Manolis took his first proper look at the murder weapon. He’d been hoping for something more distinctive, a unique colour or shape or texture. But as he examined the rocks one by one, it dawned on him that they could not have been a more ordinary collection of grey and white angular stones. The land was littered with a billion of the nondescript bastards. It was the most uninspiring weapon, and Manolis had known of people killed with teaspoons and ballpoint pens. The only thing that made the rocks in any way distinctive was the gruesome ritual they’d been used for.

Sparrow held up the gaffer tape. It was black, two inches wide, and still thick with supply. ‘You can buy these at the supermarket, this exact kind. They’ll be all over town. I got a few rolls at home myself. Hell, we even got some here at the station.’

‘So, you think the killer was a local? Or what are the chances of someone passing through town who bought tape from the shop?’

Sparrow leant against the doorframe, thought a moment. ‘Unlikely.’

‘Oh?’

‘The only things people stop for in Cobb are petrol and directions out of Cobb.’

Manolis picked up the rock nearest his favoured right hand, held it in his coarse palm, felt its weight. It was the size of a cricket ball but twice as heavy. He folded his fingers over the projectile and felt little stabs of electricity shoot up his forearm. He imagined throwing it with all his might at someone’s head from a short distance. Closing his eyes, he held the rock up to his face, pressing it hard into his cheek until his mouth contorted. Sparrow’s whole face did the same thing in slight horror at the detective’s unorthodox methods.

Jesus, thought Manolis. This was Old Testament shit. Not usually what he handled. Not usually what anyone handled.

He continued to feel the rock’s unforgiving weight. The clank of metal on wood broke his reverie. He opened his eyes to see the silver blade of the Bowie knife gleaming in the sunlight.

‘This here’s a bit more interesting,’ Sparrow said.

Manolis picked up the knife, blade in one hand, handle in the other. It was impressively heavy, particularly the handle. He held the knife at eye level, rotated it. It had a cross-guard to protect the user’s hands. The blade was as wide as the gaffer tape and as long as a wooden ruler. It was spotless, looked brand new. The beauty of it steadied him, grounded him.

‘Unfortunately, I reckon there’s at least one of these per house in Cobb, probably more,’ said Sparrow. ‘Blokes carry ’em round town all the time. They make no effort to hide ’em.’

Manolis sat back in his chair, the well-worn spring squeaking beneath his weight. He rotated the knife in his hand. ‘How do you conceal something so huge?’