Onions’s own lips formed a half smile. ‘Look, son, I see what you’re saying. And I do have a heart. I know Aboriginal people have been treated poorly over many generations, so you’ve every right to protest. But this place changes people over time, I see that too. Once-healthy relationships start to sour. People bounce from one detention centre to another; they get caught in an endless system, become more irritable and impatient. They withdraw socially, start to distrust others, doubt themselves. That then manifests a number of ways. I’ve seen a grown adult man in my care stick paperclips in his eyes. I’ve seen others try to suffocate themselves with plastic bags and douse their bodies with boiling water. I’ve seen them slice their chests open, beat their heads on concrete, set themselves on fire and scream for their mothers. You don’t see those things, but I have. And here’s one more thing you haven’t seen: me, spending long periods of time with all these people, sitting and talking and trying to convince them their lives are still worth living.’

He sat back down. Sparrow released the grip on his own hand, let the blood return to his fingers.

‘But there are good days as well,’ Onions added. ‘Recently, we’ve had some of our detainees start helping out at the abattoir. A job’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ He smiled, bore wolfish teeth. ‘Gives a man a sense of worth.’

Manolis agreed with the broad sentiment regarding employment, although he imagined the detainees’ mental state was probably not helped by the fact they were in the business of death.

‘And speaking of jobs,’ Onions continued, ‘here’s something that I think may interest you in yours…’

He leant to his right, disappeared for a moment behind his vast mahogany desk. Manolis heard him opening the bottom drawer and fossicking about inside.

The detective and constable glanced at each other.

When the facility manager reappeared, he held two sealed plastic bags that he plonked on his desk blotter. ‘I pre-empted you wanting to search the two main suspects’ lockers. Naturally I can’t allow that, although we do conduct regular locker inspections ourselves. Yesterday, to be thorough, we searched under their mattresses too. This is what the guards found.’

Manolis lifted an unruly eyebrow, immediately suspicious. He always preferred to source his own evidence, particularly in an environment where so much was controlled. Still, he realised he was limited in what he could do.

Onions disappeared a second time, now to his left, rummaging about in another drawer before returning with a box of prophylactic gloves that he proffered under Manolis’s nose.

‘The guards did the same when they conducted the searches. So you know.’