Sergeant Fyfe did not respond. Dressed in jocks and singlet, obviously roused from a drunken slumber, he appeared grim and pale-faced. It was patently clear he wasn’t armed. The tendons in his neck stood prominent, knotted. His twitching pupils hinted at a racing mind, struggling to register what had just happened, and what should happen next. Manolis kept his arms by his sides, tensed, ready. The subsequent few seconds of dialogue remained unspoken, a conversation played out through silent but deafening stares.

Fyfe made the first move, dropping his phone, letting it shatter into pieces. He swung back to the trolley and continued to grind away at the coin slot with his screwdriver, as if Manolis was somehow invisible. The detective watched him a moment, partially through sheer disbelief at Fyfe’s complete disregard. In the end, he extended his arm, flicked his wrist and whistled. With the light catching the gun’s silver barrel, Manolis now had Fyfe’s undivided attention.

The sergeant stopped straining, relaxed his arms and held up his palms in mock surrender. ‘What, you gonna shoot me?’

‘Rather not,’ said Manolis. ‘Make a mess. But you can probably stop that now. I already know what’s jammed in the trolley.’

‘Yeah, but you need proof,’ said Fyfe.

Manolis fished around in his pants pocket, extracted the laundry token. ‘This is all I need.’

Fyfe focused on the metal disc gleaming between Manolis’s fingers like a ninja star. ‘Planting evidence, hey. Thass low.’

‘Well if it was good enough for you at the detention centre,’ said Manolis.

Lowering his hands and his gaze, Fyfe looked at the cold concrete floor, defiled with years of scratches and scuffmarks. He stared at it for some time, steadying his breathing, slowing his mind. Eventually, he started mumbling, cursing, blaspheming, a hateful mantra growing ever louder as his thoughts bubbled to the surface, spilled over.

‘I told ’em they shouldn’t have done it… Bloody told ’em, said to let it go…’

Manolis regarded him anew. ‘Who. Told who?’

He already knew the answer. He just wanted it confirmed.

Fyfe tossed the screwdriver against the dented filing cabinet, let it rattle and roll to a halt of its own accord. The trolley with its wonky wheel did the same, coming to rest on an angle in the middle of the room. Fyfe looked around, wanting somewhere to sit.

‘Christ,’ he grumbled. ‘Need a drink. Too old for this shit.’

He found the least full milk crate, emptied it of its contents – tools, knives, implements – and sat with a long, drawn-out exhalation that seemed to empty his whole body. His frame sunk with gravity, expanded, like a blob of jelly released from its mould.

With the casual flick of a wrist, and a firm ‘ahem’, Manolis reminded him of the cold metal object that was facilitating their conversation.