Out of the Ashes: A DI Maya Rahman novel

He pointed at a thick-set man with a shaved head, who was standing inside the cordon next to a digger, giving orders to a team of fluorescent-jacketed men with brooms and shovels. ‘Simon Chapel is the fire crew manager. You’ll have to speak to him.’

Dan and I made our way over. An army of personnel had cleared people away and begun conducting operations. Uniformed police, fire-fighters, fire investigation officers and CSIs all weaved around each other. A high-volume pump was in front of the shop, and a water management unit and aerial platform were standing by. Firefighters were a mass of blue uniforms, and their yellow stripes and helmets stood out like beacons. Some were transporting ladders and breathing apparatus. Others were holding jets and unravelling reels. A few charred window frames were still in place. One small pane remained, jagged and angry. Black and white tendrils of smoke were still seeping out of openings, but it was hard to tell whether these were fumes or steam. Water streaked the walls of the building, staining the yellow brickwork.

I introduced Dan and myself to Simon, and told him about the woman’s phone call.

He groaned. ‘Someone knew what they were doing, I can tell you that, but I hope she’s wrong.’ The man’s tone was clipped and the veins on his face and scalp bulged with concern, knowing he held people’s lives in his hands, and that his decisions were critical. ‘As soon as the building’s safe, we’ll get someone in.’

‘Any signs of anyone in there?’ The woman on the recording had sounded terrified. Not a bit like a crank caller.

‘We can’t get close enough to see. The speed the flames tore through the floors, and the fumes in there . . . ’ He was shaking his head. ‘If anyone was inside, they won’t have survived those temperatures or the smoke. They had an extraction system on the ground floor. Add timber flooring to that, wooden joists, lathe and plaster, and it’s all increased the speed the fire spread. Not seen a blaze like this for several months.’

‘Any indication it was deliberate?’ A sinking feeling was stealing over me. The caller had refused to give the emergency services operator her name, so we couldn’t be certain she was connected to the premises.

‘Can’t say for definite yet but we’re pretty sure accelerant was involved. Whoever poured it couldn’t have lit it from inside. Or if they did, we’ll be finding their body too.’ His phone buzzed and he checked the screen. ‘Excuse me. I need to take this.’ He clamped the phone to his ear. ‘Chapel.’

Around us, debris had been shovelled into huge piles for the council to remove. Strips of drenched, charred wood smelled bitter. Glass shards glinted threateningly in the light. Curtains and blinds had blown out into the street. Human traces were littered around the pavement: clothes, drink cans, food wrappers, a baseball hat, a couple of rucksacks, all drenched and abandoned.

Simon rang off. ‘That was the building inspector,’ he said to Dan and me. ‘He’s on his way. We aren’t sure whether the fire is completely out in the centre of the building. It’s still too hot to get in there. Our thermal imaging cameras can only reach so far.’ He gave me an apologetic smile. ‘I’ll call you the moment we get news or can get in.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned to Dan. ‘Let’s find out what witnesses we’ve got before they all clear off.’

We left the cordoned area and headed up the street to the phone repair shop where casualties had been ushered for treatment. When we arrived, the interior of the shop was a mass of people who’d been injured, display cabinets and product racks. A Sikh man was stretched out on his back on the floor with an oxygen mask over his face. Teenagers were huddled against the wall, looking pale and scared. Others were sitting on the floor, cuts and burns on their faces and arms. A lady with a blue-rinse hairdo was sitting on a plastic chair, clutching her arm, her entire demeanour one of shell-shock. Her hair was dishevelled and flecked with ash and dust, and she was clinging to her bag as though she was scared for her life. Beside the door, a paramedic was trying to attend to a lanky boy who had a large gash on his forehead. The young lad seemed unsteady on his feet and was muttering in Arabic.

Amidst the bodies, I spotted Dougie. As crime scene manager, his job was to talk me through the evidence and forensics. As soon as he saw us, he hurried over to the shop entrance. His large frame filled the doorway. He had a smear of blood on his cheek and ash had lodged in his hair and eyebrows, making his eyes seem greyer than usual.

‘Practising your First Aid?’ I smiled at him.

‘It’s been mayhem.’ He turned away from the shop so we were out of earshot. ‘I had a feeling you’d turn up when you heard it was the old bagel shop.’ Affection creased the corners of his mouth before he switched into professional mode. ‘Uniform have begun eyewitness interviews, including some of the teenagers from the flash mob. The woman with the sling was on her way to visit her mum and someone pulled her into the crowd. She fell on her wrist. The young lad by the door is anxious to get moving – something about his parents being worried. His English isn’t great so it’s hard to figure out exactly what he saw, but the priority is to get stitches over that cut before he gets a nasty infection. He’s already feeling dizzy. Rima’s on her way to interpret.’

I was absorbing the details. ‘A flash mob and arson?’ I frowned the question.

The three of us began walking towards the burnt building.

‘It is a bit of a coincidence,’ Dougie replied.

My mind was spinning.

Dougie wiped his blackened face with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The fire investigators think the blaze started on the ground floor. Probably at the foot of the stairs. It would then have spread quickly upwards, building in intensity, and then blown out the windows. The top floor has collapsed under the weight of the water.’

‘In that case, I’ll get the H-2-H teams started so we don’t waste time.’ I glanced ahead. A neon sign lay on the ground. Over the front of the shop, smoke-charred in places, I made out ‘SOUP’. I turned to face the shop opposite the fire and felt nostalgic momentarily.

FELDMAN’S NEWSAGENT.

‘Dad often brought us here. He and Mr Feldman were pals.’

Suddenly, I heard something. Faint and weak, but its distress gnawed through the air. ‘What’s that? I can hear someone.’ I wheeled round, trying to locate the source. ‘It’s coming from one of the shops.’ There it was. ‘It’s the newsagent’s. Someone’s calling for help.’

I dashed over to the shop; pushed the door open and entered the shop alone. ‘Hello? It’s the police.’

A different smell greeted me. Musty. Less of the acrid smoke, and the water-drenched tarmac and masonry; this was damp timber and plaster. It reminded me of our first flat. In the dim light, it was like stepping back in time. It was as if the whole place hadn’t been touched for thirty years, and suddenly I was a child again, in here with my brother and sister, choosing sweets.

‘Help, help,’ came the voice, followed by a series of rasping coughs.

‘Hello? Help’s arrived.’ I scoured the room for signs of movement or noise. Around me, white MDF shelves were thin on stock. Tea bags, tins of soup and jars of coffee lay in rows, collecting dust. A central aisle housed packets of envelopes and writing paper. ‘Can you tell me where you are?’

The paintwork was a nicotine-stained ochre, and had a sheen to it, as if the place hadn’t been painted for decades. By the till, a barely touched drink sat in a cup and saucer. Behind the counter, folding doors were drawn over a cabinet with a lock in the middle. The closer I got to the back room, the stronger the damp smell got. Years of living in unheated flats had tuned my nose.

‘Mrs Feldman? Is that you?’

‘Here,’ came a croaky voice from behind the counter. She was flat on the floor, cheek to the ground and lying on one arm.

‘It’s OK. Don’t try and move. Have you hurt yourself?’ She was an older version of the one I remembered but it was definitely her.

She cleared her throat. Once, twice. Then wheezing coughs erupted.

I was about to dial 999 when Mrs Feldman began spluttering and gurgling again. She was gasping for breath – and failing. If she didn’t get help quickly, she was going to die. ‘Emergency in Feldman’s Newsagent’s,’ I shouted down the phone at Dan. ‘Get one of the paramedics and bring them in. Behind the counter. The shopkeeper is having trouble breathing.’ I took in her grey features, the rasping breath, and her bloodshot eyes. ‘Hurry. We’re losing her.’

Maya, 3.30 p.m.

Back on Brick Lane, the air was damp, and a bitter nip was creeping in. The paramedics stretchered Rosa Feldman into an ambulance, their faces worry-streaked. Her body was barely a bump beneath the blanket and an oxygen mask was clamped over her tiny face.

My phone rang. I took in the news and conveyed it to Dan. ‘The soup shop belongs to a young Lithuanian couple. Simas Gudelis and Indra Ulbiene. Uniform have spoken to Indra. She’s been out all day, visiting her sister in Upton Park. They closed the shop because Simas wasn’t feeling well. He was going to dose himself up and try and sleep it off.’

Dan’s expression mirrored mine and I wondered if he was thinking about the fire investigation officer’s warning when we arrived.

‘She is the person who rang emergency services earlier. Someone told her about the fire. As far as she knows, Simas was at home in bed today. She’ll be here any minute.’

‘Has she heard from him since the fire?’

‘No. She said his mobile goes straight to answerphone.’ An awful thought occurred to me. I’d seen the bodies of people who had been in fires, including my brother’s, still as vivid now as when I’d seen it in the Sylhet mosque eighteen months ago. Laid out on a shroud, Sabbir had looked like a bag of greasy bones. ‘If Indra’s husband is in there, I don’t want her arriving just as we are hoisting his body out.’ There was a practical concern too: fire victims often lost their skin and tissue, and this made DNA analysis and formal identification a slow and frustrating process.

‘Let’s hope that no-one else was in the building then.’

I gathered my thoughts. I needed to update Simon, the fire crew manager, and joined him and Dougie. ‘One of the shop owners has confirmed that her husband was in the building. He was in bed, ill. Are we any closer to getting someone inside?’ I sensed from their expressions that it wasn’t good news.

‘Not at the moment.’ Simon’s voice was unequivocal. ‘It’s still not safe to enter. We are waiting for a taller aerial platform to arrive from Bethnal Green station.’ He pointed at the building’s height. ‘That should enable us to lift an officer up the outside.’ He paused. ‘We’re pretty sure the fire is out but we’re waiting for a structural engineer. He’ll be able to conduct a more sophisticated assessment of the building’s strength. If he says it’s OK to lower someone in, we can do it, but until then we cannot risk it, I’m sorry.’

‘Alright.’

Dan joined us. ‘I’ve just spoken to Indra. She’s in a cab on her way here. Their bedroom is on the top floor, at the front. She’s asking about her husband.’

It was always difficult to know what to tell the families of victims on the phone. In training they told us to say as little as possible, that face to face was best, but there was also an argument for preparing people for bad news, so it wasn’t such a shock. ‘OK, thanks.’ It was hard to imagine a worse outcome for Indra than her husband having burnt to death in his bed, but something told me that her world had changed irrevocably this morning when she left the shop to meet her sister.

Maya, 3.45 p.m.

Dan and I were in the mobile phone shop, helping uniform to interview the people who needed medical treatment. Rima, an interpreter I’d met before, was perching on a stool next to the Syrian boy with the gash on his forehead. She had a bag at her feet and was filling out a form on an iPad. Her patient features conveyed her caring, professional manner as she spoke to him in Arabic.

‘Thanks for coming, Rima. It’s—’

‘Scared the life out of me, it did.’ The interruption came from a woman who was sitting nearby. ‘I hope no-one was in there.’

I introduced myself, and tried to reassure her. ‘While we’ve got the interpreter here,’ I said to her, ‘can I speak to this young lad? If you go with DS Maguire, he’ll ask you a few questions.’

‘If you like, dear,’ she said, looking mildly put out for a second before beaming at Dan’s youthful, squaddie appearance and running her hand over her hair.

I gestured Dan over and shifted my attention to the boy who had been sitting next to her. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ali.’ He shrugged. ‘I need go.’

Dougie was right about him being nervous. Shock from the fire and the gash, probably. The cut had been stitched, and traces of congealed blood were smeared over his childlike features. ‘I’m Maya. Rima is going to translate, OK?’

His nod was fast. He was chewing at the skin round his finger nails. ‘My parent be worry. I need go.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Rima translated.

‘Were you already here when the flash mob started?’

He shook his head. From his height and build I guessed he was about ten, but the expression in his eyes could have put him at three times that age. He pulled himself up straight as though wanting to shake off the fear he knew I’d seen.

‘You aren’t in any trouble.’ I kept my voice as gentle as I could and waited for him to relax. ‘Can you tell me what you saw?’

His face held its silence but his eyes didn’t. He stared at Rima as though he was hoping she’d understand something. ‘Was just bit fun.’ He didn’t wait for the translation. He fixed dark eyes on me, and it hit me how vulnerable he seemed. ‘Dance. Music. Is all.’ He pointed his nose away from me, dismissive and disinterested.

The burnt-out building was a mere shell, the damage self-evident. I wanted to say that it wasn’t fun for the people who’d been hurt and lost their livelihoods, but he was just a kid, and I needed to focus on getting what key information I could. ‘What was the flash mob about?’

Rima spoke gently.

Ali shifted forward so that his feet were on the ground, and pawed at the laminate flooring with his scruffy trainer. He gabbled in Arabic, and gestured pleadingly to Rima with his eyes.

‘He says he doesn’t know anything about the flash mob. He was there. It started up. That’s it.’ Rima’s frown suggested she wasn’t convinced.

‘Who brought the speakers?’

Rima translated.

‘He doesn’t know.’ He was avoiding my gaze, and his spindly leg was jigging up and down. His white trainers had broken laces, and were covered in scuff marks, and he wasn’t wearing any socks.

‘How old are you?’

He cleared his throat and straightened his back again. Spoke for longer than it would take to give his age.

‘He says he’s nearly eleven,’ said Rima.

‘D’you live round here?’

‘York Square.’ He looked up at me through a thick forelock of almost-black hair. ‘My parent wait me there.’

‘In Limehouse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who asked you to come here for the flash mob?’ I posed the question slowly, as I suspected he’d understand, and I wanted to gauge his reactions.

He waved his arms in the air, angrily, muttering in Arabic.

‘He says it wasn’t a flash mob. It was just a few people, dancing and playing music. He was here with a friend.’

He clenched a fist. Gabbled to Rima again.

‘He says they weren’t doing anything. Just passing time. They were bored. He says they’re The Street Rats.’

Ali laughed, pretending to be cocky. ‘Yeah. We are Street Rat.’ He winced as the movement tugged at the stitches in his forehead.

‘Is that a gang name?’

He jutted his jaw, defiance blazing in his eyes.

‘Do you need Rima to call your parents?’

‘Is OK. They wait me already.’

I needed to revisit a question. ‘We believe the flash mob was deliberately organised. Where did you hear about it?’

‘He can’t remember,’ said Rima.

‘We suspect that the fire at the shop was also caused deliberately. If that’s true, it’s a very serious offence.’ I softened my tone. ‘Especially if anyone has died.’

Ali looked at me now, and for the first time I noticed how black his eyes were. His shoulders were hunched, and he was jabbing at the floor with the heel of his shoe. I realised I felt scared for him. ‘Where did you hear about the flash mob?’

He began a lengthy explanation.

Rima translated as he spoke. ‘There’s a website that posts about upcoming events . . . some are flash mobs . . . the website tells you the date . . . and the rough location . . . you register your email or cell phone number . . . it’s called London for All. LfA, for short.’

‘And is the website public?’ A sinking feeling stole over me.

‘Yes, but they have a private discussion board,’ said Rima.

The news filled me with dread. Discussion forums were the bane of the police. ‘Do you know who runs the forum?’

He shook his head and spoke further.

‘A guy called Frazer,’ Rima translated, ‘ . . . posts the messages . . . but it’s never him that comes to the events . . . and no one knows who he is . . . it’s a different person . . . who comes along . . . and no one uses their real names on the forum.’

‘And what’s your username?’ I asked.

‘He says it’s “cookiemonster”.’

Ali blushed, and for a few moments, vulnerability betrayed his desire to look older.

The police technicians would be able to track down the site host and administrators. With any luck, the cyber-crime unit might already have data on LfA. ‘Did the posts say what the purpose was of today’s flash mob?’

He’d said no but I wasn’t convinced.

‘He says they didn’t care,’ said Rima. ‘But from how he describes it, it sounds like it was something to do with anti-gentrification.’

‘Yes. Genti-thingy.’ He pointed at the street and lapsed back into Arabic.

‘Was any incentive offered to turn up?’

‘He doesn’t want to get anyone into trouble. They were told not to tell anyone.’

‘Tell anyone what?’ I looked from Rima to Ali.

Ali was silent.

‘Who told them not to say anything?’

‘Frazer.’ Rima emphasised the name and raised her eyebrows. I got the impression she was trying to check I’d taken note.

‘What was the payment?’ Please, God, may it not have been drugs.

‘Sometimes he gave them a bit of money or some food,’ said Rima. ‘And masks.’

‘What sort of masks?’

Ali and Rima talked in Arabic. ‘Black bandanas with the LfA logo on them,’ she said.

This was news. ‘And drugs?’

‘NO.’ Ali was on his feet now. His eyes were flashing with fear, and for a moment I wondered if he was about to make a dash, but his body swayed and rocked. He put his hand out and sunk back down onto his seat. ‘Not drug.’

‘OK.’ I changed tack. ‘Today – who brought the speakers?’

‘He says they were there when they arrived.’

‘They?’

‘He came with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Riad.’

‘How old’s he?’

‘Nearly sixteen.’

‘And Sophie,’ Rima said. ‘She’s doing A-levels at New City College.’

‘Does Riad live with you in York Square?’

‘Yes.’

‘What number in York Square?’

‘Twenty-eight. Opposite the entrance to the park.’

‘Where are Riad and Sophie now?’

Fear filled Ali’s eyes and he covered his mouth with his hand.

‘He doesn’t know. They got separated . . . When the fire started . . . they ran for cover and . . . Riad’s not answering his phone. He says he’s scared.’

‘Which direction did they run in?’

‘That way and left.’ He pointed.

‘That way?’ I gestured. ‘That’s right.’

‘Ach.’ He punched his leg, as though he felt stupid. He turned to Rima and spoke to her.

‘Down there and right,’ she said. ‘He says his brother will turn up. He’s probably dropped his phone or they’ve gone to get some chips.’

‘Ali. Are you sure neither of them entered the building before it went on fire?’

‘They were both with him.’

‘We’ll need their descriptions . . . and a formal statement, Rima, if you can translate, please? Ali, if you hear from your brother or Sophie, please inform us straightaway.’ I summoned a uniformed officer and began briefing him.

Dan, 3.45 p.m.

Mrs Jones, the blue-rinse lady who’d hurt her wrist, was shivering and fidgety, so Dan settled her on a fold-out chair in the stock room at the back of the mobile phone shop and went to fetch her a cuppa. As he returned with it, she made a point of checking her watch and sighing loudly.

‘You got a hot date to get to?’ he asked, grinning mischievously.

Mrs Jones gave a giggle. ‘My old mum will be wondering where I’ve got to. She’ll have seen all this on the news and will be fretting. She doesn’t do mobile phones and neither do I.’

‘Thanks for waiting,’ Dan said. ‘Have a swig of this.’ He passed her the cup of sweet tea and squatted down next to her. ‘It’ll soon get you warmed up, eh.’

She was trembling, but her expression relaxed a few notches and she sipped the tea.

‘Can you take me through what you saw when you arrived?’

She nudged smeared glasses up the bridge of her nose with a shaky finger. ‘I was walking that way.’ She pointed in the direction of Whitechapel. ‘My mum lives on White Church Lane. Out of the blue, music started up behind me. Gave me a real fright, it did.’ She clamped her hand to her chest. ‘When I turned round, I saw people dancing in the street.’

Dan guessed Mrs Jones was around his mum’s age: late sixties. Too much energy to do nothing, she always told him. ‘Who was in charge?’

‘No-one as far as I could see. Everyone was encouraging everyone to join in. D’you know what I mean?’

Dan had seen flash mobs in Sydney and knew how quickly they snowballed. ‘Yes, I do. And the music?’

She pursed her lips while she tried to remember. ‘The tracks were quite short. Prepared, ready, like those cassette tape things we used to make. The songs changed every couple of minutes.’ She looked as though she was enjoying having someone listen to her. ‘Those masks though. They were a bit sinister.’

Maya, 4 p.m.

In the afternoon light, Dan’s ginger hair was glowing through his military buzz-cut. His usually pale skin was flushed with excitement as he strode the few metres along Brick Lane towards me. I could tell there’d been a development.

‘The kids at the flash mob were wearing—’

‘. . . masks. Yeah.’ I conveyed what Ali had told me.

‘London for All?’ He repeated the name back. ‘That certainly fits with anti-gentrification.’

‘Exactly. Let’s walk back to the cordon. Indra has just arrived. She’s asking if her husband is alive and I haven’t spoken to her yet.’ I told Dan about the man called Frazer. ‘I’ve forwarded the LfA link to the technicians and the cyber-crime unit. Told them it’s urgent. Screenshot some of the content in case it’s deleted.’

‘Woah. Get you, Ms Suddenly Tech Savvy.’

‘Suddenly? Cheeky bugger. I expect it comes from working with someone who’s on the internet all the time.’

We both laughed, relieved to have a bit of banter.

‘Let’s hope they shut that bastard site down.’ Dan’s words came out in an angry whisper. ‘A lot of these kids don’t know how to keep themselves safe online.’

‘The kid with the gash is only ten.’ I gestured to the two shops. ‘What the hell’s he doing, roaming the streets with these older boys?’

Dan’s manner was sombre. ‘I agree. It worries me about my two girls. Kids are growing up so quickly these days. They don’t understand how careful they need to be.’ He was shaking his head. ‘At least it sounds like that young Syrian lad’s got his parents and brother to look after him.’