The sports oval came into view. Fyfe parked on a drunken angle and as close to the log fencing as possible. Stepping out of the car, he moved his sunglasses onto his bald head and surveyed the scene. Aside from a laughing kookaburra high in the branches, the Alfred Crapp Reserve appeared empty. Fyfe saw the overturned shopping trolley and shallow trench in the long grass leading to the oval. Careful to avoid the fresh trail, he followed it to the large gum. He had to shoo away a big mob of roos that had gathered around the tree, sniffing at the ground. They were reluctant to leave, as if protective of the body. A long Bowie knife was stabbed into the trunk about a metre off the ground, a twisted roll of tape by its base. Bloodied stones were scattered everywhere, ranging in size from tangerines to cantaloupes. A foul smell hung in the air like a presence.

Fyfe wiped his dry mouth. He approached with trepidation, fear rising in his throat like nausea. Steeling himself, he warily lifted her chin.

‘Oh, Molly. Fuck.’

The scene was just as Ida had described. Those were the details she was now circulating through Cobb, one gruesome phone call at a time. Fyfe stepped back from the body, from the gobbets of flesh littering the ground. Sighing, he withdrew the tobacco tin from his breast pocket and began to chew.

Sparrow arrived, hands on hips, unlit smoke in mouth. He saw Fyfe’s face, now heart-attack red. ‘Jesus,’ the young constable said, ‘what’s with all the rocks everywhere? Was she —?’

‘Hey! Didn’t you hear me earlier, son? You got rocks in your head, son? I said no faffing about. Get on with it. We ain’t got all day here.’

‘Alright, alright, keep yer pants on. Did you ID the body?’

‘I already know who it is.’

Sparrow unzipped his black duffel bag and began removing equipment.

Fyfe took notes. ‘Ambulance?’ he asked.

‘An hour or so.’

‘An hour…? Christ. Photos, fast.’

Sparrow snapped like a paparazzo while Fyfe continued to chew, spit and scribble. He regularly looked over his shoulder to scan the perimeter of the oval. His ears pricked whenever he heard a noise, but it was invariably the same cackling kookaburra, mocking his efforts from up high.

Without warning, Sparrow gagged.

Fyfe looked up from his sketch to see the young constable bent over, coughing. ‘You okay?’

Sparrow spat, nodded, spat again. ‘It’s the sight, not the smell. Medieval shit.’

‘Biblical, actually.’

‘Boss, you don’t reckon…?’

‘Look, probably. But not now. Reckon later. You finished?’

‘Yair.’ Sparrow closed the camera and walked away, spitting.

‘Good, get the baggies.’

The constable retrieved two garbage bags and handed one to his sergeant. After snapping on bright purple rubber gloves, they picked up all the rocks and tape. Fyfe had to wrestle the tree for the knife.

‘Right, got it all?’ he breathed. ‘Let’s get the f —’