Manolis considered the small town logic. ‘Shame that won’t stand up in a court of law.’

‘Kangaroo court here, mate.’

Manolis wiped his oily forehead with the back of a sweaty hand. He needed to get the case under control and fast or Detective Inspector Paul Bloody Porter would have his guts for garters.

‘Constable,’ Manolis said calmly, ‘I’ve had cases that I worked on for years thrown out of court for not following the book. I’ve seen rapists and murderers walk. I’ve learnt lessons the hard way.’

Sparrow ignored all warnings of extreme fire danger and lit the cigarette he’d been denied earlier.

‘Mate,’ he said, inhaling a lungful, ‘if we went by the book here, we wouldn’t make half the arrests that we do.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Manolis. ‘The only problem is that half of zero is zero.’

Sparrow smirked. ‘I like yer big city mathematics, professor. Look at it this way. The brown house was singed the night after Molly’s death. But it would’ve been razed to the fucken ground if we hadn’t done our bit to clean up this ’ere mess on Saturday morning.’

Manolis considered the crime scene: the oval leading up to the scoreboard, the area beneath the trees, the dry creek next to the oval. He saw small scraps of rubbish that were easily recoverable, cigarette butts and food wrappers, perhaps even a footprint or two with a little work. All of it was evidence. Or none of it was. It was now all the same. He imagined what might happen if he dared call in the forensics boys. He pictured them laughing their heads off – at the situation, at him – then returning to their real coffee and real police work in the city. He was operating inside a parenthesis where nothing seemed rational: a strange, logic-free zone. A trickle of sweat ran down his hairy neck.

A gust of hot wind scattered the dry leaves around his feet and nearly blew the worthless notes from his hand. Sparrow sucked hard on his smoke to keep it alight, making the end glow a violent orange. The ash vanished into thin air.

Manolis consulted the Polaroids, saw the bloodied remains of the schoolteacher’s head. ‘You know,’ he said, pointing at the ground, ‘I actually expected more of a bloodstain.’

Sparrow screwed up his features. ‘Huh?’

‘From a stoning. A human head holds many litres.’

The young constable shrugged. ‘Must’ve dried,’ he said, cigarette in mouth.

‘Sure, but there’d be a stain.’

Sparrow gave him a long look. ‘There is a stain,’ he said flatly. ‘Right there.’

Manolis wasn’t convinced. Something didn’t add up. ‘And who found the body again?’

Sparrow stamped out his smoke. ‘Ida Jones. Local busybody.’

‘Take me to her.’

‘Sure.’ Sparrow paused. ‘Only thing is, Ida’s old and tends to treat us darkies with contempt.’

‘Oh?’