Ahmed stood, shunting his chair back across the floor. It startled Deacon and perhaps even woke him. He was abruptly by Ahmed’s side, restraining the detainee’s arm and preparing to march him out the door.

Ahmed eyed Manolis directly. ‘I bring proof,’ he said bluntly. ‘Praise to Allah, inshallah, and thank you to you.’

Manolis nodded his gratitude. The Iraqi was shoved forward, told to ‘move it’. After a few metres, he turned back, a half-turn, his eyes having changed again.

‘What about other man, the white man in truck with me?’

Manolis clicked his biro. ‘I’m about to speak with him.’

Ahmed smiled dark teeth, exposing jagged gums, and extended his free arm. Manolis stepped forward and shook his hand, matched his pressure. It was hefty and strong with a firm grip. The detective could not help but imagine how a rock might sit in that strong and hefty hand.

Chapter 26

Chapter 26

‘DRIVE HIM STRAIGHT back to the centre right now. We can’t leave him sitting in the car in broad daylight – people might see him.’

Deacon was growling at his colleague in the station doorway, giving him clear, unequivocal instructions. They each held a detainee before them, two arms pinned behind two backs.

‘You hear me? No more cock-ups here, Baz. This is now very bloody serious. Drive him straight back, drop him off, and then get back here to wait for me to finish up.’

Ahmed was loaded into the four-wheel drive like cargo and told to lay low. It sped away, tyres squealing. The second pairing of guard and detainee came down the hall and took up position in the station’s tearoom. Manolis again had to explain his desire for privacy. Deacon was again reluctant to grant it, and in the end sat by the window to grudgingly stare outside.

‘Mr Lee Francis Cook?’

The detainee’s sun-crinkled features tightened. He glared at Manolis with an intense inspection.

‘Yes, sir. And you are?’

His voice was deep and husky, like that of an old crooner. It was a patently Australian accent, and yet his words were clear and precise with a certain refinement that hinted at pedigree and schooling.

As with the young Muslim, the middle-aged Caucasian suspect was almost exactly as the observant headmaster had described. Manolis watched him run his hands through his scarecrow hair, tensing a pair of thick biceps in the process. His blue shearer’s singlet exposed fine hair on his forearms, shoulders and chest. Cook retained a healthy pink vigour that was in stark contrast to the washed-out Iraqi.

Manolis stood, offered water. ‘Hello, Mr Cook. My name’s Detective Sergeant George Manolis.’

Cook took the mug, and then shook hands. Manolis noticed he had hands like laundry buckets. The grip was solid, meaningful.

‘Detective, you say? Then I must be here for one reason.’ Cook sniffed the contents of the mug, and only then took a swig.