‘They do, but only in emergency situations, during riots and the like,’ said Onions. ‘The footage is routinely deleted if nothing significant is noted.’

Sitting forward, Manolis ran a hand down the front of his shirt, as if ironing it flat. ‘Would you mind if I interviewed a few of your female detainees?’ he asked tentatively.

Onions’s face pinched tight. ‘As it happens, I would. It’s a duty-of-care matter. Without an official report to police of an alleged assault, sexual or otherwise, I’m afraid I can’t allow that. I would risk breaching my government-appointed duty.’

Manolis felt decidedly powerless. Kerr had warned him, though, told him that incidents were handled in-house. The centre was its own little country, an embassy, and Manolis was a foreigner, an interloper, invading their territory, asking questions, sniffing about, probing, causing trouble. His presence was being tolerated at best. A murder enquiry under sufferance, as if he was being told: ‘Consider yourself lucky we’ve even let you see this much.’

He raised the assertion that utilities like electricity and water were cut off in the centre when detainees self-harmed.

‘Again, those are all standard operational procedures implemented by the Federal Government for the safety of those vulnerable persons in our care,’ Onions said. He looked down, admiring his blood-red tie, pulling it straight. ‘Would you prefer we turned a firehose on our detainees instead? I’m afraid this isn’t 1960s America.’

‘Yes, but is it a punishment to the others?’ Manolis asked.

Onions moistened his lips. He stood, walked over to his rubber plants, and squirted one of them with a light shower from a spray bottle.

‘Self-harm is a weapon,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Cutting arms, hunger strikes, drinking shampoo – they’re all attempts to get out of immigration detention and into an Australian hospital. It’s a bargaining tool, a form of currency.’

‘It’s a protest,’ Sparrow interjected.

‘Something I’m sure that you, as an Aboriginal person, would know a lot about,’ Onions muttered.

‘What?’ said Sparrow. ‘What did you just say?’

Manolis held up a big hand to calm his colleague, whose own hands were now balled tight.

‘My colleague’s right,’ Manolis said. ‘People are so desperate, they have only their bodies to protest with.’

‘Or negotiate with,’ Onions said. He gently wiped excess water from the plant’s leaves with a soft tissue. ‘It’s attention seeking, all sought to expedite their release or otherwise work the system.’

‘So what you’re saying is that these people actually aren’t suffering from mental illnesses?’ Manolis said hesitantly. ‘No anxiety, no depression, no PTSD?’

‘Put it this way,’ said Onions. ‘There’s a reason why they cut across their wrists and not lengthways.’

Sparrow leant forward in his chair, spoke with controlled venom. ‘So I guess that sewing their lips together is a new fad diet, yair?’