He took a second to arrange the photos in order, like unshuffling a deck of cards. Before his eyes flashed his first sighting of the bloodied and broken head of Molly Abbott. The photos were spattered red and black. Manolis’s fingers felt grubby. He wanted to wipe them.

‘Yair, Polaroids,’ said Sparrow. ‘It’s the easiest way.’

‘Jesus. I haven’t seen Polaroid photos in twenty years. Didn’t realise they still made the film.’

‘Can’t develop photos in town no more since the pharmacy closed,’ Sparrow said matter-of-factly.

‘And the station doesn’t have a digital camera?’

Sparrow let out a wry laugh. ‘We had one years ago, but it broke and was never fixed or replaced. The Polaroid’s more reliable.’

Manolis scanned the images. They were gruesome, even for the eyes of an experienced homicide detective. And he had seen bodies that were decapitated and dismembered. Part of his reaction came from knowing the brutal way she had died. The rest came from the eerie style of photography that made the images look like a faded memory.

Next, Manolis consulted the sketches of the crime scene, as there was only so much he could glean from photographs. The drawings had been done on scraps of paper. An elevation view was drawn on the back of an old mechanic’s receipt blackened with grease stains; someone had bought spark plugs. The field sketches were bereft of measurements and looked like they’d been done by a five-year-old. Manolis analysed the pencil-drawn diagrams, rotating them in his hands. The papers were much-handled, grimy and creased. The field notes, written on the back of a serviette, were just as illegible, as if the author had had a seizure.

‘Are these your notes?’ Manolis asked.

Sparrow swished his hair. ‘Sarge’s.’

‘Can you read this chicken scratch?’

Another swish.

Manolis re-examined the sketches and notes, then closed the folder with a snap. The rocks remained on the desk. He considered the room for a moment and tapped two fingers to his lips, searching his rabbit thoughts, while Sparrow searched his holey pockets. After finding a cigarette and lighter, he was just about to bring the two items into contact when Manolis said:

‘Right. Take me to the scene.’

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

THEY WENT IN Sparrow’s car after Manolis explained what had happened to his. Sparrow was unperturbed, claiming that vehicles used for kindling were not uncommon in Cobb.

His own car exploded to life at the third attempt. Manolis reached over his shoulder for a seatbelt that wasn’t there. Even with worn brake pads and no discernible suspension, Manolis still thought it was a smoother ride than Rex’s jalopy.

As they drove, the young constable fiddled nervously with the smoke tucked behind his ear.

‘So how much looks familiar to you?’ he asked, making conversation.