SPARROW SHOWED MANOLIS the tearoom with its plastic garden furniture and curling linoleum floor. A faded green sofa was against the window. Using the ratty remains of a sponge, Sparrow mopped at the base of an incontinent urn. He offered weak black coffee in a chipped mug and an assortment of dried meats made from Australian native animals. Manolis declined both. Along with flavoursome olive oil, decent coffee was an eternal struggle for him whenever he left his house or office. There, he had his own equipment and blend, thick lumps of chocolaty Greek coffee brewed black and strong in a briki pot. It was heady stuff, left unfiltered with a delicate foam on top and an undrinkable sludge at the bottom. He knew that rural Australia would be a battle, one he would surely lose.

The cops regarded each other around a collapsible table. Manolis sensed a hint of alcohol in the air. Sparrow’s left eyelid drooped slightly.

‘Here,’ said Manolis, ‘take this first.’ He tore a page from his notepad.

Sparrow studied it. ‘I know these kids. They’re good kids.’

‘I don’t think good kids go around vandalising cars,’ Manolis said.

Sparrow regarded him with a certain amount of suspicion.

‘It was my car. It’s outside if you want to see what they did.’

‘That’s okay,’ Sparrow said, pocketing the note, ‘I believe you. Leave it with me, I’ll take care of it.’

‘Thanks. I’ve always found that independence is best in police cases.’

Sparrow shot him a salty smile. He leant forward to speak.

‘To be honest with you, mate, we really appreciate you comin’ out, but we got the other situation under complete control. I dunno why they sent you.’

Manolis had expected resistance. He came prepared.

‘They sent me because this town is out of control,’ he said firmly. ‘They sent me because you’ve got members of the public assaulting detainees in parks and trying to burn down a government facility and vandalising cars. That’s why they sent me.’

Sparrow glared at him with vacant eyes. It was some time before he spoke again. ‘Yair, well fair enough,’ was all he said.

Manolis let his face soften. ‘Our superiors want this case solved yesterday. It’s a critical time for the public perception of refugees, and they want to avoid negative press.’

‘Ah, so your appointment is political. It was the same when the brown house first opened. All politics.’

The lines returned to Manolis’s face. ‘Forget politics. That’s got nothing to do with me. I’m just here to do my job, to solve a crime.’ He eyed the station, looked around. ‘So where’s your boss, where’s Sergeant Fyfe?’

Sparrow checked his wristwatch. ‘Actually, Sarge would’ve probably left the brown house by now.’

Manolis smelt his fingers, metallic from coins. ‘Is anyone else here?’

‘Nah. Bastards left me on me own.’