At that moment, Sparrow’s white sedan with blood-red bonnet pulled up. No windscreen. Manolis waved him down, threw himself into the passenger seat, garbage bag on his lap.

‘You takin’ out the trash, eh, boss?’

‘What happened to your windscreen?’

‘Incredible stroke of luck,’ Sparrow said with a shrug. ‘Some thoughtful bastard left the gift of a house brick on my passenger seat. It was just what I needed to smash against my head.’

Manolis fished some glassy fragments out from under him, tossed them onto the bonnet like he was scattering seeds.

‘Drive,’ he said, tone anxious.

‘Drive? Drive where?’ Sparrow asked, cigarette in mouth.

‘Actually… wait a sec…’

Manolis exited the car, came around to the driver’s side.

‘I’ll drive. You stay here. Keep him company.’

Chapter 35

Chapter 35

THE VOICE OF reason told Manolis to ease off. He was pushing Sparrow’s engine too hard, the car’s side panels shuddering, threatening to break apart like a spacecraft on re-entry. White cockatoos scavenging by the roadside flapped and squawked in alarm as he shot past. Roos scattered, for a change, as if sensing his urgency and recklessness.

‘Slow down,’ he told himself. ‘Better late than not at all.’

He’d taken Sparrow’s keys in case the station was locked, unmanned. For the first time ever, he prayed it was. But he needed to get back to the laundry room before suspicions were raised. How long did it take to find a shirt?

‘Step on it.’

He saw it from a distance, as he turned the corner on two wheels. Outside the station, a white truck, door open. Finally easing off on the pedal and pulling up alongside, he saw fresh skid marks, could almost smell diesel exhaust.

Diffusing the engine gently, he eased from the vehicle with no sound, left his own door unclosed. He took three swift steps to the station doors, examined them. Locked, as expected. Fortunately, he had keys.

The racket could be heard from the entrance – swearing, clanking, complaining, banging. The single voice sounded on edge, panicked, distracted, the words emerging half-formed, simian. Manolis saw no one, only heard echoes bouncing down the corridor in the sour morning light. Moving catlike along the hallway, he drew his weapon, kept it down by his side.

‘Fucking hell,’ said the voice with an air of resignation.

It was coming from the evidence locker. Manolis turned the corner, stood in the doorframe.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked.

The man spun around. He held a screwdriver in one hand, mobile phone in the other. Seconds earlier, the screwdriver had been wedged into the shopping trolley – Molly’s trolley – in a desperate effort to remove the washing machine token stuck inside the lock.

‘Are you tampering with evidence?’ Manolis asked.