Sparrow appeared, leant against the doorframe, watched. Manolis’s other thought was of a landscape supply centre or nursery in town, if they had any record of sales or perhaps even stolen supplies. Sparrow laughed at the mere suggestion of such legitimate, worthwhile businesses in Cobb. According to the young constable, the only plants that thrived in town were ‘weeds and pot’.

‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry. Let’s get some tucker.’

Manolis exhaled, stood from the old banker’s chair. ‘Good idea. But first…’

REX AND VERA were sitting down for supper when Manolis arrived to apologise for the loss of their pickup truck. This time, there was no turning down their welcome and hospitality, particularly when a casserole dish overflowing with Ma’s famous lamb curry was presented as the centrepiece. Manolis thought the meal was a rather unnatural shade of orange. Adding to the sickening aspect was the wooden picnic table, which appeared a watery shade of green beneath the corrugated plastic pergola. Rex completed the dining setting with his home-brewed longnecks, to which Sparrow helped himself without invitation.

Rex took the news of his truck with indifference. ‘It was a bomb,’ he said. ‘Just glad you’re not hurt, Kojak, especially after what happened to your car. I’ll go collect the wreck sometime, maybe get some scrap money for it.’ He smiled.

Manolis was curious about this reaction, but at the same time unsurprised. The truck had been a heap.

After saying grace, Vera pushed hefty spoonfuls of goopy curry into Manolis’s bowl. He resisted and stocked up on fluffy white rice and emerald-green peas. ‘Mm,’ he hummed, ‘delicious, Mrs Boyd.’

She smiled contentedly, pleased to have again won him over with her honest country cooking. ‘It’s my own recipe, yep. The lamb’s from the abattoir, with my own secret blend of herbs and spices. One hundred per cent local, all natural tucker.’

Rex spoke with mouth full. ‘I reckon that’s why your dad’s food at the café was so tasty,’ he told Manolis. ‘Back then, he would’ve sourced only local ingredients.’

Manolis recalled his father’s cooking. Looking out across the barren land, he tried to picture a thriving vegetable garden. For a brief moment, he could taste the richness of a slow-cooked moussaka on his lips, only to be left with an aftertaste of nostalgia, sadness.

‘It’s been good to come back to Cobb, to see the place where I have so many memories,’ he said. ‘I can still remember kicking a football with Dad on the oval.’

Sparrow laughed sarcastically and wiped the corners of his mouth. He chugged his ale and, suitably refreshed, loosened his tongue.