On Manolis’s instructions, Fyfe had driven to the bottom pub to arrest Joe’s neighbour for irresponsible supply of alcohol to a minor. Joe had said everyone at the neighbour’s house was drunk last Friday, and the man had allowed his underage daughter an unlimited supply of vodka. Joe had pleaded his innocence, claiming he’d done nothing wrong, that she’d led him on and he’d just fondled and kissed her. Either way, Fyfe took Sparrow to the bottom pub as insurance policy.

The detective recounted the details to Kerr as they drove to Molly’s house.

‘This is the outback,’ the constable said curtly, sounding unsurprised and unperturbed. ‘This is how we treat our women. Like animals.’

Searle’s alibi that he was home had been confirmed by his wife. ‘Only problem was that she was sleeping,’ said Kerr.

Manolis scratched his rugged chin with a leathery hand, feeling the sharp bristles emerging.

‘So we’ve got no one who can verify his whereabouts the night Molly died. Is his wife a heavy sleeper?’

‘Straight through,’ Kerr said. ‘Dusk to dawn.’

‘Hardly a confirmed alibi, then.’

Sparrow’s morning had been equally fruitless – he was unable to locate any phone records for Molly’s other names. Finding the dead woman’s phone was now crucial.

SITUATED HALFWAY ALONG the street, Molly’s house was a weatherboard with an iron roof and small chimney. It was a crude, cold construction, a rundown cottage, all asbestos and peeling paint, close to collapsing. It didn’t appear at all familiar to Manolis, who thought it looked just like any other decrepit dwelling in Cobb. Approaching the building, he couldn’t help but notice ghostly wind chimes dangling from the eaves, being blown about by a gentle breath of wind. He had to hack his way through the thick, high grass that overran the front yard. He recalled Searle’s testimony that Molly had a green thumb and was left somewhat bemused. Had that story been fabricated too?

‘Have you ever been here before?’ Manolis found himself whispering to Kerr as their heavy-soled workboots crunched up the dirt driveway.

‘Never had reason to,’ she replied at normal volume.

‘And she and Patrick lived here?’

‘Yes, this was the marital home.’

Snapping on rubber gloves, they circled around the cottage first, checking for signs of forced entry or disturbance or physical altercation. But everything appeared normal – the house was in order, the doors locked, the windows intact, the blinds and curtains drawn. No bloodstains. Manolis briefly considered whether anyone had spare keys. It was as if Molly had simply left of her own volition with every intention of returning.

‘Shouldn’t we take fingerprints?’ Kerr asked.

‘If we find something of significance. We can’t take prints of the whole house.’