There was a hush as he entered the room, quiet whispers of discontent. All sets of eyes instantly locked on to him; bleached white against dark skin, they appeared to hover in the gloom. Manolis met their gaze and shunted with clear purpose past the mismatched chairs and tables. He pushed the overflowing ashtrays away and leant against the bar to take in the scene. The killer, he told himself, could very well be inside this godforsaken shithole.

Manolis counted about a dozen souls of differing size, shape, age and level of animosity. Voices were soon heard, swearing and threatening the stranger with eviction – even violence. Others murmured to their drinking partners, a few muttered to themselves under their breath, and the rest just cocked their elbows, swallowed and stared. Most were seasoned drinkers, nursing new beers and old grievances. But there were also some minors, and a few junkies rattling with nervous energy. Two of the patrons were white, huddled together in a corner. Manolis drank it all in, straightened his spine and waited for an approach with his piece at the ready.

But none came. The bar was not a hell on earth as Fyfe had claimed. Instead, it was an abyss of desperation and despair, the end result of a community ruined by grog and overrun with hopelessness. Quietly, Manolis’s heart broke.

Eventually, someone walked over: a bearded man from behind the bar. He was wearing the unmistakable look of someone who had drunk to excess. His eyes were deep and wounded, dolorous and heavy. Manolis watched his tobacco breath emerge from somewhere within his wild beard and form a distinct cloud before the detective’s eyes.

He inhaled deeply, letting his brain swim. ‘You the owner?’ he asked, coughing.

The man’s dark eyes took the measure of Manolis. Without warning, he hoicked up a great gob of spit and deposited it noisily into an ashtray.

‘Could be,’ he replied. ‘Who’s askin’?’

Manolis reached into his shirt pocket and casually retrieved his wallet, flashed his badge.

The man squinted his red-rimmed eyes and scoffed. ‘How’d I know that’s real?’

‘Relax, mate.’ Manolis’s face softened. ‘I’m not here for you or your business. I need to ask about a man. Do you know a bloke named Joe Shrewsbury?’

The man’s eyes smiled knowingly. ‘Shrewsbury,’ he sneered. ‘That white cunt.’ He spat each syllable with precision and disgust.

Manolis cleared his throat. ‘So you obviously know Joe. Good. Was he here last Friday night?’

Lighting a cigarette, the man let it dangle from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. ‘This about that white bitch got stoned to death?’

‘Maybe,’ said Manolis. ‘First, answer me. Was Joe here on Friday?’

‘Maybe,’ the man breathed. ‘Or maybe not. What’s it worth to ya?’