‘She was really upset and wasn’t payin’ attention. As she was backin’ away, she tripped and fell on a step, and hit the back of her head on some concrete.’

Manolis stared into space a moment, before blinking hard. It seemed to trigger his brain into action, his thoughts swiftly filling in the blanks. He was familiar with new ‘one-punch’ alcohol laws, which had come about from drink- or drug-fuelled assaults ending in death, often from a person’s head hitting the pavement. The punch would concuss the victim, but it was the impact against the concrete that killed them, often from extensive bleeding on the brain.

‘Molly fractured her skull and died instantly,’ Fyfe said solemnly.

Manolis found himself subconsciously lowering his weapon, as if removing his hat out of respect for the dead. One by one, the pieces fell into place. The scenario Fyfe was describing explained both the trauma to the back of Molly’s head and the lack of blood at the crime scene. She hadn’t died there, beside the oval; she had died much earlier and elsewhere.

‘Rexy said that he and Vera tried to help the poor girl, but there was nuthin’ they could do. Nuthin’ anyone could’ve done. It was then that Rex got the idea for the stonin’.’

‘So,’ Manolis said tentatively, ‘Rex stoned a dead woman to death?’

Patting his distended gut, Fyfe said, ‘Thass what he told me. Made the best of a bad situation. Ultimately, Rexy only has the town’s interests at heart.’

Manolis let the reasoning settle inside his brain. Finally, he asked, ‘So why’d you get involved, why help? Why not leave Rex to swing in the wind?’

Fyfe looked at him sternly, bullet-hole eyes. ‘Why? Cos I hate the bloody brown house too. They’re the real criminals here, not poor Rexy. Town’s gone to shit ever since that place opened. Nuthin’ but trouble – we police are run off our feet. I thought this might end things once and for all, close up shop. But all we’ve been doing ever since the bloody stonin’ is puttin’ out spot fires.’

Fyfe’s description made Manolis realise he’d been away from the tourist park too long. He needed to get back, to make the arrest. He was confident that Sparrow could handle himself; he was bold and pugnacious. But Rex had proven to be more than capable too. Manolis had to go and take Fyfe with him if necessary.

The station’s front doorhandle rattled. White light poured in as the solid wooden door creaked open. Manolis listened, unsure of who to expect. The rasping voice he heard was familiar, guttural and ragged. ‘Bill? Bill, mate, you here?’

Fyfe called back. ‘Geoff? Zat you, mate?’

The man’s features upturned slightly. ‘Yeah. Wanna make another report. Two more of me chickens, last night. Thievin’ cunts.’