Manolis deliberated, a long and restless pause. He resented hearing the same sermon that Deacon had recited from the same operational bible. And there was an unsettling amount of ‘assuring’ going on. Finally, he asked, ‘What’s zipping?’

The detective’s question seemed to come from nowhere. Onions’s expression was blank. Kerr looked at Manolis with confusion.

‘Sorry, what, zipping?’ Onions asked.

‘Yes,’ Manolis replied.

Another pause. ‘Is that some kind of new drug?’

Manolis studied the manager, his face inscrutable.

‘No,’ Manolis replied.

‘Then I’m sorry, Detective. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

Manolis straightened his back and cleared his throat. ‘It is my understanding that Omari spat at your guards because he was assaulted during a strange underground practice called zipping, and that this stemmed from his implication in the death of Molly Abbott. Because he is no longer a person of interest, I think it only fair he be released from the managed accommodation area to see his family.’

The tone in his voice told Onions that something had changed. He swallowed.

‘And then,’ Manolis added, ‘you also have some explaining to do…’

The two men stared at each other for some time. Eventually, one blinked.

‘Of course, Detective. As I said, it’s been a challenging morning. Right this way.’

They walked with purpose, and with Manolis now leading the way, bad ankles and all. Kerr followed, with Onions’s lanky, praying-mantis frame loping a few metres behind. Two guards brought Ahmed’s wife and daughter, their arrival finally processed, their faces wet with joyful tears. Manolis greeted them warmly, the woman in a black hijab and small girl in a grubby pink tracksuit. The child was malnourished, doll like, a human whisper, but couldn’t stop smiling at the prospect of finally seeing her long-lost father.

Approaching the three shipping containers, Manolis felt his blood curdle. His breath quickened and the pulse ticked in his neck. The locks were unfastened, the chains released, the doors opened. Hard sunlight poured in, white dust billowed into the air.

Manolis was the first to enter. The guards stood back with Ahmed’s family, waiting for him to emerge and be reunited.

From the doorway, Ahmed looked like he was sleeping, head down, breathing deeply. His chair faced the furthest corner of the container. His spit hood was still firmly applied.

But then Manolis noticed that the detainee’s hands were hanging down by his sides, and the chair’s wrist straps were unfastened.

And it was only when he approached the young asylum seeker that he realised that Ahmed wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t breathing deeply, and that part of his spit hood was stuck in his mouth and halfway down his throat.

He wasn’t breathing at all.

Chapter 41

Chapter 41