THE PHONE CALL woke George Manolis at dawn, on a Sunday no less. He lay with his head buried in the pillow, hearing Detective Inspector Porter describe a small town with a big problem. Manolis yawned, scratched the sleep out of his eyes and numbly said ‘uh-huh’ a few times, before ending the conversation with a noncommittal grunt. Reluctantly, he got out of bed.

Manolis showered, long and hot. He’d been craving a day off. That Sunday was supposed to be his first in three weeks after working a junkie-on-junkie homicide. So much for the break that Paul Bloody Porter had promised him.

Manolis shaved four days’ worth of silver stubble, ran hands through his hair, now more salt than pepper. Examining his forty-year-old face in the bathroom mirror, he inspected his angular jaw, newest wrinkles and deep brown eyes, slightly bloodshot. His best years were behind him, but he remained ruggedly handsome. Selecting a charcoal-grey suit and crisp white shirt from his wardrobe, he stood before the wall mirror.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Ready.’

In the kitchen, he boiled a shot of strong Greek coffee, dark and viscous like mapping ink. He slurped it thoughtfully. Smoking a cigarette, he opened his phone, examined a map of his upcoming route, viewed photos of his destination, checked the region’s weather forecast. He was frustrated he couldn’t access more, but Porter had made it clear that some information was classified.

Manolis also checked his messages, hoping for something from his wife. But there was nothing. He was not at peace with their recent separation and suffering as a result. He still loved Emily deeply and missed her terribly.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he told himself in Greek. ‘Ola kala…’

Manolis spoke to himself often, a carryover from childhood, from having no siblings and keeping his own company. Speaking in Greek was another remnant; it calmed him to hear his first language. But it still embarrassed him when he was caught talking to himself, to have people think he was crazy.

He avoided the news, radio and TV and otherwise. It was all bad anyway, doom and gloom. Instead, sipping his coffee, smoking his smoke, he stood before the fridge door. He studied it, casting his eyes across the glossy images of his toddler son. These were the latest photos Emily had sent, and he gazed upon them as if taking in nourishment, gathering strength. He spoke to them, said all the things he could no longer say in person each day. There were no photos of his wife; it hurt too much to look at her image. Next to his son were photos of his elderly parents. He avoided conversation with them altogether; Con had recently died, which had left Manolis feeling bereft and his mum despairing.

Eventually, Manolis turned away. Packing a bag with precision and efficiency, he pocketed his badge, and closed his apartment door behind him with a muted click.