The streets were deserted as he drove to the station just after lunch. It was a calm that felt distinctly uneasy, knife-edged. Sparrow was right. With word spreading and the temperature rising, trouble lay ahead.

Fyfe took to his office with the blinds drawn and air conditioner on full bore. He received a brief call on his direct line, barked into the mouthpiece and hung up. He passed the afternoon playing solitaire and drinking whisky anaesthetic. Out front, an answering machine with a dry bureaucratic voice screened all other calls. In the tearoom, Sparrow detailed the morning’s grisly find to Constable Kerr, and they began comparing theories.

The afternoon slipped by without incident. Fyfe fell asleep in his weathered office chair, as per schedule. Sparrow informed the next of kin, filed a report, stored the evidence in the dedicated room, and rejoined Kerr in the tearoom. They chewed long black strips of emu jerky and discussed the relative merits of stun guns versus pepper spray. Both items were on the station’s wish list alongside a new dartboard, riot gear, danger money and access to mental health services.

It was a second direct call to Fyfe’s office at dusk that woke both the sergeant from his slumber and the station from its hibernation. He emerged from his office caked in sweat, shirt hanging loose, fly undone, and with a steely look in his eyes.

‘That was the brown house,’ he told his crew. ‘They’re reporting two security vehicles and a dumpster on fire.’

THE AREA OUTSIDE the immigration detention centre was cordoned off. The police arrived in minutes, sirens blaring, but could only watch the metal twist and burn as they stood comparing notes with the security guards. Fyfe rested his heavy frame against the bullbar of his car while the facility manager, Frank Onions, leant against the fender.

‘I reckon the bastards from town tried to light the building,’ Onions said. ‘They reckon someone inside is guilty.’

Fyfe wiped his mouth with a big hand. ‘Yeah? How’d you reckon?’

‘C’mon, Bill. Don’t play dumb. Look. The bin’s parked right near the wall. There’s all sorts of flammable material on the other side. And those are the two nearest cars. All someone needed to do was run up and toss in a match.’

‘Well it’s certainly one theory,’ Fyfe exhaled.

‘Bugger off. It’s obvious.’

‘We’re cops, Frank. We don’t deal in obvious.’

‘Well you should. That’s your problem.’

The dumpster crackled and woofed in the flames, the inside glowing like a smelter. The stench of burning plastic and rubber intensified as separate objects melted and congealed into one. The fumes hit the back of Fyfe’s throat, coating and clinging and popping acid hot against his tongue.

‘Thank Christ there’s a northerly blowing,’ Onions said.

‘Religious intervention, eh,’ Fyfe said. ‘Good ol’ God.’