Out of the Ashes

‘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.’

Back at the scene, Simon Chapel gave me a thumbs-up. A second aerial platform was manoeuvring itself into position outside the shop.

A uniformed officer was standing with two women at the cordon. From behind, they had similar frames. Both tall and slim. One had a curtain of blonde hair down her back, and wore a khaki parka with a furry hood, jeans and trainers. The woman she was talking to had dark brown hair in a ponytail, knee-high leather boots. I guessed they were Indra and her sister. I went straight over to them. ‘DI Rahman. You must be—’

‘Is my husband dead?’ The blonde woman’s voice quaked with fear. She had mascara smears round her eyes.

‘I’m sorry. We don’t know what the situation is yet,’ I said. ‘I think it’s only fair to warn you that if he was in the fire, it’s unlikely he will have survived.’ It was an awful thing to have to tell her, and I paused for her to absorb the news. ‘We should know more once the platform lifts a fire officer into the room where your husband is.’ I turned to the dark-haired woman. ‘Are you Indra’s sister?’

‘Таip. Marta.’ Her tone was as expressionless as her face.

‘I want to see Simas. I want to go up there.’ Indra kept covering her face with her hands and lapsing into her mother tongue. She took two paces to the left, then two back again. ‘Please can I—’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. It may be several hours before they can bring any victims out. As soon as we know anything, we will let you know. Would you like to go and get warm somewhere and we can ring you? It may not be until tomorrow.’

‘No. I want to stay here.’ Anguish was contorting her features, pulling the skin tight around her eyes and mouth. ‘Everything. My life is in that—’

‘Inspector?’ Simon Chapel shouted. ‘We’re going up now.’

The lift was finally in place beside the shop.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to Indra and hurried over to join Chapel, where a fire officer, in protective clothing and breathing apparatus, was being lifted up the outside of the building on the aerial platform.

‘He’s got a mic so he can tell us what he sees.’ Chapel was repeating the man’s commentary aloud to Dan and I. ‘Floor almost completely collapsed in the room on the left . . . some of the ceiling is down . . . nothing much in there . . . going to use binoculars . . . a few remnants of furniture . . . no-one alive in there . . . no signs of a corpse.’ He stopped. ‘We need to shift the lift over to the room on the right.’

A few agonising minutes later, the vehicle had moved and the crane was in place. The fire officers repeated the commentary procedure.

‘Floor intact in this room . . . what looks like a bed . . . a bump . . . bedding around the bump . . . yep, the body’s in there. He can smell it.’ Simon turned away from us to speak into his radio to his ground personnel. ‘Right, get the lift down and get him checked over. Someone chase up the structural engineer. If he can’t get here, get another one. We need to get that body out and that means getting in.’

I turned to look for Indra, to tell her that we had found a body, but she and her sister were nowhere to be seen.