As he rounded the corner into Endeavour Street, his vision became reality: Ida, splintered stump in one hand, newspaper in the other, head down, goitre out, plodding. Manolis thought the end of her stump looked decidedly sharpened, as if she’d whittled it to a deadly sabre point. When she finally raised her head and stump to face the oncoming threat, she recognised Poirot instantly and referred to him as ‘the Arab’.

‘You know, Inspector, something occurred to me after you left,’ she said. ‘There’s been a stoning in Cobb before.’

Manolis stopped.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Ida, her fleshy turkey throat gobbling.

He pressed her for details: year, location, victim, perpetrator. There was every chance the old lush was imagining her today as yesterday, and in fact simply remembering the case of Molly Abbott. Or it may have just been the gin talking.

‘Long time ago,’ Ida repeated. ‘Happened outside town, late one night.’ She sounded utterly convinced by what she remembered, even though it was little.

‘Another stoning…? Are you sure, Mrs Jones?’

She didn’t reply, walked on, stump by her side. Her civic duty completed, she now had drinking to do.

MANOLIS’S ROUTE PROVED to be surprisingly direct thanks to some navigational tool long dormant in his subconscious brain. Unsurprisingly, the station was locked, empty. He sat on the steps and rolled the meditative cigarette he’d foregone the night before. He savoured the taste as if it was his last. You never know, he reminded himself.

He momentarily mused on Ida’s incredible claim of a previous stoning, before the two key suspects in the case of Molly Abbott re-entered his mind. As far as he knew, Ahmed and Cook were the last two people to see the murdered schoolteacher alive. One was a desperate individual with the relevant background to commit such an execution. The other occupied the conspicuous position of ex-lover and almost boastfully had no alibi.

Ahmed’s story and plight tore at Manolis most of all. To have endured all that he had, survived, and now to find himself where he was. Maybe Ahmed should’ve stayed in Greece, thought Manolis. Maybe Con should have too. Quietly, Manolis was immensely proud of the response by his grandfather’s country to the refugee crisis, his chest swelling with robust Greek blood. But, deep down, somewhere near his bile duct, dwelled the shame that he carried at his own country’s reaction.

Ida’s recollection continued to niggle at him like a horsefly bite. ‘An earlier stoning,’ he repeated to himself. Was that really possible? He challenged himself, forced himself to think. He couldn’t get a handle on things and swore that something didn’t add up. He made a mental note to research the possibility with police records in the city.