They were now towards the very back of the detention centre, at its northern-most point. An aerial drone with camera hummed ominously overhead. As Manolis and the guards crossed a final patch of grass, a little girl ran across their path. Her mouth was sealed tight with sticky tape, an older woman in a black hijab in tow. Manolis instinctively went to the girl’s aid before her hand was snatched by the woman, who swiftly bundled up the girl and carried her away.

‘Her mum,’ said the second guard.

‘Keep walking,’ said Deacon. ‘Eyes front.’

The manager’s office was in a new building, up one flight of stairs. It was sparsely decorated, bland and functional, with two rubber plants contributing the only splash of green. Their glossy leaves shimmied in the gentle air conditioning. A poster-sized image of the Queen hung watchfully on the wall. Next to it, a suffering Christ melted from his cross. Manolis was offered a seat in a hard plastic visitor’s chair. He was not offered tea or coffee or water. The cool, crisp air stroked his hot sticky face.

The facility manager, Frank Onions, kept his visitor waiting. When the man finally appeared, his first words to Manolis formed a query tinged with irritation.

‘What took you so long?’

He eased into the cushioned seat of his ergonomic office chair, seemingly forgetting to shake Manolis’s outstretched hand. Onions was unsmiling and wore an expression that said: ‘My time is worth more than this.’

Behind the large mahogany desk, Manolis saw a prepossessing figure with strong cheekbones. Onions had broad shoulders but was thin, the sinews of his neck stretched to their very limits. His close-cropped hair was turning silver at the temples, and his long crooked nose looked like it had been broken a few times when he was a younger man.

‘Thank you for meeting with me,’ Manolis said politely. ‘You probably know why I’m here.’

‘I probably do,’ said Onions, showing teeth. ‘So why aren’t you out there doing your job?’ He had a steady gaze and spoke with a soft but self-assured delivery.

Manolis proceeded to detail the crime, the victim and the investigation so far, all in broad strokes. The more he spoke, the more the manager’s expression changed from disinterested to confused, and finally incredulous. His fingers, which had thrummed the desk with a military beat, stopped dead still.

At first, Onions spoke in great bureaucratic detail, words designed to bewilder and bore. He spoke about visa systems and processing times and advisory bodies and independent agencies and global population movements and budgets. He outlined infrastructure and resources and duty of care and bipartisan political support and nation-building. His speech sounded pre-written and well-rehearsed. When he finally took a breath, he fixed Manolis with striking blue eyes and showed a sharkish smile.