Driving north, Manolis saw the Cobb Friendly Grocer with its collection of murderous shopping trolleys. A group of young men were milling around the car park, smoking, drinking, swearing, spitting, and staring at Manolis sideways as he idled past with the window down. He only had to follow his nose to find the abattoir further up the road. The stench was rank and meaty, at its absolute worst in the height of summer. The stockyards contained a handful of cattle, all of which looked malnourished, the outline of their spines and hipbones prominent, some with their ribs showing through their hide.

Finally, on the horizon, the immigration detention centre loomed. It appeared unfocused, hazy. A pole flew an Australian flag the size of a swimming pool. Beyond the fences, the prefabricated Nissen huts were distinctive with their half-cylindrical snakeskin of corrugated steel. It was cheap, ready-made housing for post-war migrants, and now even cheaper shelter for desperate asylum seekers.

Manolis approached with trepidation, driving guardedly, unsure of what to expect. He’d never been called out to an immigration facility before. Other cops had gone to centres in the city to deal with reports of civil unrest and assault, but there’d never been anything with the gravity of a homicide, let alone a stoning. As he got closer, Manolis pictured his young father emerging from the gates with a single suitcase in his hand, and an earnest hope in his heart for his new country and its people.

Manolis parked near the entrance, not far from the charred remains of two vehicles and a dumpster. He winced at the sight of the vehicles, remembering his own burnt wreck. He sat a while listening to the mufflers tick as they cooled and considering his next move. Finally, and with some unease, he approached the small demountable office building.

It was locked, empty. Coffee mugs, newspapers and cigarette packets were strewn across the front counter. There was no intercom and no phone number to ring. Manolis wasn’t sure if this was normal for a Monday afternoon; it could very well have been.

The chain-link perimeter fence was about three metres high. Manolis examined it, noticed there was no razor wire on top, which reflected the centre’s low security and the fact that some detainees were children. Being so new, the fence was sturdy but appeared easily scalable either through climbing or with a boost from below. Surrounding the perimeter, an arrangement of spectral trees showed their crooked limbs against the clear blue sky.

Manolis followed the fence east. For the purposes of reconnaissance, he planned to complete a full circuit of the rectangular centre. He walked casually but still had an alertness in his eyes. The accommodation blocks lay silent, which may again have been normal, perhaps a daily siesta. But it felt altogether too quiet as the dry earth crunched like cornflakes beneath his soles.