Cook thought a moment. ‘I’d say there were probably about fifty people who could confirm my presence there. But I couldn’t name a single one. They were just faces that blurred as the night went on.’

‘Did you drink with anyone in particular?’

‘I drank alone. Since being condemned to life in Cobb, I’ve gotten quite used to my own thoughts and company. At the pub, someone irregularly staggered up to me, breathed on me, fell on me, laughed at me, bought me another, staggered away. There was nothing major or especially memorable about the evening. It was just another night trying to outrun the thought of detention.’

‘What about the publican?’

‘He may remember me, I don’t know for certain. I don’t remember him. My mind’s shot since I came to Cobb.’

Cook lamented a worsening memory and concentration, a mounting fatigue and loss of vitality, and a reduced ability to act purposefully, all of which he blamed on his indefinite detention.

Manolis considered his suspect, who appeared collected, unflustered, with nothing to hide. Or was that all because he didn’t remember what he’d done on the night in question? People high on meth often didn’t remember their actions. At times, Manolis had been forced to sit with horrified addicts and watch their faces turn white as he imparted details of a brutal homicide or rape committed during their high. Ice zombies, they called them: aggressive, violent and unfeeling. Those who killed were ultimately convicted of manslaughter instead of murder, but the prison sentences were just as lengthy.

The tearoom felt suddenly narrow and airless. An urgency swelled inside Manolis, left him dizzy.

‘What time did you leave the pub?’

Resting his chin on his palm, Cook exhaled. ‘It’s hard to say. Whatever time they kicked us out. One o’clock, two o’clock, or later, I don’t know. I remember it was still dark, so it wasn’t yet morning, but that’s about all.’

‘And where did you go after you left the pub?’ Manolis asked.

Cook coughed into a tight fist and served up a half-lit smile. ‘I know this sounds somewhat bohemian, but I slept under a tree. There’s no way I could’ve walked home in that state. I was tired and drunk.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘Again, I don’t exactly know.’ Cook scratched his ear. ‘It was one of the many trees between the pub and detention centre. If it helps, I think it was a gum tree. Whichever tree it was, it was mercilessly uncomfortable for my aching neck and back. I’m terribly sorry I can’t be of more assistance, Detective. It was dark, there was no moon. And I was very, very drunk.’