His mind switched swiftly to the case. He rose unsteadily, dizzy a moment. The beginnings of a headache were kicking against his forehead. His neck was unexpectedly sore. Delayed whiplash, perhaps? He dressed and rolled his morning smoke. Leaning against the doorframe, staring out into the new day, he thought the decaying tourist park appeared rather serene, exquisitely dilapidated, a tableau of former glories and faded dreams. He had no idea how Rex kept the park running; it came across as a money pit.

With Manolis unsure of when Sparrow was arriving, he decided to gather his dirty clothes from the cabin’s various corners. Bundling the garments into a garbage bag, he slung them over his shoulder like a swaggie with a bindle and set off for the laundry. The door was open a crack, a choice of four top-loading machines on offer, all with various dents and smelling of stagnant water. Manolis sighed. No chance of his clothes smelling any different, but at least they’d be clean.

There was no sign of any detergent. He scratched the back of his head and dumped his bag on the floor with a whump. Would he need to scrape together the leftover sludge in the four machines? Reluctantly, he began searching the room for washing powder. The single shelf above the machines housed nothing more than a collection of faded women’s magazines turning to pulp. Behind the machines was a pile of old cardboard sheets, standing upright against the wall. Intrigued, Manolis pulled them out, held them up. They were posters, placards, slightly water-damaged from a leaking pipe. But the image was unequivocal: Rex’s beaming moonface, airbrushed to make him look several years younger.

Manolis was now even more interested. A slogan at the bottom of the poster revealed its purpose – it was from an election. Vote One, Rex Boyd, in bold, dynamic lettering.

The man himself arrived carrying a washing basket overloaded with guests’ soiled sheets and stained towels. He saw Manolis examining his enlarged face and laughed.

‘Like ’em? Bit embarrassing, really. They came from the city. Mate o’ mine runs a printing company.’

The detective kept studying. ‘Oh, that’s right. From when you served on the council alongside Molly’s dad.’

Smiling wistfully, Rex said, ‘My platform as mayor was the local economy, and especially improving tourism, naturally.’

Manolis stopped. ‘What’s that…? You were mayor?’

‘Bet you didn’t know that, eh. But it’s hardly an achievement in a one-horse town. I only narrowly lost the election, though.’

Manolis was momentarily transfixed by Rex’s computer-enhanced eyes. ‘Narrowly lost,’ he repeated, mind working.

‘Yep. But that’s politics. Mug’s game.’

Seeming slightly embarrassed, Rex grabbed the posters, put them to one side. He shot a foot out, kicked Manolis’s makeshift laundry bag.

‘Washin’ ya garbage, are ya?’

Manolis explained his behaviour, what had led him to discovering the posters in the first place.