He again fed it saltines, this time smeared with crunchy peanut butter, which it approached cautiously at first, then ate with gusto, licking its sticky lips.

Manolis also heard the fireworks again and fell back into bed with a long sigh, extending a bare arm across the scratchy sheets. He missed Emily. He missed her in bed, her deep breathing, her steadying presence and reassuring warmth.

Closing his eyes, he waited for his nightmare to restart: a bloodied, disfigured Molly Abbott being pelted with stones and screaming for her life. At times, he clutched his own head and face, or ground his back teeth further into pulp. The image would not dislodge; it interrupted his sleep. He feared it would be with him for some time. He wanted to forget it.

IN THE MORNING, the sky was yellow and rotting. Manolis could feel the heat coming out of the ground as he walked to his car. Vera was in her front yard, trying to tame some weeds. Her plastic goggles, vinyl gloves, rubber pants and gumboots made Manolis wonder if she was using Agent Orange. She waved when she saw him and went to remove her respirator mask. He waved back but kept walking.

She stood, goggles on forehead, mask hanging loose around her neck. A dark mark of sweat trailed between her breasts.

‘Lamb curry tonight, love?’ she asked. Her Jekyll voice was light, airy, and in stark contrast to the harsh screeching the night before. ‘Or I can grill some lamb chops or a juicy T-bone? The steaks from our abattoir are thicker than your arm.’

Manolis wrestled with the starter motor, swore at it in Greek. Bloody car wouldn’t kick over on purpose, he thought. God was punishing him for being such a heathen. Vera was waiting, face bright, hopeful. He’d better answer.

‘That’s a very generous offer, Mrs Boyd, but unfortunately I suspect I may be working late tonight.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got some leads then, eh. We sincerely appreciate it, Detective, thank you.’

‘No thanks necessary. I’m just doing my job.’

‘Are they Muslims?’

Manolis did not respond.

‘I knew it…’ She spoke with a sudden hateful smile, turning her head west, to the direction of the devil.

Manolis looked at her blankly. Vera was short and dumpy, the size of a garden gnome. Her cheeks were ruby red, glowing like hot coals in the roasting sun.

‘I can’t talk about the case,’ he said simply.

Her smile evaporated, her face turning down. Twice in two minutes he’d disappointed her. He continued to grind the key into the ignition, cursing both Jesus and God in the process. Vera looked at him with wrathful eyes. She wanted to scold him for his rampant blasphemy but held her tongue. In the end, she turned the other way, facing east, to confirm her faith.