Kerr piped up. ‘Is Molly her real name? Isn’t it usually a nickname for Mary or Margaret? I once had an Aunt Margaret who we always called Molly.’

Sparrow stared blankly from under his sweat-stained hat. ‘Didn’t check those.’

‘Check,’ said Manolis.

‘Check her married name too – Boyd – in case she might’ve been using that,’ said Kerr.

‘She changed her name back?’ Manolis asked.

‘After she was widowed, yes,’ Kerr replied.

Manolis shot her a look of approval. ‘We’ll search her place. There’s bound to be a phone somewhere. In the meantime, get this Joe fella down to the station for interview.’

‘Not today,’ said Sparrow. ‘Let him sleep it off. He’s bloody useless today.’

The detective tapped his chin in thought. ‘Breeds greyhounds, eh?’

‘Yair, sells ’em for racin’.’

Manolis’s father had loved the ponies, spent hours at the betting shop every weekend. Manolis never understood the allure of animal racing, let alone of emaciated canines. Poor men bet their hard-earned on races about which they knew little, briefly cheering on a mutt with an unlikely name as it ran after a nonexistent rabbit. It seemed equally cruel on the punters as it was on the dogs.

‘At least he’s no longer live-baitin’ the hounds,’ Sparrow added. ‘It was whatever he could get his hands on for a while there – possums, piglets, lambs, bunnies. All tender juicy meat.’

Manolis shuddered, a sharp pain stabbing into his thoughts. Joe sounded like a real piece of work. No wonder Molly hadn’t returned his advances.

‘Intoxication, assault, harassment, animal cruelty,’ Manolis said. ‘Right, got it, thanks. Good work.’

Sparrow paused, surprised by the compliment. Eventually, his ferrety face relaxed.

‘No worries,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘So anyway, when I was at the pub, two other things tickled my ear. First, more talk of reprisal attacks against the brown house, only worse. A few blokes were sayin’ that they’d give anyone they found roaming the streets “the punishment they deserve”. And by anyone, they meant kids.’

Manolis closed his eyes and lightly shook his head as the image crystallised in his mind. The stakes had just gone up a notch. All he could utter was: ‘No.’

‘And second,’ said Sparrow, ‘I bumped into ol’ Ian Searle.’

Manolis blinked hard, returning to his body. ‘Who’s he?’

‘The headmaster,’ said Kerr.

‘Yair, Molly’s boss,’ said Sparrow. ‘He was busy drownin’ his sorrows. Ian was my teacher when I was at school. He’s got a soft spot for me, feels for the fate of the little black poof destined to die in Cobb. Ha, he’s probably a closet bender himself, all teachers are, benders or paedos. Anyway, I buy the soppy ol’ bastard a beer, and he gets to talkin’. Turns out Molly had a second job. She worked at the brown house in the evenings teachin’ English to the reffos.’

‘What?’ said Manolis. ‘She worked at the detention centre?’