‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I need a lift.’

SPARROW CHEWED AS he drove, one lazy finger nudging the wheel, steering with as little effort as possible. Manolis scratched at his dark dusting of new beard and eyed the road with an intense focus. The roos were retreating with the rising sun, looking for anything that cast a shadow. Manolis asked where the other cops were. Sparrow said Kerr had the day off and that Fyfe would be in later. The detective wanted to ask Fyfe how his investigation was progressing and what he’d learnt.

Manolis finally brought up Ida’s vague recollection of a stoning from yesteryear.

‘The old bat’s brain has rotted,’ Sparrow replied. ‘Or finally been pickled in all that gin.’

‘So you don’t remember one happening, or hearing about one?’

Sparrow shook his head. ‘Another stoning…? Are you serious? I’d bloody remember something like that.’

As they approached a sharp bend in the road, Manolis felt a clot of heat form at the back of his head. Pinpricks of sweat erupted on his forehead and the nape of his neck. It was an emotional reaction, the fresh memory of trauma. Having assiduously scanned the scrub by the roadside, his eyes following the wayward tyre tracks, he seemed to lose his bearings the further his gaze wandered from the road.

‘Here,’ he said uneasily. ‘Stop here.’

Sparrow pulled over. Manolis got out and started walking, then stopped. He eyed the land, suddenly unfamiliar.

‘You okay, boss?’ Sparrow asked.

Manolis touched his throbbing temple as if calling up a memory. What else was he forgetting?

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just stood up too quickly.’

He walked on, muttering to himself in a combination of Greek and English, retracing the path of what may have been his last ride. He was shocked to see how far he’d travelled, the land having blurred past in mere seconds. He had to stop on several occasions, turn and look over his shoulder, then forward again, to ensure he was on the right path. For a moment, he thought his concussion was more serious and more delayed than he could have possibly suspected. He cursed his addled brain and walked on, soon jogging, past tyre marks and scattered car parts. Finally, on seeing the executioner tree, he ran with relief.

The wreck remained in place, now part of the landscape itself. Bending down, Manolis examined the wheels first, looking for weeping brake fluid and stripped chassis paint. But there was no fluid, and the paint remained. It could always have been that the brakes had just worn away. It did happen. There was only one way to find out.

Easing himself down lightly, mindful of his tender ribs and stinging knees, Manolis squeezed his cumbersome frame beneath the crumpled chassis. The brake lines were hidden at first, indistinct and unnaturally contorted from the impact. But then he saw them, and their condition was unequivocal.