‘Well you should. We’ve now got Buckley’s if this ever goes before a judge or jury.’

‘Thass not gonna happen.’

No one said anything for a while. Manolis watched Fyfe, all gentle-eyed and useless. Having caught his breath, the local sergeant looked down at his hands, inspecting them as if surprised to find them there. Finally, Manolis extended his arm, offering a refill.

‘Ta,’ said Fyfe, passing the empty mug. Manolis topped it up from the dripping tap and handed it back. One gulp this time.

‘Cruel way to die,’ Fyfe breathed. ‘Being stoned. Imagine it.’

‘I tried. I can’t.’

‘Ever seen anything like this before?’

‘A stoning? No.’

‘Might be a first then, eh? For Australia, I mean.’

Manolis folded his arms. ‘I don’t think that’s anything to be proud of.’

‘Really?’ said Fyfe. ‘I do.’

Outside, an outlaw bikie gang thundered past, all exhaust pipes and attitudes. The window shuddered in its wooden frame. Manolis momentarily lost his train of thought.

‘I thought there’d be more of a bloodstain,’ he said.

‘Huh?’

‘At the crime scene. More blood.’

Fyfe’s forehead creased with confusion. ‘You said this was your first stoning. How would you know otherwise?’

Manolis was about to reply when Fyfe held up his hand to stop him. He then cocked an elbow and extended his arm as if throwing a dart. ‘I hear the Aboriginal fellas spear each other in the leg for payback. Like this. It’s usually done in the thigh, sometimes calf.’

Manolis paused, thinking. ‘But isn’t spearing in that part of the body really dangerous?’

‘Hell yes it’s dangerous. Spear goes in wrong and you cut the main artery, the femoral one, and bleed to death.’

Manolis thought he’d test the water. ‘Ever heard of a bloke named Jimmy Dingo?’

Fyfe smiled hyena teeth. ‘Course I have. Everyone has. And I know why you’re askin’. Don’t even bother. That story’s bullshit, a myth, it all happened years ago. It’s got nuthin’ to do with Molly Abbott.’

His words were firm. Manolis expected it, and eased off.

‘Anyway, thass what the Aboriginals do, they chuck spears,’ Fyfe continued. ‘I don’t think they chuck rocks. I’m pretty sure thass just the carpet kissers.’

‘Up at the detention centre?’

‘Thass right.’

‘Is that why you were there yesterday?’

Swinging his legs onto the floor, Fyfe sat up steadily. ‘Yesterday?’ he asked quizzically. ‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’

‘You weren’t at the detention centre yesterday afternoon?’

Fyfe looked at him for an extended period of time. ‘I was home all day yesterday,’ he finally replied. ‘In bed, sick, hungover. It was a hangover a hundred times worse than any stoning.’

Manolis wondered why Fyfe would lie. Probably the same reason he hadn’t stopped the previous day – he was hiding something. Or was Manolis mistaken? He was almost certain he wasn’t. Almost.