Manolis slammed the door hard. It rattled on its hinges, before coming loose and sagging at a crooked angle. Rex had told him it needed fixing, the hinge pins and bushings were due for replacing. It was on the repair list alongside the car’s engine, body, interior and electricals.

‘Where’d you park the Val?’ asked Sparrow. ‘Hide it under a pile of old rags in Rexy’s shed?’

Manolis didn’t respond, his irritation growing by the minute. Instead, he called for Fyfe as he stepped through the station, trying to summon him out from the oceanic depths of whatever bottle he’d crawled into.

Sparrow called back as he followed, ‘He’s not here.’

Manolis stopped and turned. ‘Where is he?’ He pronounced each syllable very precisely.

‘He’s not far. Sit. Coffee?’

‘No,’ he replied firmly. ‘Evidence locker. Now.’

Sparrow eyed his senior officer, whose gaze was unflinching. ‘Okay, mate. Right this way.’

Christ, thought Manolis. Was he the only cop in this wretched town who realised this was a murder investigation? Did no one in Cobb respect the badge, the thin blue line, not even the police themselves? Everything in town moved at half pace, including human evolution. He wondered whether they actually taught the topic in the local schools.

‘And what about a search of Molly’s house?’ Manolis asked. ‘Organise one ASAP, please.’

‘Righto.’

‘I also want to see the autopsy report.’ ‘Doc hasn’t finished it yet.’

Another bullshit excuse, thought Manolis.

Sparrow led the way down a long corridor that seemed to narrow the further they walked. The linoleum floor was covered in all manner of stubborn stains that someone had unsuccessfully tried to remove. Manolis picked up a scrap of discarded paper from the floor and recognised it as being from his notepad. It was the names of the boys who had vandalised his car that he had given to Sparrow the previous day.

The drunk tank was again empty, its door wide open. So was the door to the room where the evidence was kept. Manolis was shocked.

‘Lock’s stuffed,’ Sparrow said flippantly.

‘I see that. No one’s ever come to fix it?’

Sparrow scoffed. ‘You think the government gives two shits about us out here in Woop Woop? Nope. Outta sight, outta mind.’

‘But aren’t you worried about people tampering with evidence?’

‘Not really, nah. And besides, there’s locks on the front door.’

The evidence room had a large metal shelving unit against one wall. The shelves were bowed beneath the weight of overloaded milk crates containing an assortment of spanners, knives and misshapen wooden implements. A rack of shotguns sat against the opposite wall, with handguns tossed into a distinctive red milk crate. None of the items were tagged in any way or enclosed in sealable containers or bags. A filing cabinet stood against the far wall, its drawers half open, papers arranged haphazardly at all angles.