‘It means no, these not mine,’ Ahmed said. ‘Did guards find them?’

‘They did,’ Manolis replied.

Ahmed rubbed his jaw, sat gingerly on the bed. ‘I don’t use phone. They not allowed. Is this why I am here, because of phone?’

Manolis straightened his back. ‘You don’t know why?’

‘No. Guards come in middle of night, wake me with sharp stick in ribs, bring me here.’

In sympathy, Manolis subconsciously felt his own ribcage, still tender to touch.

Suddenly, Ahmed grabbed at his back, rotated his trunk. His spine crunched, and he let out a satisfied sigh. ‘Better,’ he said.

Manolis looked down at the wheelchair. ‘That seems painful.’

‘It is not because of chair…’

Ahmed spoke dispassionately, factually. After the guards had woken him, they’d taken him to a darkened storage room. Using cable ties, they secured him to a bed frame with metal bars at the base. They then threw the bed up in the air, let it fall. It struck the cement floor with a crack. He said they called the game a strange word, something like ‘zipping’. That was when he spat at them.

Sparrow smiled knowingly, nodded. His people had faced similar treatment. Manolis felt a sudden pain in his gut.

He shook it off and held the evidence bag before Ahmed’s eyes. Clinically, he explained the gravity of the situation. It was the claim of a false family that incensed Ahmed the most, the personal affront. A thick vein seemed to grow in the centre of his forehead. Manolis thought to add that it was this revelation that made all Ahmed’s other claims harder to believe.

The detainee looked away, avoided eye contact, then hung his head low and began muttering under his breath.

‘In the name of Allah, I pray.’

Slumping forward, Manolis gave a long, tremulous sigh. Sparrow stepped from foot to foot, seemingly unsure of his place. The container boiled with heat. Manolis fanned his face with his notepad and explained to Sparrow how the detention centre staff refused to tolerate religious practices. There were seventeen nationalities living together, and they were all made to feel like one generic unit.

‘Let him finish,’ Manolis whispered.

It was another minute before Ahmed looked up. His eyes were clear, free of rage. He spoke calmly, his words measured and even.

‘If items are mine, they must have my fingerprints.’

Manolis had asked Onions about that. ‘We found no prints.’

‘So they cannot be mine,’ Ahmed said.

‘Unless you cleaned them or wore gloves,’ Sparrow interrupted. ‘I found the same at the crime scene, not a single print.’

The detective shot the constable a stony look. Too much information, young Sparrow.

Setting the plastic bag to one side, Manolis moved a few inches closer to the detainee. ‘Ahmed, you said you would bring me proof that you were here at the centre on Friday night. Do you have any?’