Manolis saw Joe, back against a wall, smoking a tense cigarette with a faraway look in his eyes. The muscles in his legs convulsed to some hidden beat. They acknowledged each other with matching head flicks. It was a simple gesture that conveyed thanks and signified shared horrors of mercy dashes through blinding heat. Their missions were accomplished, at least for the time being.

Manolis walked over. ‘Any news?’ he asked.

Joe took a vicious drag on his cigarette, the end glowing bright orange. He held the smoke deep inside him for some time before finally exhaling and shaking his head despondently.

Manolis returned to his vehicle, fell into the seat. Needing strength, he reached for his wallet.

‘Agori mou…’

He stared at it a while, the tiny photo of a tiny face inside the plastic sleeve, smiling, happy, wanting his dad. Young Christos was fast approaching his second birthday. Manolis had missed his first; he’d been working a case. It had been another nail in the marital coffin, and a major regret that he replayed in his mind every night. He hadn’t been a good father. Too focused on his work, she’d said, too obsessed with the dead to care about the living. He hoped his son would one day forgive him. He hoped Emily would too.

Manolis had thought he was bulletproof, that divorce would never happen to him because he had borne witness to a long, successful marriage and somehow knew the secret. He didn’t. His parents had argued, fought. They’d broken the odd dinner plate and door hinge. But they had never walked away. They knew what marriage meant, and that gnawed at Manolis like the blade of a dull knife.

His pocket rang. Straightening his back, he pulled out his phone.

‘Finally,’ Kerr said. ‘Where are you?’

Manolis kept staring at the photo, scanning his mind for how to respond.

‘I’m… in town.’

She paused, searching his voice. ‘Are you alright?’

‘One hundred per cent. Any update on Onions, Omari, his family?’

The reception dropped out; Manolis only caught half of what Kerr had said, asked her to repeat it. He heard the wind blowing down the phone line.

‘No change, he’s still in solitary. I haven’t yet seen his wife and daughter; they’re being processed now, admitted, which is taking some time. But you really need to come and end this.’

‘On my way.’

Manolis turned the ignition and then the steering wheel in the direction of north. Driving to the detention centre, he felt an unfamiliar sense of freedom and relief. At last, this was something welcomed, a moment of joy and vindication. To Manolis, exonerating someone wrongly accused was almost as satisfying as convicting a criminal. And in this case, it would be even more rewarding.

AT THE DETENTION centre gates, Manolis was met by two guards who blocked out the sun. They were expressionless and armed, ready to rumble.