They stared at each other intently. Finally, Manolis blinked and summarised the situation for Cook: his alibi was weak, he was once in an intimate relationship with the deceased, and he’d been seen harassing her the day before she died. Quite deliberately, Cook said he understood why Manolis would be making further enquiries, and welcomed them. He had nothing to hide. What Manolis did not vocalise were the detention centre jocks they’d found in Molly’s bedroom – he would carry around that little nugget in his head a while longer.

But he did ask one more thing. ‘Who do you think killed her?’

Cook looked instantly downhearted, his features slumping. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he checked the coast was clear.

‘One of them,’ he whispered, before adding, ‘One or more.’

Manolis eyed Deacon, now absently playing with his cut-down knife. ‘Any idea which one?’

‘No. They all look alike to me.’

‘And why, for what reason? Was Molly in a relationship with a guard?’

‘Beats me.’ Cook shrugged. ‘Why does anyone kill anyone else? Rage, jealousy, money, revenge… religion.’ He said the guards were the worst of all. ‘All blundering idiots, fresh out of high school, backpackers, overseas students, you name it. Hiring is rushed, job ads on websites and social media, no training or preparation. One minute they’re driving a forklift in a warehouse or flipping burgers, and the next they’re in charge of a compound with a hundred angry men.’

Manolis eyed Deacon again, the back of his bald head bandaged, his neck thick with fat.

‘Wouldn’t you want more social workers at the detention centre, people who understand human behaviour?’ Cook asked. ‘The privatising of all this immigration detention is simply the government distancing itself from the practices that go on. Day-to-day, there’s either nothing to do or a major incident. Calm or chaos. The guards are a mix of people who either can’t handle the monotony or can’t handle the incidents. Those who are compassionate burn out quickly. If you want to last in that job, you disconnect.’

It was the same with police, thought Manolis, and particularly those who worked homicide.

‘Anyway, let’s see how I now fare when I get back,’ Cook added. ‘They talk, you know. The guards, the detainees. I bet you they’re talking about me right this minute – it’s enough they know you dragged me here for questioning. The guards shoot first and ask questions later, while the detainees have their own tribal law. But I pity more the other man you spoke with. He’ll be judged more harshly than me, even by his own people, because his skin’s the wrong colour.’

Manolis stood, shook Cook’s hand firmly and with genuine understanding.

Cook met his gaze. ‘Stiff upper lip, eh, old chap?’ he said in a very British way. ‘Cheerio then, mate.’