Manolis took a very deliberate sip of his room-temperature whisky. It tasted stale and sour, an oily texture, and lingered on his tongue like an old coat. Perhaps he should’ve listened to the publican and bought a cold beer. He regretted ordering a double. Twice the pain.

‘Molly was a good woman, you know,’ Fyfe continued. ‘Real good.’

‘Good lay, ya mean…’ said a ’fly with a wry smile.

‘Town bike,’ muttered another. Laughter ensued.

‘Oi!’ Fyfe said. ‘Shaddup, you lot.’

Manolis waited for the chortling to stop before he spoke again. ‘Molly?’

‘Salt of the earth,’ said Fyfe. ‘She taught our kids.’

‘She was a schoolteacher?’

‘Yep. She didn’t deserve to go out like that.’

‘No one ever does.’

‘I’m pissed off deluxe. Those animals.’

‘Who?’

Fyfe’s glare seemed to bore right through Manolis. ‘The scum who did this,’ he said flatly. ‘Who else did ya think I meant?’

Manolis didn’t reply, drank his whisky fitfully. ‘I need to see the body and crime scene.’

‘Sure, mate. But not today. Tomorrow.’

‘Who found the victim? Can you take me to them? Why not today?’

Fyfe drained his pint halfway with a rapid, throaty glug. ‘Son, it’s Sunday. You can’t hassle people on a Sunday. That’s the Lord’s Day.’

‘Sergeant,’ said Manolis, pulling on his earlobe, ‘are you saying the day of the week takes precedence over the course of a murder investigation?’

‘Thass right, city mouse,’ Fyfe said combatively, puffing out his chest. ‘This ain’t the city round ’ere. Round ’ere, Sunday still means something. It’s a day of worship. It’s a day of rest. Rest and rehydration.’ He drained the other half of his beer and caught the publican’s eye.

‘Well I didn’t drive all this way to sit and watch you drink,’ Manolis said.

‘Frankly,’ Fyfe said, ‘I couldn’t think of anything more compelling.’ He proceeded to wrap his fingers around a freshly poured glass and saunter back to the ’flies, who slapped his back hard and clinked pints, beer sloshing.

Manolis watched them laugh and drink and smoke and sway. He leant against the bar and downed the rest of his whisky with a single gulp. It avoided the taste.

The publican reappeared. ‘Let ’em be. Like Bill said, we’re all hurtin’. Molly was dear to us all. Him especially.’

Manolis spun around. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Was he close to the woman?’

‘We’re all close. It’s a small town. Bill just sees himself as a shepherd. A wolf took one of his flock.’

‘He’s got to be professional, though.’

‘He will be, when he’s sober. Today, don’t consider him a cop. He’s only human. Poor bastard nearly died last year himself.’

‘Oh?’