‘My oath, they are. Look, just be glad my weapon of choice is a car. Some bastards lay poison – slow and painful death.’

‘I thought your people had a deep spiritual connection to all wildlife, including kangaroos.’

‘We do. But we still bloody hunt. And anyway, tell that to me cousin.’

‘Your cousin? What happened?’

‘Last year, this big red boomer bastard tore his whatchamacallit … oesophagus. Flyin’ doctor came, took him straight to the city. He spent eight days in hospital, first two in intensive care. Still can’t talk right.’

Manolis went quiet, picturing the injuries. He’d never heard of such aggression in normally docile animals.

‘And this year, Kate’s fiancé died when he swerved to avoid a roo and hit a tree.’

Manolis raised his eyebrows, looked at Sparrow in disbelief. ‘Jesus. Really?’

So, Kerr was grieving too. Manolis would need to tread gently, be mindful of her loss. So many lives touched by death. In Cobb, a long life appeared to be the exception, not the rule.

‘Yair,’ Sparrow said. ‘You’ve seen the roads out ’ere. Once you’re off the bitumen and onto the shoulder, you’re stuffed. It’s actually safer to not swerve for roos. You’re better off to just keep ploughin’ right through ’em, drivin’ straight.’

Manolis did not respond. He was thinking.

‘We’re supposed to serve the community, right?’ Sparrow asked. ‘Well I consider the eradication of pests, of traffic hazards, a community service. I’m savin’ lives.’

Manolis moistened his lips. Finally, he said, ‘That’s awful news about Kerr.’

‘Yair. Kate’s gotten the rough end of the pineapple.’

They kept driving, past the war memorial and cenotaph. Manolis recognised them both, although the soldier’s rifle had been snapped off at the end, a prized trophy for vandals. By contrast, the empty smoke packet and long neck cradled in the digger’s forearm were gestures to recognise service.

The road opened up ahead, downhill to the Alfred Crapp Reserve, named after another local war hero recognised for travelling to a foreign land and killing many foreign troops. Manolis used to run on the oval in school sporting carnivals, surrounded by crepe-paper streamers and coloured balloons, sprinting until he couldn’t breathe. His dad had even taken him to kick the football. His vague memories were beginning to stir.

Sparrow parked at a right angle to the street and led Manolis onto the oval. The detective turned, examined the road with narrow eyes. He tried to imagine the route the trolley would’ve taken, which would likely have been deliberately mapped to avoid detection. He wondered if the trolley’s hard plastic wheels had somehow marked its course – probably not.