Kerr smiled gently, acknowledging his apology. ‘These little snots identify in opposition, no matter who the opponent is. They relish it, then go express themselves with anger and violence. The parents do bugger-all. Boys’ll be boys.’

Manolis felt an ache of guilt as his thoughts drifted to his young son. He’d heard that children always noticed a parent’s absence more than any presence. At that tender age, absences were not readily forgotten.

Kerr pulled into a gravel driveway, applied the brakes with a loud squeak.

‘Look, I know I’m police, and we’re fair fucking game in this town – you should hear what poor Sparrow cops. We’re targets for other reasons, of course. We try to stick together, look out for each other, be mates and watch each other’s back. But the thing is, as much as I try not to be a woman, I’m still just a bloody worthless woman. And you see what happens to women in Cobb.’ She slammed the door with enough force to shake the vehicle and end the conversation.

They found Ida on the front porch with a tall glass in her hand and a sharpened cricket stump by her side. A large wooden crucifix was on the wall behind her, weeping Jesus in agony. Her gaze was distant, staring up at the sky.

Kerr said a polite hello and introduced Manolis, who asked what Ida was looking at. She told him she was ‘trying to work out a way to get up there’. She wanted a loophole, a painless way out that didn’t come with the price of eternal damnation. It appeared gallons of gin may have been the answer. She offered the officers a drink but both declined. Casting her eyes over Manolis, she referred to him as ‘Inspector Poirot’ with a lopsided grin. Ida’s voice was gravelly, her nails chipped; she smelt of aniseed. An enormous goitre rested on her right collar.

A mangy cat, whiskers crisscrossing, ears torn off, fresh from rolling in the dirt, appeared at Manolis’s feet. It snaked between his legs, rubbing furiously. He lent down and patted it, liberating a cloud of dust from its matted coat. It purred and flopped onto the dead brown grass, exposing its belly and writhing for continued attention. Ida stared down at the feline with a look of disdain.

‘You’re a slut,’ she rasped. ‘Ya slut cat.’

Manolis heard the clack of her tongue in her dry mouth. He stood with notepad in hand and asked about the events of Saturday morning.

‘I went and stole my morning paper, then came home.’ She uttered her words flippantly, like it was any other day, and returned to methodically slurping her gin. Eventually, Kerr had to prompt her.

‘Godless whore,’ Ida spat. ‘Got what she deserved.’

‘Did you see anyone in the area when you found the body?’ Manolis asked clearly.

‘Not a soul,’ Ida replied.

‘What time was that?’