‘Reckon so. Aboriginal fella with a shaggy beard served me all night. I paid off the mortgage on his mud hut.’ Joe scratched his licey hair, liberating a cloud of dead skin and dandruff.

Manolis glanced over at Fyfe. ‘Blokes have been known to move between pubs,’ the sergeant conceded. ‘Depending on which one they’re banned from at the time. There’s no law against it.’

A pause. ‘Right,’ said Manolis. ‘I’m off.’

Time was running out.

Manolis looked at Fyfe, motioned to Joe. ‘But he stays here. You boys play nice.’

The two men eyed each other with distrust and suspicion, and with pure, burning hatred.

As Manolis walked away, he swung back to Joe, addressing him with a pointed index finger. ‘And if I find out you’re lying, I’m arresting you for obstructing a murder enquiry.’

Manolis turned and walked on.

Joe raised his voice to ensure he was heard. ‘This is exactly what they want, Detective. Those camel jockeys who stoned Molly to death, those sand niggers. It’s their plan. Isn’t it a sad bloody day when Australians are fighting among Australians to save Australia…?’

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

FYFE TRIED TO talk Manolis out of going. ‘Don’t be pigignorant and stupid,’ the sergeant said. ‘Take Sparrow. It’s what he’s for. Use him.’

Manolis disregarded the advice and drove straight to the bottom pub. Sparrow was busy working the phones, and Manolis wanted to see things with his own eyes.

As he drove, he kept a close watch for any unaccompanied children wandering the streets. But he hadn’t seen anyone who looked like an immigration detainee since arriving. The streets were empty anyway – no people, only rumours and accusations.

A gradual procession of outstretched comatose bodies ushered his arrival to the bottom pub. The vast majority were still clutching grog containers, bottles and cans and cardboard boxes of goon, silver bags of happiness.

By the time Manolis reached the epicentre, his whitefella car had been positively identified as foreign. It was pelted with a barrage of racial epithets and drink receptacles, bottles and cans clattering into the already heavily dented bodywork. Manolis dodged and weaved, accelerated and decelerated. With no windscreen, his main concern was a bottle smashing in through a side window.

The bottom pub did not look at all familiar to Manolis. It resembled a toilet block. All concrete and windowless, the flat-roofed pub was on what felt like the hottest edge of town, as if somehow nearer the sun. The smell inside was similarly latrinelike, tangy and acrid, a thick brown stench of ammonia that made Manolis want to tear the nose from his face.