The officers shook their heads in near unison. Manolis took the paper, read.

‘Our department did some searching,’ Onions said. ‘As part of our background checks, we needed a penal clearance from overseas – from Greece, actually. It took some time for it to come through. The Greek bureaucracy is, shall we say, slightly less efficient than the Australian.’

‘Noted,’ said Manolis, looking up. ‘What’s the bottom line?’

‘We found no evidence of an immediate family,’ Onions said. ‘So it turns out he doesn’t have a wife and young daughter after all. He’s lying. Ahmed Omari made up a family to improve his chances for a protection visa.’

Chapter 32

Chapter 32

MANOLIS REQUESTED A second interview. Onions acquiesced. And this time, it would not be at the police station.

‘What’s your personal opinion of Omari?’ Manolis asked. ‘You said you’ve met each detainee individually.’

The manager thought a moment before replying. ‘In my experience, detention brings about two kinds of personalities. The first become more reclusive, they stop talking, go into their shells. The second are the opposite, they’re vocal and loud and boisterous. They’re natural-born leaders who can bring together a group to support their cause, which is when you end up with twenty shirtless men on a rooftop refusing to come down.’

‘And in which category is Omari?’

This time, Onions did not hesitate. ‘The second.’

DEACON WAS SOON leading Manolis to a part of the detention centre he’d not seen before. Sparrow followed, plastic evidence bag in one hand, second hulking security guard on the other. Their destination was some distance away from the main centre, through long, untamed grass, towards the western perimeter fence. Their primary suspect was already there, waiting, and had been told he would not be returning to the main donga area anytime soon. Manolis had expressed some concern at the prospect of a forced confession, but Onions had reminded him that the punishment was appropriate for breaching detention centre rules.

They walked about a hundred metres. Heat pulsed from the ground beneath Manolis’s feet. They passed a small building, which Deacon explained was ‘an ammunition hut, heritage listed’. When Manolis asked where they were being taken, the guard replied, ‘The managed accommodation area.’ It was not on any of the centre’s official infrastructure maps. The four main compounds were clearly marked. But not this one.

The managed accommodation area was three blue shipping containers arranged in a triangle formation. Each container was secured with a series of thick steel chains and padlocks the size of fists. The containers were windowless and appeared to have no penetration of daylight. They had a collection of minor dents and structural damage. Manolis wondered why there was a need for shipping containers when millions had been spent to upgrade the detention centre and there was no shortage of space. Perhaps the very idea of baking in a dark box was in itself a deterrent.