Chapter 40

HITTING A RECEPTION hotspot near town, Manolis’s phone buzzed to life with multiple messages. He didn’t stop to check but knew who they’d be from.

The hospital appeared like a billabong in the dry, perilous outback. Manolis left skid marks in the emergency bay, showed his badge. Two teenage paramedics appeared, stubbed out their smokes, hiked up their baggy trousers and stretchered Rex inside. Manolis bent forward, hands on knees, and exhaled a tight lungful of brown air. Rex’s injuries were extensive, his chances of survival slim, and even less behind the doors of Cobb Base Hospital.

Manolis saw Joe, back against a wall, smoking a tense cigarette with a faraway look in his eyes. The muscles in his legs convulsed to some hidden beat. They acknowledged each other with matching head flicks. It was a simple gesture that conveyed thanks and signified shared horrors of mercy dashes through blinding heat. Their missions were accomplished, at least for the time being.

Manolis walked over. ‘Any news?’ he asked.

Joe took a vicious drag on his cigarette, the end glowing bright orange. He held the smoke deep inside him for some time before finally exhaling and shaking his head despondently.

Manolis returned to his vehicle, fell into the seat. Needing strength, he reached for his wallet.

‘Agori mou…’

He stared at it a while, the tiny photo of a tiny face inside the plastic sleeve, smiling, happy, wanting his dad. Young Christos was fast approaching his second birthday. Manolis had missed his first; he’d been working a case. It had been another nail in the marital coffin, and a major regret that he replayed in his mind every night. He hadn’t been a good father. Too focused on his work, she’d said, too obsessed with the dead to care about the living. He hoped his son would one day forgive him. He hoped Emily would too.

Manolis had thought he was bulletproof, that divorce would never happen to him because he had borne witness to a long, successful marriage and somehow knew the secret. He didn’t. His parents had argued, fought. They’d broken the odd dinner plate and door hinge. But they had never walked away. They knew what marriage meant, and that gnawed at Manolis like the blade of a dull knife.

His pocket rang. Straightening his back, he pulled out his phone.

‘Finally,’ Kerr said. ‘Where are you?’

Manolis kept staring at the photo, scanning his mind for how to respond.

‘I’m… in town.’

She paused, searching his voice. ‘Are you alright?’

‘One hundred per cent. Any update on Onions, Omari, his family?’

The reception dropped out; Manolis only caught half of what Kerr had said, asked her to repeat it. He heard the wind blowing down the phone line.

‘No change, he’s still in solitary. I haven’t yet seen his wife and daughter; they’re being processed now, admitted, which is taking some time. But you really need to come and end this.’

‘On my way.’

Manolis turned the ignition and then the steering wheel in the direction of north. Driving to the detention centre, he felt an unfamiliar sense of freedom and relief. At last, this was something welcomed, a moment of joy and vindication. To Manolis, exonerating someone wrongly accused was almost as satisfying as convicting a criminal. And in this case, it would be even more rewarding.

AT THE DETENTION centre gates, Manolis was met by two guards who blocked out the sun. They were expressionless and armed, ready to rumble.

Kerr appeared. ‘You made it,’ she said, smiling.

Manolis examined her face all over. She was sweaty and creased, the dark lines in her skin reflecting an accumulated tension.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine. What happened, where’s Sparrow?’

‘Where’s Onions?’

‘He’s coming now.’

‘And Omari’s family?’

‘They’re still inside.’

The two officers were led to the administration building where they sat and waited in the air-conditioned calm. Manolis asked for a cup of water, which he was given with great reluctance. He told Kerr about Rex and Vera, and of course Sparrow. She was immediately distressed; she loved him like a little brother.

Onions arrived, tie straight, shirt immaculate.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Detective. We’ve had a rather challenging morning with unexpected developments.’

‘I heard,’ Manolis replied. ‘I thought you said Omari made up a family to improve his chances for a protection visa?’

Onions’s face flushed pink with embarrassment.

‘Ah, so you do know. Yes, it turns out we were wrong. It happens from time to time – our intelligence isn’t always accurate. In this case, it was the Greek authorities who made the error. You can see how it might happen, they’re overrun with people and claims and are nowhere near as resourced as us.’

Manolis needed to stay cool. This wasn’t quite the stand-off with Fyfe or pursuit of Rex, but Onions was still a formidable individual within his kingdom. His time would come. Quietly, Manolis vowed to build his case, starting with Fyfe’s testimony. But at that moment, it was the asylum seeker’s freedom that Manolis had at the forefront of his mind.

‘Well that is unexpectedly good news,’ he said. ‘And I have some good news of my own: there’s been a breakthrough in the Molly Abbott investigation. For the time being, I can’t say any more but I can say this: Ahmed Omari had nothing to do with it. He’s innocent and needs to be released from solitary ASAP. I believe Constable Kerr already informed you as such. No doubt Omari’s family is desperate to see him after all this time, especially his young daughter.’

Onions looked at his staff, then back to Manolis. ‘I understand that. But Omari is in the managed accommodation area for behavioural management. This area is for detainees who incite mass unrest or have undertaken real or threatened acts of self-harm. For people who are abusive, aggressive, antisocial or noncompliant. Omari spat at my guards, at my staff. That is intolerable behaviour. I assure you that we don’t like having to put anyone in there for any extended period of time. We take all other options first – it’s a last resort. Ultimately, it’s for their safety, and the safety of others, I can assure you. The government has a duty of care to protect asylum seekers from harm, not cause further harm.’

Manolis deliberated, a long and restless pause. He resented hearing the same sermon that Deacon had recited from the same operational bible. And there was an unsettling amount of ‘assuring’ going on. Finally, he asked, ‘What’s zipping?’

The detective’s question seemed to come from nowhere. Onions’s expression was blank. Kerr looked at Manolis with confusion.

‘Sorry, what, zipping?’ Onions asked.

‘Yes,’ Manolis replied.

Another pause. ‘Is that some kind of new drug?’

Manolis studied the manager, his face inscrutable.

‘No,’ Manolis replied.

‘Then I’m sorry, Detective. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

Manolis straightened his back and cleared his throat. ‘It is my understanding that Omari spat at your guards because he was assaulted during a strange underground practice called zipping, and that this stemmed from his implication in the death of Molly Abbott. Because he is no longer a person of interest, I think it only fair he be released from the managed accommodation area to see his family.’

The tone in his voice told Onions that something had changed. He swallowed.

‘And then,’ Manolis added, ‘you also have some explaining to do…’

The two men stared at each other for some time. Eventually, one blinked.

‘Of course, Detective. As I said, it’s been a challenging morning. Right this way.’

They walked with purpose, and with Manolis now leading the way, bad ankles and all. Kerr followed, with Onions’s lanky, praying-mantis frame loping a few metres behind. Two guards brought Ahmed’s wife and daughter, their arrival finally processed, their faces wet with joyful tears. Manolis greeted them warmly, the woman in a black hijab and small girl in a grubby pink tracksuit. The child was malnourished, doll like, a human whisper, but couldn’t stop smiling at the prospect of finally seeing her long-lost father.

Approaching the three shipping containers, Manolis felt his blood curdle. His breath quickened and the pulse ticked in his neck. The locks were unfastened, the chains released, the doors opened. Hard sunlight poured in, white dust billowed into the air.

Manolis was the first to enter. The guards stood back with Ahmed’s family, waiting for him to emerge and be reunited.

From the doorway, Ahmed looked like he was sleeping, head down, breathing deeply. His chair faced the furthest corner of the container. His spit hood was still firmly applied.

But then Manolis noticed that the detainee’s hands were hanging down by his sides, and the chair’s wrist straps were unfastened.

And it was only when he approached the young asylum seeker that he realised that Ahmed wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t breathing deeply, and that part of his spit hood was stuck in his mouth and halfway down his throat.

He wasn’t breathing at all.