‘No. I mean, yes, I not leave. I still not leave, only to come here today. No one leaves anymore. We too scared.’

Manolis consulted his notepad. ‘And this other man you were with, he is also at the centre?’

‘Yes. He is not like us. He is white.’

His mouth dry, Manolis took a slug of his drink. The water was tepid, tasted faintly of rust. He let the liquid coat his insides, burning like mild acid, and tried to swallow the tense lump crowding his throat. Dragging a forearm across his lips, he prepared his words deliberately and delivered them slowly.

‘Ahmed, please listen. The security records show that you did not return to the detention centre on Friday. That you left and broke curfew and were out all night.’

A weighty silence filled the room. Ahmed’s limbs perhaps felt heavy, as he did not move. He stared at the floor, processing the information with only pupils flitting. Manolis watched him, waiting.

After some time, Ahmed looked back to Manolis. ‘So, I am liar?’

Manolis paused. ‘This is the evidence I have before me. You need to prove to me otherwise. Show me proof that I am wrong.’

A quizzical look swept across Ahmed’s brown face. He opened his mouth and closed it again, and went back to staring. When he finally opened his mouth again, a solitary word fell out.

‘How?’

Manolis felt a profound sadness wash over him. The whole time he’d been speaking with Ahmed, he had pictured his own refugee grandfather and migrant father sitting beside him. They were judging his interrogation, grave looks of disappointment across their weathered faces. They too had once been strangers in a foreign land, and had likely been accused of something or other. Manolis felt enormous guilt and shame but remained professional. He shook off the vision and returned to task.

‘You need to show me something that says you were at the detention centre on Friday night. Something that shows you weren’t at the crime scene. Something that shows you were somewhere else. Only then can I consider ruling you out as a suspect.’

Ahmed continued staring, scanning. A soft frown appeared on his face. Finally, he blinked, and the light of an idea seemed to ignite behind his eyes. He leant in close to Manolis and spoke in a barely audible whisper.

‘It is guards. They must be. They have party Friday, everyone drinking, drunk. You see what they do in toilets.’

Manolis looked at him soberly and with clear eyes. ‘If that’s true, I need proof,’ he whispered back. ‘Words are not enough. I’ll do my best to find out more about the other things you said, but those are some very serious accusations.’