Kerr showed Manolis through the hospital’s emergency department, which better resembled a shantytown. The waiting room smelt of urine and carbolic, held a deepening chill. Families camped out on long gang chairs, huddled in each other’s arms, subsisting on a near-empty vending machine in the corner of the room. At the triage counter, a woman – dragging a child behind her and carrying twins within her – argued with an overtired, disinterested nurse.

Manolis recalled the one time he’d been brought to this hospital as a child. It had been late at night with a raging fever, his body limp and carried by his father while his distressed mother spoke hurriedly to doctors. He remembered seeing, through half-closed eyes, the emergency room as uncrowded, clean and calming. He was seen to promptly, given medication and rest, and he went home the next morning with colour restored.

Kerr led him down darkened corridors where barefoot in-patients trailed intravenous drips and blood. Bypassing a lift stuck between floors, they took the stairs to the basement that was reserved as the morgue. There Kerr stopped, at the heavy double doors, refusing to go any further. She spoke hurriedly and splashed back through water puddles along the corridor, picking up speed as she walked. It was clear that she felt uncomfortable. Manolis reasoned that she’d probably identified the body of her fiancé beyond those double doors.

An Aboriginal man with coarse hair and an iron-grey beard appeared from the gloom. Manolis instantly recognised him as an elder. He wore a patriotic T-shirt in the national colours of red, black and yellow. Manolis introduced himself and shook the man’s hand firmly. The man carried with him an air of indifference as he handed Manolis a clipboard, pointed to a wall freezer and trudged away. Manolis tried to talk to him but his queries went unanswered.

The detective looked around. A corroded mortuary slab swallowed the middle of the room. The farthest wall housed a collection of rusted bone saws and bottles of embalming chemicals. It was immediately clear to him that the room was not washed frequently – if ever – and had poor ventilation. The odour was overwhelming: dense, wet, vile and almost shockingly sweet. Manolis felt it coat his skin in a thin film. Feeling nauseous, he considered exiting the room. Instead, he just retched.

‘Be strong,’ he told himself in Greek. ‘Thynami.’