The publican rested his weight against the bar. ‘This one mad fella slashed Bill’s wrist with a broken bottle, severed an artery. Bill needed three pints of blood and a pint of whisky to keep from passing out.’

Manolis slid his empty glass across the bar. ‘Thanks,’ he lied.

‘No worries. Around here, the pub’s where you go when you’re doing it tough and need a pat on the back. I’m Turps, by the way.’

Manolis shook hands, introduced himself. ‘Nice place,’ he said.

‘It’s a shithole,’ Turps replied. ‘But at least it’s an honest business. Not like that bloody brown house.’

Sparrow walked over with his empty schooner, lace stuck to the inside like spider webs. ‘C’mon,’ he told Manolis. ‘I’ll take you to where you’re stayin’, let you settle in. Thanks, Turps.’

‘See you boys later.’

Sparrow instructed Manolis to drive west, the afternoon sun in their eyes.

‘Why’d you take me there?’ Manolis asked. ‘Fyfe didn’t want a bar of me.’

‘It was only meant to be a friendly g’day, an intro. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’ Sparrow scanned the empty streets through the dirty windscreen. ‘Hopefully it’s quiet out there tonight. No trouble.’

‘Why? What’ve you heard?’

‘Just chatter.’ He paused. ‘Talk of reprisal attacks, people vowing revenge for what the brown house did to Molly.’

‘That implies knowledge of the perpetrator.’

‘Assumptions are enough. Makes life simpler.’

Manolis kept driving. After some time, he asked, ‘Her name was Molly?’

‘Yair, Molly Abbott. Taught at the primary school. Well liked, popular. Early forties, widowed.’

Manolis’s heart sank a few inches. Being separated from a loved one was unfortunate, heartbreaking. But at least they were alive. To be widowed so young was tragic.

His detective brain swiftly clicked into gear. There would be no ex-husband to chase up. An obvious lead was gone.

‘Did she have a boyfriend?’ Manolis asked tentatively.

‘Don’t think so,’ Sparrow replied. ‘But I know there’s this one bloke in town, he’s been lusting after her for a while.’

‘Lusting? Who’s this?’

Sparrow took a moment to respond, then seemed to choose his words delicately.

‘Name’s Joe. Relatively harmless bloke. Ever since Molly’s husband died, he’s been courting her without success. Even made a scene at the top pub one night.’

‘What kind of scene?’

‘Nuthin’ major. He’d had a few, made a pass at her. She slapped him, humiliated him in front of his mates. Bruised his ego. Not the first woman who’s slapped Joe at the pub neither…’

Manolis smiled to himself. ‘That’s all good to know.’

‘I doubt he could do this, though. He’s a pest, but no predator.’

‘Track him down.’

‘Mm, okay.’

‘And have you any idea who might’ve seen her last?’

‘Not yet.’