‘Oh,’ Manolis said, ‘I thought I saw you.’

‘Not me, mate. So you went up there?’

‘I went to check it out, yes.’

‘You catch the murderer?’

Manolis looked away. ‘Did Molly have anything to do with the detainees?’

‘Dunno.’

‘I thought you said you were close.’

‘More with her dad. Graham was an alderman, a war hero and mate. I promised him I’d take care of his little girl. Now, the bastard’s gonna bloody kill me when he sees her up in heaven before me.’

Manolis found a chair. ‘I hear there’s a drug problem in town. Methamphetamines.’

Fyfe raised a caterpillar eyebrow. ‘No way,’ he said, fake smile. ‘We’re a good little community.’

Manolis looked to the ceiling, frustration curling his top lip into a sneer. He looked back. ‘What about the theory that Molly might’ve been killed by a raging meth head?’

‘Thass a theory, sure,’ said Fyfe. ‘But it’d be wrong.’

‘Oh?’

He bared his yellow incisors a second time. ‘We’re a good little community.’

‘Who’s in charge at the detention centre?’

‘The devil incarnate.’

‘He got a name?’

Fyfe produced a tobacco tin, shoved a brown blob in between his lower lip and gum. Manolis watched with some disgust.

‘Yeah,’ Fyfe replied. ‘Onions is his name. Francis Onions. Frankie Fucken Onions. Prick from the city. Like you.’

A sudden clamour of loud voices sounded on the street outside, wolf-whistles, swearing, anger, an argument. Before Manolis could investigate, the ruckus died down, concluding with a horn blaring and a car revving into the distance.

‘Best you not keep the little lady waitin’.’ Fyfe smiled. ‘She tends to get stroppy, and especially at this time o’ the month. We’ll talk again.’

Manolis stood to go, before turning back. ‘One last thing, have you spoken to the media yet?’

Fyfe folded fat fingers into each other. ‘Media? What, you mean, like newspaper reporters?’

‘Yes.’

‘You assumin’ they made contact?’

‘A beautiful blonde woman has been stoned to death in an outback town…? I imagine they would.’

‘Well, now you mention it, there’s been a coupla calls from nosey city journos sniffin’ about. But we’ve dodged ’em so far.’

‘Doesn’t the whole town know?’

‘Prob’ly. But that means shit, son. We don’t give a toss about the city or anyone from it in the same way they don’t give a rat’s arse about us. No one really knows we exist outside the detention centre. We’re like a pimple on an ugly arse.’