the fire was arson, so we now had a double murder and two people in hospital, both extremely ill. I’d need to report in to Superintendent Campbell and request she appoint me SIO. Questions were swirling in my mind, and I was determined that whoever was responsible would be brought to justice.
I dialled the hospital and asked to be put through to the ward. Rosa was much better but was refusing to go and stay with her daughter. ‘Rosa has been having more nightmares,’ I told Dan once I’d rung off. ‘She’s waking up screaming, convinced she’s back in Warsaw.’
‘Poor lady. If she was born at the end of the war, the German army razed the city to the ground. The Soviet troops finished it off a year later. I’m not surprised the fire has triggered traumatic memories.’
‘Once she’s awake she knows she’s not back in Poland, but she insists that the only place she feels safe is at the newsagent’s . . . ’
‘. . . which may be true but isn’t necessarily what’s best for her.’
‘How on earth can she return to the shop after inhaling all that smoke?’ I asked.
Dan was pensive. ‘I’m sure her kids will see her right. Tomasz has gone to the hospital, so he’ll find out about the dreams. It sounds like he’s got property to put her up in.’
As we walked away, a gaggle of reporters swarmed towards us, clutching microphones and filming equipment, and shouting questions. Cameras flashed in my face, blinding me temporarily. I blinked and recognised a slim figure in a full-length coat at the front of the group. Her usual long black tresses had been pulled up into a faux-casual top-knot, and she was wearing her trademark four-inch heels.
‘Inspector Rahman.’ Suzie James’ rasping voice was unmistakeable. ‘What can you tell us about the fire?’
I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. At this stage of the investigation, I couldn’t afford to antagonise the press or get into a skirmish with Suzie.
‘Has anyone been killed and was it arson?’ Another reporter shouted and shoved a microphone at me.
I stopped and prepared to address the group. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Maya Rahman. An investigation is underway following the fire at the Brick Lane Soup Company this afternoon. The fire is being treated as deliberate, and my team and I are working hard to piece together the sequence of events and to apprehend whoever may be responsible.’ I paused, wanting to emphasise our request for help from the community. ‘We are appealing for a number of critical pieces of information. Firstly, we want to hear from anyone who was at the flash mob or in the shop area this morning. If you saw anyone acting suspiciously, or have smartphone video footage, please contact us. Secondly, anyone who has been unable to contact a friend or loved one since the fire, please call us. At the moment, we have two fatalities, and we need help identifying one of these. We are keen to hear about anyone who is missing or from anyone who cannot contact a female friend, sister, mother or daughter. Any information, no matter how insignificant it may seem, please contact the incident room at Limehouse Police Station. Thank you.’ I checked my watch. ‘I’ll take a few quick questions.’
A cacophony of voices broke out.
‘Where is the shopkeeper, Mr Gudelis?’ a local journalist shouted.
‘We are trying to establish his whereabouts,’ I replied.
‘Is this a hate crime?’ shouted a reporter for The Messenger.
‘We have no evidence of that.’
‘You’re not ruling it out though?’
‘We are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry.’
‘We’ve seen Mrs Gudelis. Who is the other fire victim?’
‘We’re waiting for a formal ID.’
‘Are we likely to see a wave of arson attacks in East London? Copycat flash mobs and property torching? Bit like the way the London riots spread.’
The man’s question hit me like a smack in the face. Tony was a reporter who’d worked for the City Eye for as long as I could remember. He was famous for his sensationalist headlines.
‘We have no reason to believe that’s going to happen and would urge you not to scaremonger, Tony, please. We want to encourage people to come forward with information, not send the city into panic.’
‘That’s a yes, then.’
I gritted my teeth.
‘Does this case have personal involvement for you too, Inspector?’ Suzie’s question purred through a beautifully lipsticked mouth, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to catch her jeer.
I glanced over at Dan who rolled his eyes. We both knew Suzie James of old. ‘I’ve lived in this area for thirty-seven years, Suzie. It’s all personal to me. Thank you. No further questions.’
‘Well done.’ Dan spoke softly.
‘Thanks,’ I said wearily. ‘Right. Back to the nick for briefing and let’s get cracking.’ And added, ‘I dread to think what the headlines are going to be.’
When the girl woke up, she lay where she was, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. She knew something was wrong when she saw the ceiling. Her stars had gone. She tried to sit up. The mattress was slippery and smelled funny and didn’t have a sheet. Her head was spinning, like when she was poorly sometimes. She lay down on her side, trying to figure out where she was. Two windows. In a corner of one, black plastic was peeling away from the frame, and slivers of light fell on the carpet and walls. No posters. No lamp. Her bedroom at home had a blind and a fluffy rug.
While she was sleeping, she’d thought she’d heard footsteps. They’d stopped at the end of the bed. And voices. She must’ve been dreaming.
She listened now.
Nothing.
‘Mummy?’ She spoke quietly in the dark, but no-one heard.
Thirsty. Her mouth was dry.
She sat up again, and slid her legs off the edge of the mattress and onto the floor. She’d sit here for a while, until her head stopped spinning. Beneath her toes, the thick carpet felt soft and squishy. She liked it. She liked being in a warm room with a lovely carpet, but she wanted Mummy. Mummy would bring her a drink and Mummy would know where the stars were and the slippy mattress with a drink . . . dizzy . . . and the stars in the shiny . . .
Back in the MIT room, the team were poised for our first briefing. The first twenty-four hours of the investigation were critical. We all knew that. Around the room, the boards were up and important information had been plastered over all available surfaces. Maps showed locations and routes. Shops had been plotted on a street plan. Facts and questions stood out in coloured board markers. We’d all examined the mug shots and got to grips with the key names.
‘Let’s get started, everyone,’ I said. ‘First, good news. The fire brigade has inspected the soup shop through the openings where the windows were, and only found one gas cylinder. It has already exploded, which probably contributed to the ferocity of the blaze, but it means we no longer have an explosion risk.’
A wave of relief swept through the team.
‘We have a tentative ID on the male victim. Simas Gudelis, age forty-two, originally from Lithuania. He was co-owner of the shop with his wife, who says he was ill in bed.’ I paused for breath. ‘We have no ID for the woman, who isn’t his wife.’
The next board had ‘VICTIMS’ as its heading. Here, we had multiple image sources