don’t like immigrants,’ she says to him.
‘Is that a question?’ His tone right up to punch level again. ‘I couldn’t hear a question. Do I like the migrants next door? No, I don’t. Do I hate all migrants? No, though I think we could do with less of them. We’re being flooded.’
‘So you’re anti-immigration?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
‘Certainly feels that way,’ Manon says. ‘If we can go in, I just have a couple more questions for you and your wife.’ And she heads indoors.
‘Can I ask where you were the night before last?’ Manon says, sitting in the living room again. The Tuckers are on the sofa. Davy is taking notes in a corner chair.
‘Here,’ says Mrs Tucker. ‘Trying to watch telly over the din.’
‘The din?’
‘Well there was a lot of disturbance next door. There was that anti-immigration gathering. I hesitate to call it a march because there weren’t that many of them. One Wisbech, Dean’s lot.’
‘Dean?’
‘Dean Singlehurst, he’s their main guy. They came past here with their placards and banners, very noisy, and there was a kerfuffle with the people next door.’
‘Kerfuffle?’
‘Yes. There was the usual banging about next door, we’re used to that. Then the marchers came up the street, chanting. There weren’t that many of them – maybe two dozen – but they were trying to be loud about it.’
‘Wait, the One Wisbech march came up a small cul-de-sac like Prospect Place?’ Manon asks.
‘Yes, we thought it was strange,’ Mrs Tucker says.
‘What sort of thing were they chanting?’
‘Oh, you know, English jobs for English people. Stop the flood. Foreigners go home. They stopped outside here. We didn’t see what actually happened – we had the shutters closed.’
‘How did you see how many marchers there were then?’
‘When they first started coming up the road, I went and opened the front door to see who it was. Shane Farquharson was with them, at the front. Then I came inside to the living room, where we couldn’t see anything, but we could hear everything,’ Mrs Tucker continues. ‘Some marchers came up the path next door. Then there was shouting.’
‘English or Lithuanian?’
‘Both. We don’t know if they went in or not, or if the migrants came out. The noise just receded eventually.’
‘What could you hear being shouted in English?’
‘Well, one of the marchers said, “Wanna ask you something!” and then “Oi! Oi!”’
‘What time was this?’
Mrs Tucker turns her mouth down. ‘Ten, ten thirty? The news was on, not that we could hear it.’
‘You didn’t think of calling the police?’
Manon eyes up the tea tray to see if any biscuits are on offer. She is crestfallen to see an empty, crumbed saucer. Davy has snaffled the custard creams, damn him.
‘There wasn’t anything to call the police about. Just people gathering, a bit of shouting. We didn’t know about Lukas, of course.’
Manon glances at Davy, but he’s way ahead of her, writing it all down. He stops, mid-scrawl, and says, ‘So it’s Jim Tucker? That’s your full name?’
‘Actually, it’s Jerome Wilberforce Tucker.’
‘Wow,’ says Manon. ‘Shall we just call you Wilberforce – keep it nice and informal?’
‘You can call me Jim. I know it’s a ridiculous name. My mother had … pretensions.’
‘Ambitions,’ interjects Mrs Tucker.
‘Look, I’m called Manon, so I’m in no position to judge.’
‘Not that that’s ever stopped you,’ mutters Davy. ‘And your name?’ he asks Mrs Tucker.
The best names, Manon is thinking, have rhythm. Maxim de Winter. Engelbert Humperdinck. Dante de Blasio. Fly is currently mooning over a girl at school called Temperance. ‘I already love her,’ Manon told him, ‘for her name.’ Perhaps she should change hers to Manon de Bradshaw.
‘Elspeth. Elspeth Tucker.’
Outside, in the car, Davy is overcome.
‘It’s shit for him,’ he says. ‘What’s he s’posed to do? He’s paid for that house, blood sweat and tears, and now it’s worth nothing because of them. I don’t blame him, coming over all UKIP. I’d want shot of them, too.’
‘Yes, but did he do anything, that’s the question? Or her? There’s no rope lying around.’
‘And he’s got an alibi. Both have.’
‘Yeah, but their alibi is each other. So we have to view that with some scepticism. Lukas got around, didn’t he? We need to chat to the residents next door.’
‘Trouble is, they clam up if Edikas is about. Aren’t you going to ask Mrs Tucker about humping our victim?’
‘I will, but not yet. There’s nothing that puts her in Hinchingbrooke on the night Lukas died, even if she had the strength to get him into a tree, which I doubt. We need to go back into the migrant house now that we have powers to search and seize – question everyone in isolation. It’s part of the crime scene. Doesn’t matter what Edikas wants, or his dog. Can you call in an interpreter? Also, we need to chat to these One Wisbech marchers. And we need to catch up with Demented Dimitri. Also, Davy?’ She wonders if that’s a tiny eye roll she sees, as he pulls away from the kerb. ‘Have we tried to match the handwriting on the note? Might be something in the house that matches it. So that should be a priority in the search – anything with handwriting on it.’
His path to the bedroom has been blocked by Edikas.
‘The police want to talk to you,’ Edikas says. ‘I am not going to take heat from police for you.’
‘I can’t—’ Matis says.
‘You can. You can talk to them without telling them anything. This is easy. You forgot this, you don’t know that.’
Dimitri, who is increasingly man-marking Matis like a concerned nursery maid, has joined them, towering over squat, fat Edikas.
‘Hey,
