by Vicky Newham
‘Come in, detectives.’ He spoke quietly and made no attempt to get up from his chair. ‘I gather you want to talk to me about my brother.’ His voice was monotonous and only just audible. His manner reminded me of someone who was no stranger to dominance. This was a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
I left Dan to observe and approached Artem’s desk. All the while he remained motionless in his chair, watching my every step. Calm and in control, or so he wanted us to think. In turn, I made sure he saw that I’d clocked the well-stocked drinks cabinet and the framed prints on the walls of grinning Z-list celebrities. This was a man who felt well-connected, even if he wasn’t, and we were about to test his self-importance. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions in relation to the blaze at your brother’s shop yesterday.’
‘If it’s quick.’
‘We now know that it was arson, and sadly we’ve found two bodies in the burnt-out building.’
‘Simas and Indra, presumably?’ The set of his mouth was hard, and he showed no emotion.
‘It’s interesting that you assume that. We are fairly sure that one of them is Simas. We need a family member to formally identify his body. Can you do this for us, please?’
‘I suppose I’ll have to given Indra is—’
‘The other body is female but isn’t Indra.’
‘Oh?’ His expression fell a fraction before he caught it. ‘Who is it then?’
‘We don’t know yet.’ I felt his eyes scrutinising me. He clearly wasn’t relieved Indra was alive. ‘Indra isn’t up to coming to the mortuary. She’s is in hospital, recovering from miscarrying your brother’s child.’ I let the news float and waited for him to comment.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I had no idea she was pregnant.’
There was still no emotion visible on Artem’s features. He was smart. It was a pragmatic response. Maybe none of it was news. It was hard to tell. ‘In the interim, perhaps you can help us with identification?’ I showed him Marta’s photos and an image of the two bodies.
‘He did have that watch and earring. If it helps, I can confirm that.’ He held my gaze defiantly. ‘So, what else can I do for you? My accountant is due shortly and I need to go over some figures.’
‘We will need you to come to the mortuary to ID the body in person.’
He gave a sharp nod.
‘There are a number of things we need to ask you about, so we’ll take it in stages, if that’s OK.’ I had no intention of leaving before I’d covered everything we needed to know. ‘First of all, do you have any idea who the woman in the fire might have been?’
‘No.’ He shook his head, as though he was surprised to see his brother with another woman.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Was your brother having an affair?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Do you know any of the women he has had affairs with?’
‘It’s none of my business.’ It was a clever answer but he hadn’t denied his brother’s infidelity.
‘That wasn’t what I asked you. We need to know who might wish your brother harm and who might have a grudge against him?’
‘How long have you got?’ He lounged back in his leather bucket chair and rested both hands behind his head, arms wide. His suit cuffs rose up, and I caught a glimpse of his gold watch, gleaming in the subdued lighting.
‘I’m not here to play games, Mr Gudelis. Arson is a very serious offence and two people are dead.’ I took two steps closer. ‘If you know anything that could help us find your brother’s killer, we’d appreciate you telling us.’
He let out a sigh. ‘You’re Bangladeshi, right?’
I folded my arms. ‘Is this relevant?’
‘Did you grow up round here? If you did, you’ll know that things are changing in Brick Lane.’
‘They’re continually changing. Everywhere is. When my family moved here, it was still quite Jewish. The Bangladeshis were trying to establish themselves.’
‘My point is that some people were not happy about Simas and Indra opening their soup shop. Some of the local business owners and residents thought they were trying to push out the Bangladeshis. Others claim their soups and salads were pretentious, hipster food. You’ve seen their menu, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘They sold soups made from a base of lentils, quinoa, freekeh and teff. They’re healthy, nutritious and offer good profit potential. For some, their food was over-priced.’
‘Given that thousands of people owe their lives to the handouts from the Jewish Soup Kitchen in Brune Street, you can understand why.’
‘Quite,’ he said, and I wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with. ‘There have been numerous anti-gentrification campaigns targeting businesses in Shoreditch and Brick Lane. The bad feeling is worse where people are marking up products which are cheap to buy or make. People believe they’re ripping off consumers.’ He paused. ‘The owners of the vintage clothing shops, for example, often buy up charity stock for a few quid and sell the items for hundreds of pounds. One of them was targeted a while back.’
‘We know about the attack on Pick Your Vintage. But no-one makes people shop in Brick Lane.’ Was there disapproval in his comments? ‘Are you suggesting your brother’s soup business was in the same category?’
‘You asked me what I thought and I’m telling you.’
‘If people want vintage clothing, posh coffee and soup, and can afford them, what’s the problem? Can everyone afford to come into your club and pay for a lap dance?’
‘No, they can’t. And that’s my point. People claim that businesses like mine and my brother’s change the fabric of an area. They attract people who can afford them and push out those who can’t. As wealthier people move in, the mix of businesses changes.’
‘You mean gentrification?’
‘Exactly. When I set up this club, there were already loads of bars in the area. The Brick Lane Soup Company is another business which isn’t in keeping with what many people want for the area.’ He flicked his hand dismissively. ‘Personally, I think people need to move with the times and stop whingeing. There are several shops in Brick Lane which are way past their sell-by date.’
I pricked up my ears. ‘Such as?’
‘The off-licence a few doors down from my brother’s place. The newsagent’s opposite. Pre-historic that place is, and its owner.’ His words dripped with contempt and it was hard to contain my irritation.
‘So, they’re supposed to give up their livelihoods because you can think of a preferable business for their location?’
‘It’s basic economics.’ He tossed his biro onto his mouse-mat. ‘Anyhow, it’s their look-out, but they need to be careful. That’s all I’m saying. Sooner or later, things get taken out of people’s hands.’
I sensed that Artem was no stranger to violence. He reminded me of a piranha, lurking in the safety of the shallows while he waited for his next victim. ‘Like someone torching their business, you mean?’
Dan had joined me in front of Artem’s desk.
‘It’s perfectly possible, isn’t it?’
It was a confident response, but I noticed Artem easing his chair back a few inches.
‘Did Simas receive any aggravation about the shop?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. Mainly passive-aggressive stuff. People phoning through fake orders. That sort of thing. But they had their car vandalised twice and the shop windows smashed several times.’
‘We will need details from you of all the episodes you know about, and as many names as you can remember.’
His gaze didn’t flicker.
‘Who else might have had it in for your brother?’ I asked.
‘How about all the husbands and boyfriends of the women he shagged?’ He spat his words out as though they gave him pleasure.
I bit back my disdain. He was trying to test or shock, and I wasn’t prepared to give him the satisfaction of reacting. ‘I need names.
Your brother has been murdered. If I may say so, you don’t seem upset or surprised.’
‘I’m not surprised, no. My brother was a risk taker all his life. He thrived on it. I told him to be more discreet, but he was a stubborn man, and he always had more energy than me.’
I let his last comment go. ‘Nevertheless, I’m sure that you want to see whoever murdered him brought to justice?’ I watched him. ‘It’s easy to look down on your brother’s business but in reality he sold soup and you sell naked women.’
Artem cackled. ‘This place might not be everyone’s idea of a good business, but I know the market and I know my clientele, and I make a good living. I wouldn’t have opened this club in the part of Brick Lane where Simas opened the soup place, for example.’
I needed to think about what Artem was saying, and talk it through with the team. Were the murders about economics? Turf? Ethnicities? Religion? Or were they personal? I walked to the edge of the room, surveyed the awards and certificates on the walls, the beaming faces of his celebrity clientele. I got the distinct impression that these two brothers were very different, and I sensed tension between them. I made a mental note to get the team to do a background check on Artem. ‘Do you have a family, Mr Gudelis?’
‘I do.’
‘Doesn’t your wife mind you running a strip club?’
‘I don’t hear her complaining too much when we are flying business class to the Caribbean, or when she’s booking spa treatments and personal shoppers at Selfridges.’
I stifled a groan. In many an idle moment, I’d wondered what it must be like to be married to a man like this. ‘Children?’
‘A boy and a girl. One’s at prep school and the other is home-educated. He has special needs.’
‘Were you and your brother close?’
‘There was a ten-year age gap between us, and we didn’t agree about everything, but we have always been close.’
‘What didn’t you agree about?’
He cackled again but didn’t answer. It was a horrible, dirty sound.
‘Mr Gudelis?’
Maya, 10 a.m.
‘What did you and your brother disagree about?’ I repeated my question to Artem.
‘Women, for a start.’
‘Oh?’ I faced him. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’
‘Indra.’
As soon as he said it, I realised it didn’t surprise me. ‘What about her?’
‘I warned him about her.’
‘You warned him about what?’
‘They were both as bad as each other. The baby . . . ? If you ask me, it could be anyone’s. He probably didn’t even know about it. It’s a good job she miscarried. Least this way she won’t be bringing some bastard baby into the world.’
This corroborated what Marta had said: that Simas hadn’t known about the baby. ‘Did you warn Indra about your brother?’ It was hard to keep the irritation from my voice.
Artem shot me a dirty look, his expression full of contempt.
‘Is it your opinion that they were both unfaithful or do you know this for a fact?’
‘Listen,’ he snorted, ‘she even hit on me a few times.’
‘I suppose it’s what you expect from a slapper like her, eh? Or perhaps she was getting even with your brother? I’m sure you politely turned her down.’ This time I didn’t bother trying to hide my disgust. ‘Is that true about Indra or are you making it up?’
‘I suggest you ask her.’
‘I intend to, but this is a double murder investigation and I’m not prepared to have you turn it into cheap score-settling. I appreciate you sharing your views but where one person has their story, so do others.’ This was one of those investigations where everyone hinted at things and referred us on to someone else. ‘One thing.’ I put on my innocent face. ‘If you had to place a bet, who do you reckon lit that fire?’
‘I would bet my club on it being Indra.’ As he spoke, he covered his desk with a fine spray of spit. He sat forward and clambered to his feet. ‘Or that psycho sister of hers.’ He pointed at his temples in case I hadn’t got the message. ‘Hard as bloody nails, she is.’
I nodded. Pretended I agreed and that his words hadn’t shocked me. Artem might have hoped he was about to shoo us out, but we had a surprise in store for him. ‘DS Maguire?’ It was time to wind Artem up.
Dan was still in front of Artem’s desk. I shuffled back a few steps, allowing him to position himself right in front of Artem. Dan stood there with his legs apart, his left arm across his body, the right stroking his chin mock-pensively. ‘I see you have a record for arson, Mr Gudelis.’ His voice was quiet.
Artem stared at Dan then me, and I saw fury fill his small eyes. Good. We’d got a reaction.
‘Setting fire to a shed in 2009,’ Dan said. ‘Did you know it had animals in it when you torched it?’ He waited for a response.
Artem’s right hand clenched into a fist. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? It was an accident and it was ten years ago.’ He batted his computer mouse away.
I watched his tells. Listened to every word for nuances and implications.
Dan was nodding, as if he was unsure of what to say. I’d seen him play dumb and he was good at it. ‘Arson can be habit-forming. Addictive, even.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Are you implying that I set fire to my brother’s shop?’
‘Did you?’
Artem’s eyes blazed. ‘Of course I didn’t. The idea that I’ve become some sort of pyromaniac is absurd.’ He stared at me. ‘Do you agree with this joker, Inspector?’
I switched on the falsest smile I could conjure. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
‘What reason would I have for burning down my brother’s business?’
‘You tell us, buddy.’ Dan locked his eyes on Artem’s. ‘Perhaps you want Indra for yourself?’
Artem’s fist came crashing down on the desk. ‘I am not your buddy.’ His head was tilted back in annoyance. He opened a bottle of water which was on his desk; took a few gulps and screwed the top back up.
A beefy security guard had arrived now and Artem oozed relief. ‘Sergei, these two officers are leaving. Kindly escort them off the premises, and make sure they are not shown in again without my authorisation.’
Sergei held out his arm to herd us out of the room.
Dan was still by the desk. ‘You know, you were lucky not to have got a custodial sentence, mate. You would have done in Australia.’
Artem’s face was a picture. Pink and puffed-up with indignation. ‘I said get out. Sergei, get these officers out of my sight.’
‘Don’t forget, we need that list and a statement,’ Dan added, as we were escorted out of Artem’s office. ‘Otherwise, we’ll be back.’
We had hit a few raw nerves.
10.30 a.m.
She woke again, needing the toilet. Her head was still fuzzy. Kind of floaty.
She’d had the dream again. Someone came in while she was asleep, but she couldn’t remember who it was. She tried to get her brain to think but it felt heavy. It hadn’t been Mummy. Mummy would’ve brought her fish-fingers and some juice and Snuggabear. ‘Mummy? I don’t feel well.’
The room gobbled up her words, as though it held a terrible secret.
She lay still, waiting to hear her mum’s voice, but nothing came back. Just a dog whining, and a telly down low and a funny smell. Perhaps she was at an uncle’s and Mummy had gone out? Except – when she did that, Mummy always brought Snuggabear and left her a biscuit and something to drink. Here, it was just the dog and shouting and guns on the telly.
She slid off the bed and padded towards the door. Mummy must be watching telly in the lounge. That’s why she hadn’t left the light on. She pressed the handle and pulled the door.
But it was stiff.
Or stuck.
She tried again, pushed this time. The handle went down but the door wouldn’t move. Something was wrong. ‘Mum? Mummy? I’m scared.’ She tried the door
again. Rattled the handle as hard as she could. Last time this happened, Mummy’d gone out, and she’d locked her in to keep her safe. But that was at home, and it didn’t matter because Mummy gave her a kiss.
‘Mummy? I don’t like this. I’m scared and I’m thirsty.’ A single tear crept bravely down her pale cheek. Then her eyes filled up and very quietly, in the dark room, she began to sob.
Dan, 11 a.m.
Dan and Maya were in Brick Lane to gather information on what might have motivated the arson. Overhead, a giant crane boom swung its red jib across the rooftops and plunged its bucket into a semi-demolished building. Dan had never seen so many tradies in one spot. No matter which direction he cast his eye, builders were standing around in huddles of testosterone. In their high-viz jackets, hard hats and work boots, they bellowed in an array of languages as they slurped tea and rolled fags.
The two of them passed barber’s, saree shops, fabric outlets, halal butcher’s and money transfer shops.
‘Dad used to send money home to relatives,’ Maya shouted over the beeping of a reversing digger. ‘Took ten years for him to be able to afford to, I think, but after that he did it every week.’
‘Were your folks planning to go home eventually?’ Dan asked.
‘I honestly don’t know.’ She frowned, as though the idea was out of reach. ‘Dad liked it here and Mum has always wanted to go home to Bangladesh, but I don’t recall it being discussed.’
Dan knew Maya’s father had left them when they were kids. ‘She must’ve been even keener when your dad left. Imagine how different your life would’ve been if she’d taken you guys with her.’
A shadow fell over Maya’s face.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’ Dan cursed his tactlessness. It was obvious how much Maya’s family situation affected her still.
‘You weren’t.’
Dan wasn’t sure if she was going to say any more.
‘There’s been a development.’ She made it sound like a case.
‘Couldn’t you be a bit more cryptic?’ he joked.
‘Sorry. Habit.’ Maya laughed. ‘We all assumed Dad was dead, but it seems he may be alive after all.’ She told him about the visits their mother reported to her residential home; the times Maya had thought someone was watching her; the battered iPhone that mysteriously appeared with a radio app installed. ‘I have a feeling the shit is about to hit the fan. I’ve sent fingerprints off for testing. From the mobile.’
