Sparrow stepped through the room with purpose and dragged back a shopping trolley parked in the far corner. It had a wonky wheel.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Good to go.’

Manolis scratched the prickly new growth on his chin as he examined the trolley’s contents. There were two black garbage bags, one bulging more than the other.

‘Rocks in that one, tape in this,’ said Sparrow, pointing.

‘Tape?’ Manolis asked.

‘Yair, we found a twisted roll at the scene. Oh, and this.’ Sparrow thrust forth a Bowie knife that was so long it was nearly a sword.

‘Jesus. Where was this?’

‘Sticking out of the tree she was taped to. Wait, the file…’

Sparrow rooted around through the filing cabinet’s middle drawer until he retrieved a recycled manila folder, covered in biro and scribble. ‘Notes and photos,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Manolis, flipping through the file. It felt incredibly light. He tapped the trolley with his other hand. ‘You run out of milk crates or something?’

Sparrow chuckled. ‘Actually, mate, that’s evidence too. Be hard-pressed dragging someone to an oval in a milk crate.’

Manolis instinctively snatched his hand away from the trolley handle. He glared at the constable with large, incredulous eyes.

‘Relax, I already dusted for prints,’ Sparrow said quickly. ‘Not a single one, not even on the rocks or tape or knife. Killer must’ve worn gloves.’

‘So, she was pushed to the sportsground in the trolley?’

‘Reckon so. There was a trench in the grass leading to the oval.’

How ingenious, thought Manolis. A trolley was the easiest, least suspicious transport available. A car meant the potential for hair, spit, blood, DNA, which could all be traced. A shopping trolley belonged to no one. And if anyone had come across the murderer and victim, well, it was probably just some drunk being wheeled home by a considerate mate.

Sparrow showed Manolis to the spare office at the back of the station. It had a small desk but no computer. There was a landline telephone with the number seven missing and a dead line. Sparrow flicked on the light switch. A fluorescent tube buzzed to life after a delay of several seconds, then flickered like a strobe. Sparrow struggled to lift the first garbage bag onto the desk, bringing it down with a loud thud. A succession of softer thuds followed as he emptied the contents. Manolis turned off the fluorescent tube and opened the window’s venetian blinds. Shafts of light fell across the desk, illuminating the rough, bloodstained rocks.

‘Her blood,’ said Sparrow. ‘And bits of her insides. Christ, talk about being stoned until you’re dead.’