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people want make money for he to sleep in shed . . . plenty people do this. When I am come to Peterborough first I sleep in garage. Pay old woman fifty pounds week.’
    ‘How long’s he been there?’
    ‘Two week. Three. I do not count.’
    ‘Did you know him?’
    ‘If is same man, yes.’ Lunka picked up the tiny pink spoon and turned it between his fingers. ‘He is . . .
cersetor
. . .’ He cupped one hand at Zigic. ‘
Cersetor
. . . for money?’
    ‘A beggar.’
    ‘He come here, want money – I say fuck off. He want food. I say him leave or I get knife.’
    Zigic nodded, waiting for Lunka to realise what he had just said to a police officer, but his expression remained neutral. It looked like innocence and Zigic decided to go with his gut unless the post-mortem uncovered a stab wound.
    ‘Do you know his name?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Is he Romanian?’
    Lunka considered it for a moment, watching his daughter’s fists close on air in front of her.
    ‘Not Romanian. I think . . . Kosovan, maybe. He has nose like Kosovan.’
    It would explain why he was dossing down in a shed. Illegal, no papers. It wouldn’t be impossible to get work but it would be badly paid and precarious and if his bosses decided not to pay him at the end of shift what was he going to do about it?
    ‘Have you had any other trouble from him?’ Zigic asked. ‘Other than the begging?’
    ‘No. He sees I will not give nothing. What else is here?’
    ‘Nothing’s been stolen?’
    Lunka shook his head. ‘Is accident, this fire. Why questions now?’
    ‘It’s standard procedure, Mr Lunka, I can assure you.’
    ‘I do right thing. Call for help. I am not criminal,’ he snapped.
    His daughter’s face flushed and she let out a long, extravagant wail which drilled through Zigic’s temples.
    Lunka lifted her out of the high chair.
    ‘You see. You do this.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘
Shhh, draga.
’
    The little girl snuffled, gave a small, half-hearted mew and fell silent against Lunka’s chest.
    ‘You want ask question?’ he said quietly. ‘Ask why they no answer door when I knock? I ring bell. Five, ten minute I ring, shout through letter box, tell them is fire – no answer. They are in house. And no answer? Why is this?’
    Zigic took a card out of his wallet. ‘I’ll need to speak to your wife at some point, Mr Lunka. Can you ask her to call me when she gets in?’
    ‘She will call.’
    ‘Thank you for your help, it’s much appreciated.’ They shook hands. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
    The group in front of number 63 had moved on and the street was deserted now. Gone seven, everyone was where they needed to be. Some of the residents would be into their second hour of work, talking about the fire perhaps, but whatever they knew wouldn’t come to light until the end of the day when they returned home and found the incident notice pushed through their letter box. Many would ignore it as another piece of junk mail and Zigic knew he would have to organise a fresh round of door-to-doors first thing tomorrow morning, catch them before they left for work.
    He didn’t hold out much hope for witnesses though. The countries these people came from, you didn’t trust uniforms of any colour; play dumb, keep quiet, try to stay off the authorities’ radar.
    He couldn’t blame them for thinking the situation was no better in England.
    His grandparents had been here sixty years and they still spoke in hushed tones when they discussed money or politics, convinced that some shadowy state apparatus was waiting to swoop down and punish their dissent.
    Along the street, half a dozen houses away, he saw a civilian support officer talking to a black-haired woman in a dressing gown. She was shaking her head, putting a defensive hand up as the CSO pointed to number 63. A loud
nic
rang out and the door closed with hard finality.
    There were still a few Polish on Highbury Street then.
    A scientific support van had arrived while he was in with