Leah Giarratano - Vodka doesn't freeze

'I have already given my statement. There is nothing more I can say. I can remember nothing about the night.'

Scotty was still smiling, enthusiastic. 'Yes, we've read your statement, Mr Mahmoud, but I'm afraid we need more information.'

A woman's voice speaking Arabic cut off Mahmoud's reply. The woman who had answered the door on Wednesday now filled the space behind her husband. She continued to speak, and the man's eyes narrowed in anger. He snapped back a response, also in Arabic, and stepped forward away from her, his fists clenched.

'We will go.' He kicked off the slippers and stepped into some shoes lined up next to others at the door. Jill prepared the interview room while Scotty found a place in the police carpark for Mahmoud to park his van. A female probationary constable helped her become familiar with the recording equipment. The two sound-activated audio recorders and a digital video recorder were newer than those at Maroubra.

'Do you need both audios?' The girl looked to be about nineteen, perfect skin, clean brown hair tucked behind unpierced ears.

Was I ever that young? Jill smiled, thinking of her mother's saying, 'You know you're getting old when the police look like kids.'

'Yeah, thanks, Audrey. Don't want to miss anything this guy says. Are you sitting in?'

'That okay? Beaumont assigned me to you guys today.'

'Yeah, of course.'

Jill checked her notes and scribbled down a few more questions. She kept her head down when Scotty bounded in, chatting away to the taciturn man next to him. Mahmoud dropped into the seat to which Audrey Galea, the young constable, directed him. Galea fussed around the video camera, ensuring she had the equipment working smoothly. Scotty took his seat and looked up at Jill, ready to begin the interview.

Jill stated the time and date, and identified those present in the room. 'Mr Mahmoud,' she continued, 'would you please state your name and date of birth?'

'Jamaal Mahmoud. Fifth of July, 1967.'

'And your address?'

'Forty-one George Street, Lakemba.'

Jill recited the verbal preamble that preceded each police statement, and asked Mahmoud to agree that he would tell the truth.

Jamaal found that he could keep his anger from his voice by speaking to the bitch's tits. While he gave them the same bullshit about the night George was killed, he fantasised about putting this whore to work. A week on Canterbury Road servicing the Australians on their way home would show this one her real place in life. He ground his teeth when she fired another question at him, demanding he answer to her.

He felt some satisfaction when he heard all the questions about Sebastian. He knew he should be worried that the police had an interest in his boss, but why should he be the only one they question? He was no-one's dog. He imagined Sebastian on the inside, having to suck cock to make enough friends to stay alive in gaol. He almost laughed aloud, but was drawn back to the interview by a question asked by the big Australian.

No, of course he did not know anything about the child pornography found in the front of the car with Manzi, he told them. Jamaal wondered what sort of a man could take orders from a bitch. Even one this big would drop like a bag of shit when hit from behind. Jamaal hoped one day to make that happen.

Caring little for the answers he gave, Jill concentrated on questions that she hoped might rattle Jamaal. She knew better than to hope he might respond with the truth, but his answers now could trip him up in a lie in the future. She also wanted him to believe that they'd connected him and Sebastian to Carter, Crabbe and Rocla. She asked him whether he knew each of them, intimating that Bobby Anglia had told them more than he actually had. She registered a tick of satisfaction when Jamaal lost his temper momentarily.

'How do I know if I know this man? Do you know the names of every bastard you have ever met? Maybe I did see him somewhere. I don't know.'

She also made sure to mention Alejandro Sebastian whenever she could. It was too late to prevent Sebastian knowing they were watching him. Harris and Jardine were approaching him right now. If they were going to come down, she wanted it heavy. She disagreed with Jardine that they should play it safe with Sebastian – if they caught him by surprise, he could make a mistake. Of course, it was possible, although unlikely, that he could panic and maybe take out another member of his special club, a witness perhaps. What a shame if it was this man, she thought, wanting to slap Mahmoud's eyes away from her chest. She was relieved when the interview ended; she felt like she needed a bath.

Out in the carpark, Jamal's eyes felt too hot to close, like the lids would stick to his eyeballs if he did not stare straight ahead. A molar silently fractured as he bit down on the anger at the back of his throat.

He started his van and pulled away from the Central police station.

Nathan Sanders pushed his mouth further into his pillow, trying to suffocate his sobs. He couldn't bear his mother coming to comfort him, only to end up trying to calm her again when she crumpled to his bedroom floor. Jerome had been missing for six days, and Nathan wished that he could be as staunch as his father, driving the streets relentlessly looking for his son, returning only for food and brief naps in his chair before heading out again.

Nathan replayed for the hundredth time the words he'd said to Jerome on the last night he saw him. He whispered a prayer, and told God that he could never forgive himself or his father if his brother did not come home alive.

Into his wet pillow, he offered God more promises and threats. No-one else at his school had these sneakers yet. Vans, skaters' shoes; his dad got them from America at Christmas. Not even Scott Emery in Year 8 had 'em, and he always got everything first. Jerome found that focusing hard on his clothes, stuff from home, helped him to not cry so much. His throat hurt from crying and he needed to stop.

But they'd all been pretty nice to him, actually. Well, except forkidnapping him. Jerome gave himself a mental head slap.

When he realised the big man was not going to call his mum, and they were going to keep him, Jerome's mind had filled with every horror he'd heard about in his twelve years. And that was a lot. Like the time he'd had nightmares for a week after the party at Logan's house. Assam Ravinder, whose dad was a cop, had snuck over this police magazine. There was a picture of this guy in there who'd tied a rope to the trunk of a tree, got in his car, tied the rope around his neck, and driven forward. They showed the head next to the body, really close up. Braydon had been sick in his sleeping bag and had to go home.

But, except for that guy who said his name was Tadpole putting his hand on Jerome's back and leg a couple of times, no-one here had touched him. And they'd even been pretty nice to him. He could help himself to anything in the fridge, they'd told him, and he'd had a few of cans of Coke, some cake and sandwiches, but mostly he didn't like to move. Tadpole had brought pizza down a couple of times, but it had those anchovy things on it, and he hadn't been able to make himself eat much. He had no idea how long he'd been here, but he thought it had to be more than four nights. He could hear nothing from the outside. When the white van had left, the big room seemed more like a lounge room than a garage; there was a big TV on one wall, some chairs and stuff, a kitchen and a bathroom. Feeling like he was going to have a heart attack, he'd tried once to open a door at the end of the room, but he couldn't make it move. It was the same story with the door they drove the van through.

Sometimes he'd forget anything was wrong. He even fell asleep a few times. Mostly, though, there was this bad feeling, like when Nathan would jump out from the hallway in the dark, except the feeling just went on and on.