IN THE MORNING, the sky was so blue that it overloaded Manolis’s brain. A cloud of grasshoppers swarmed across the verandah, leaping like sprung mousetraps as he walked to his car. On the drive to town, he saw something wholly unexpected. Overnight, bright yellow ribbons had appeared on trees, tied around trunks or dangling from branches. It made for a slightly less depressing journey but only raised more questions in his mind.

He arrived at five minutes to nine expecting to find the station locked, empty. But it was open, manned. Slightly stunned, he took to the tearoom with a look of both determination and surprise. Sparrow had his feet up on a plastic chair, gingerly sipping water from a stained mug. He reeked of alcohol, his hangover plainly visible. His eyes were red-rimmed, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through crooked venetian blinds. Kerr looked much the same, minus the smell. Her ponytail was decidedly askew, as if tied in haste. Her eyes were the deep cornflower blue of a vein, her skin biscuit brown.

Manolis stood before them with several pages of handwritten notes by his side. He quietly bemoaned the lack of a whiteboard.

‘Where’s Fyfe? Where’s your mythical sergeant?’

His question was met with stony silence. Sparrow refused to look him in the eye.

‘Well whatever,’ Manolis continued. ‘I’ve tried. From now on, you take orders from me. That’s official.’ He tapped the invisible chevrons on his shoulder. ‘No one here is as qualified as me. You want to stop me, you’re welcome to step up and try.’

Sparrow and Kerr looked at Manolis mutinously, and then exchanged uncertain sideways glances. Neither constable had the desire or energy to debate their senior officer.

‘Excellent,’ said Manolis. ‘We have unity, we’re a team. Now, before we begin, I need to ask whether anyone else has heard any late-night explosions.’

He waited for a response. Blank faces blinked at him.

‘Quick-fire bangs, like a bunch of firecrackers or a car backfiring? Any reports of a disturbance, or is it just some kids practising to be arsonists and starting a bushfire?’

The constables finally cracked, snickering like children. Manolis knew it wasn’t because they thought he was funny.

‘That’s the sign,’ moaned Sparrow.

Manolis waited. ‘Don’t make me ask,’ he said firmly. ‘Speak.’

Kerr sat forward. ‘Whenever a local drug dealer takes delivery of a fresh supply, they let off a burst of firecrackers late at night. It’s their way of delivering the news to their clients that they’re open for business.’

‘Word spreads like a cancer, yair,’ Sparrow added. ‘Meth heads come runnin’.’

Manolis folded his arms across his chest. ‘Clever. But it doesn’t surprise me.’ Methamphetamine was running rampant across the city as well, taking over from heroin as the cold, malevolent new scourge.