Manolis tore out the pentagram page, screwed it up into a tight ball. ‘What time? How long were you there?’

‘Got in about eight, stayed all night. They turfed us out at dawn.’

‘No,’ Manolis said coolly, flicking back through his notepad. ‘We’ve been told you weren’t at the pub on Friday.’

Fyfe made a deep grunt, cold and loathsome. ‘Only a guilty prick would lie,’ he growled.

The lines on Joe’s face darkened. ‘Get your hand off it, Bill. Half the town’s on the run for somethin’ or other.’

Manolis again checked his notepad, as if to jog his memory. But he already knew what he was going to say.

‘You told Constable Sparrow you were at the pub last Friday, but the publican says he hasn’t seen you in a long time, let alone on Friday. In fact, he said you’re barred from the pub for hitting another woman who spilled your beer. So, care to try again…? Where were you on Friday night?’

Joe’s eyes darted. He arched his back and slapped his chest like an ape, letting out a long exhalation of hot, tight air. ‘So, what, now I’m a suspect?’

Manolis clicked closed his biro. ‘Everyone’s a suspect unless they can provide an alibi. You tell me where you were on Friday and who you were with. Once I confirm, I rule you out as a person of interest. I’m sure this is all very straightforward.’

His calm words were a soothing balm. Joe’s breath steadied, his eyes stared dead ahead. Fyfe continued to glare at the topless man with a combination of hostility and disgust. In the harsh morning light, Joe’s fleshy love handles appeared sickening.

Eventually, his face cracked. This expression was accompanied by an incredulous laugh that escaped his tight, blistered lips.

‘Look, I dunno what to tell ya. I was at the pub. Ya sure the publican’s not lying? You sure he’s not the killer? Bloody useless blackfella…’

Manolis recalled the publican at the top pub. Turps was his name. Hair was albino white, skin the colour of ice. Didn’t look like no Aboriginal fella to him.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Manolis said. ‘At which pub were you drinking?’

Joe looked insulted. ‘What, can’t a whitefella drink at the bottom pub? There a law against that now as well?’

Fyfe whacked the plastic table with an open hand, making it shudder. ‘Smart arse,’ he spat.

Joe turned his head coolly in the local sergeant’s direction. ‘Hey, Bill,’ he said calmly, ‘screw you too.’

Manolis leant forward, placed his palms on his knees and cocked his head. ‘So you’re telling me that you were actually at the bottom pub last Friday night?’

Joe eased back onto his crate. ‘Exactly like I said.’

‘And the publican there can attest to this?’