As they locked the doors, a four-wheel drive skidded into position outside the station, engulfing Manolis and Kerr in a thick cloud of dry dust. Hacking away the outback spores, Manolis saw the car door fling open and the elusive Sergeant Bill Fyfe fall to the earth with a cold thud. Manolis and Kerr ran over and helped the senior policeman to his feet, before carefully walking him inside, arm in arm. They laid him on the tearoom sofa, which shunted on impact then bowed in the middle.

‘City mouse!’ Fyfe sputtered. ‘Good to see ya.’

‘He’s been on a bender since Saturday,’ Kerr said. ‘Stupidly driving around town half-cut. Haven’t ya, ya dumb bastard?’

‘Shaddup,’ Fyfe spat. ‘Bring us some water, would ya, sweetheart?’

The lines on Kerr’s face appeared darkly. She went to fetch a clean mug while Manolis stood over Fyfe, watching him groan and struggle to breathe. A small bird whacked into the cop station window, making the glass rattle and shake. Fyfe didn’t budge.

Manolis was unsure where to begin, or if this was even the right moment to ask. But there never seemed to be a good time, and there was still a killer at large, which was something only he seemed to acknowledge.

‘So… how goes it?’ Fyfe spoke with his eyes closed.

Manolis eyed him guardedly. ‘Um, good. We’re just off to interview Ida now.’

Fyfe chortled. ‘Ida, eh. Well good luck with that.’

‘She found the body, right?’

‘She poured the petrol onto the fucking fire, yeah.’

Kerr returned with a full mug and thrust it into Fyfe’s waiting hand. She told Manolis she’d wait in the car, stomping away in a grim huff. Remaining in his horizontal position, Fyfe downed the water in two gulps without spilling a drop.

‘You settlin’ in alright? Like your quarters?’

Manolis placed his hands on his hips. ‘Yes, thank you. Constable Smith… Sparrow, said it was your idea.’

‘Vera and Rexy will look after you. They’re good people.’

‘Hmm.’

‘My heart goes out to ’em. Two kids, and now a kid-in-law, dead. Can you imagine?’

‘Tragic. Rex said he remembers my father.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Dad owned a milk bar in town. We lived out the back.’

Fyfe’s head rocked from side to side. He appeared to be concentrating hard on keeping the water down, the sudden lack of alcohol proving a shock to the system.

‘I saw the evidence you collected from the crime scene,’ said Manolis. ‘And then the scene itself.’

Fyfe snapped his eyes open. ‘You did?’

‘Sparrow showed me.’

‘What’d ya reckon? Any ideas?’

‘I reckon you should’ve locked the evidence and secured the scene.’

Fyfe chuckled. His languid gaze dropped to the floor.

‘Protocol, eh,’ he slurred. ‘Good one, city mouse. Look, son, no one gives a toss about protocol in a one-horse town.’