mate,’ he says to Tomasz.
‘Thanks, Thomas,’ Jasmina says, and it makes me giggle, because she’s said his name wrong. I catch the way she avoids eye contact with him, and blushes when he speaks.
‘Thank you,’ I say and don’t even try to say his name. ‘What else shall I have?’ I wonder aloud. ‘I need to add up what it comes to. We could get some Aniseed Balls and share them?’
Jasmina isn’t listening. She’s pretending to count her sweets but I can see her, watching Tomasz Feldman out of the corner of her eye.
‘What about Gob Stoppers? Shall we get some of them?’ I elbow her. ‘Or some rhubarbrhubarbrhubarbrhu . . . ?’
She hasn’t realised I’ve stopped talking.
‘You’re dribbling,’ I whisper.
‘Am not.’ She elbows me, recovers her poise and smooths her hair.
‘I’m off now, Mum.’ Tomasz glides towards the door of the shop. ‘I said I’d pick Agnieszka up from Brownies.’ He sees us watching him. ‘Definitely the Aniseed Balls,’ he says and gives us a huge wink, and I honestly think I’m about to burst.
First thing the next morning, I grabbed a shower and steeled myself to check the media coverage of the arson. I hoped it would be reported responsibly but experience told me it was too good a click-bait opportunity to pass up.
From the lounge, I heard the soft burble of the television news. Dougie had stayed over, so I made a fresh cafetière of coffee and took it in with a couple of mugs. ‘On a scale of one to ten, with ten as perfectly hideous, where are we?’ I slid the tray onto the coffee table and sank onto the sofa next to him.
‘Eleven.’ He picked up the cafetière and began pouring.
‘Shit.’
‘I’ve screenshot them for you.’ He passed me his iPad.
The City Eye headline said: LOCALS FEAR COPY-CAT ARSON ATTACKS.
‘Tony couldn’t resist, could he?’ I swiped at the images on the screen. The broadsheets were benign. The Messenger had taken ethnicity as their angle: IMMIGRANTS’ SHOP BURNT TO THE GROUND IN RACIST ATTACK.
‘Scumbags.’ I took a swig of coffee. ‘What about the news channels?’
‘BBC News seems to be sticking to the facts.’
‘That’s a relief.’ I continued to scroll through Dougie’s screenshots. ‘WHO IS THE MYSTERY WOMAN IN THE FIRE? Blimey. I hadn’t expected that from Sky. Who’s told the press there was a woman in the fire? Media Liaison haven’t released the information yet and I didn’t mention it.’
‘Someone must’ve been blabbing.’ Dougie didn’t sound surprised and continued checking his emails.
‘Anything from Suzie?’ She’d be hard pressed to come up with anything worse than the City Eye or The Messenger, but milking national concerns wasn’t Suzie’s style. Her penchant was to go for people, personally, and her favourite target was me.
‘Nothing on their website yet.’
*
Dan was joining me at the hospital. Hopefully, as well as asking Indra some questions, we could persuade Rosa to stay on the ward or go home with her daughter and spend a few days in East Ham.
When I walked in through the entrance doors, I was greeted in the lobby by a solemn-faced Shen.
‘Bad news, Ma’am, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Indra Ulbiene was ten weeks pregnant and she’s had a miscarriage.’
Shit. The poor woman. ‘So, her husband is dead and it looks like he might have been having an affair. And now she’s lost her baby?’ I kicked at the linoleum. Occasionally, the news we had to convey was good but most of the time it wasn’t. ‘Where’s the silver lining in this situation?’
‘I know, Ma’am.’
‘Is she conscious?’ Questions were circling in my mind. ‘Does she know she’s lost the baby?’
‘Yes, the medical staff have told her. We’ve not said anything to her about her husband yet. I think she knows he’s dead but we were waiting for you. She’s extremely distressed. They’ve got her sedated. She was asleep when I left the ward a few minutes ago.’
‘Thanks, Shen. I’ll speak to Rosa Feldman first then. Give Indra a bit of space. It’s the least we can do to help her.’
*
When I arrived on the ward, colour had returned to Rosa’s cheeks and her facial expression was resolute. She was sipping a mug of tea, and a half-eaten breakfast tray was on the side table.
‘You look better than when I last saw you,’ I said. ‘Thought we were going to lose you. How are you?’
‘Fit as a fiddle and ready to go home.’
I recognised the determination in her voice.
‘Those stock boxes won’t unpack themselves and all the while the shop’s closed, I’m losing customers.’
I wanted to steer Rosa away from the shop so I asked her about the flash mob.
‘When everyone began dancing, it took me back to the tea dances Józef and I used to go to after the war.’ Her eyes glistened as tears formed.
It felt uncaring to cut off her reminiscences, and whisk her onto interview questions, so I listened for a few moments while she talked, mentally noting anything that might be relevant to the investigation.
‘There are hardly any Jewish families left in Brick Lane now. The Blums, from the bagel shop, were the last to move out. Golders Green, Józef said.’
Aware that Rosa could tire quickly, I directed her attention to the arson. ‘Thinking back to the last few days, have you noticed anything suspicious or unusual? People you didn’t recognise?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Anyone acting suspiciously or anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No. But to be honest, I’m so busy in the shop, the days shoot by and I don’t notice much. Just boxes of stock and dust.’
‘What about arguments? Anyone been rowing recently? Neighbours had fallouts?’
She paused to think back. ‘Sorry. I’m not much help, am I?’
‘Did you recognise anyone in the street or at the flash mob?’ Having lived in the area for so long, if anyone would recognise locals, it was Rosa.
‘No.’
‘The ward sister said you’ve mentioned black masks. Can you tell me about these?’
‘They all had them. Black bandana things. Tied round their neck, and when they joined the dancing, they pulled them up over their nose to just beneath their eyes.’ She shuddered. ‘They looked really sinister.’
‘How well do you know Simas and Indra?’
‘Only to say hello to. I try to be neighbourly.’ Rosa was pensive, nodding gently, as though she was sifting through her experiences and opinions. ‘Actually, now you mention it, they had rows. I’d often hear one of them shouting and slamming the front door.’ She seemed distressed by the memory. ‘But it’s not my business and you can’t get involved in other people’s lives.’ A wistful look spread over her features. ‘I can’t believe the husband was in the . . . ’ Her voice croaked