Manolis reflected on what had been laid out before him: a clear impression of what Molly’s former suitor had been doing the night she was stoned to death.

‘Did Shrewsbury mention a woman named Molly Abbott on Friday?’

‘The dead woman? Nah, mate. Not once.’

‘And he was with you all night?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

Thanking Joe’s neighbour for his time, Manolis bought him a final beer. He finished his whisky, his tongue feeling deadened, and returned to his car. With the echo of abuse in his ears, he left the bottom pub in his dust, navigating through another hailstorm of beer cans and speeding back to the station.

As he walked in the door, he heard raised voices – Fyfe and Shrewsbury, arguing like unruly siblings over something only they could understand. Manolis hushed them like an irate father and recommenced his line of questioning.

‘Since we talked earlier, I checked on a few things,’ Manolis told Joe.

Joe didn’t move; his mouth gaped open, inviting the circling blowflies.

‘Your alibi is bullshit. The publican said you weren’t there on Friday.’

‘I knew it,’ Fyfe said instantly, viciously. ‘You lying piece of shit. Why’d you kill her?’

Joe started to laugh. He pressed his palms into his eyes. ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said in exasperation.

‘Not kill,’ said Manolis. ‘But you did do something.’

Lowering his hands, Joe blinked. His face lightened in colour.

‘Ha,’ he said. ‘Find my neighbour, did ya? Yeah okay, I admit it. I was with him, at his house. But she led me on, orright? His daughter, wearing clothes like that.’

Manolis felt his fingers tightening, his fist clenching. But then he let out a long, stinging sigh of despair. Standing, he turned to Fyfe. ‘Sergeant, please lock this diavolos up.’

Fyfe looked at him with wild eyes. ‘What charge?’

Manolis turned to leave. ‘Sexual assault,’ he said, ‘of a sixteen-year-old girl.’

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

IT HAD BEEN a trying, confronting morning, and Manolis’s lungs were itching for the calming embrace of sweet tobacco. He sat on the steps of the police station, his jittery fingers rolling a long, thick cigarette. When it was ready, he admired it for a moment before igniting and smoking with the nonchalance of a silent film star. The nicotine balm soothed his nerves, cleared his mind and settled his soul. He’d never encountered such an investigation before. It’d be too soon if he ever had to deal with one again.

Like his dad, Manolis’s wife hated that he smoked, a hatred that strengthened when young Christos arrived. But he was such a poor sleeper that Manolis found himself leaning hard on the crutch of tobacco, which only furthered Emily’s distance. Sooner or later, something had to give.