. She is helping.’

‘What happened?’

‘We talk, me and Mrs Abbott, and with another man. After we talk, I go home.’

‘And all you did was talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘What time was this?’

Ahmed scanned the cracked ceiling. ‘Three o’clock, maybe four.’

‘And you didn’t leave the detention centre again that night?’