by Vicky Newham
‘And?’
Any response Maya was about to make was prevented by the loud voice of a tout as they passed an Indian restaurant. ‘Very good price, all fresh,’ the man said through a tired perma-smile. ‘Special menu,’ he said, pointing at the laminated double A4 sheet in the window.
Ahead, an enclosed brick bridge straddled the street. An eagle insignia lay above the word TRUMAN. Underneath this, it said, ‘A Black Eagle Brewery.’ A tall chimney rose high above the top of the bridge.
Maya tapped his arm and pointed at a restaurant on the corner of Woodseer Street. ‘See that place. City Spice. When we arrived here in 1982, the top floor of that corner building was our first home. No-one had double glazing then so even with the windows shut, the flat permanently smelled of hops being boiled.’ Her eyes shone as though the memory warmed her. ‘We had two rooms up in the eaves. One was an open plan living room and kitchen, and the other was the bedroom.’
‘One bedroom for five of you?’
‘Mum and Dad slept in the front room.’ She pointed at a small sash window which now had a container on the sill outside, filled with bobbing yellow tulips. ‘Jasmina, Sabbir and I slept in the bedroom at the side, and we shared an outside toilet with loads of other families. Jaz and I hated having to go downstairs in the dark, and out into the yard at the back.’ She shuddered. ‘A couple of times a week we’d go to the public baths to get a shower. Depressing to think that lots of people are still living in conditions like these, and worse.’
Dan was aware that Maya had used the interruption to dodge his question. She must’ve been going through hell these last few months. ‘Maya, the fingerprints. What did the lab find?’
‘I haven’t read the report yet.’ Her face was solemn. Haunted. ‘I was about to yesterday afternoon when some gobby Australian bloke rocked up and told me there was a fire.’
It was funny hearing Maya use an Aussie expression. It was also typical of her to deflect and make a joke to cover her pain. ‘That told me,’ he jested, feigning an offended face. ‘Tell you what. I’ll hold your hand later. You can open it then.’
A slow smile warmed her features. ‘Let me think about it.’ Her tone of voice was final, and she lengthened her stride to indicate the conversation was over.
They passed under the Truman Brewery bridge towards the area where the soup shop was based. Here, the landscape had a completely different vibe. The Indian restaurants were replaced by vintage clothing shops, record stores, bars, and posh cafés selling speciality coffees. They passed one bar after another, licensed cafés, clubs, nouvelle cuisine restaurants and trendy health food outlets. Pumped male bouncers stood threateningly, Bluetooth earpieces inserted. Their tight charcoal suits made their biceps look like they’d been shrink-wrapped.
‘With those prices you’d think the rent-a-muscle would be herding the public in, not trying to keep people out.’
Maya laughed. ‘Reverse psychology, I think. They want to give the impression of exclusivity.’
They walked past a place selling second-hand coats. ‘All vintage,’ said a guy with the teeniest goatee Dan had ever seen. He was wearing a calf-length black coat with a purple velvet trim, presumably one of his bargains.
‘There are more and more hipster joints, slick bars and late-night clubs,’ Maya said. ‘If the landlords can command a higher rent from those, the Bangladeshis will be forced to sell up or to change the sorts of businesses they run.’ She kicked at some decaying leaves in the gutter. Stood still for a moment and gestured to a shop with dressed manikins in the window. ‘That place, Pick Your Vintage, was targeted by demonstrators a few years ago. A load of people wearing masks set on the place. They had fire torches and lobbed paint over the shop front.’ Maya was shaking her head.
‘What was it about?’
‘Buying up clothes cheaply from charity shops, hiking the prices and selling them as vintage. A shop that appeals to the well-off rather than one that everyone can afford to . . . ’
The deafening sound of a pneumatic drill drowned out her reply. The whole street shuddered and shook: pavements, the road, all the shops and buildings on Brick Lane. Dan could feel the vibration in his body. It was like his brain was being rattled about inside his head.
‘Five days that bloody racket’s been going on for.’ A young guy had stopped at a graffiti-sprayed door. He placed a LIDL bag at his feet while he fished in his pockets for his keys. ‘They’re drilling through concrete and laying the foundations for a new ten-storey development on the old school playing fields. Bloody penthouse flats with a private gym in the basement and a roof-terrace.’ Ripped drainpipe jeans and a grubby jacket clung to a skinny frame. He pointed behind the shops, then pushed the flat door open. ‘You’re Old Bill, aren’t you? I saw you at the fire yesterday.’
Dan gave a cool smile and got out his warrant. ‘Did you know the people who ran the soup shop?’
‘Nah. Their gear was way out of my budget.’ He waved his hand dismissively and lifted his LIDL bag.
‘Did you see the flash mob?’
‘Not really. My front room looks out over the street. I had a quick look when I heard the music start and all the shouting. I can catch the corner of their shop from my gaff.’
‘What’s your name, buddy?’
‘Matt.’
‘Surname?’
‘Barker.’
‘We’ve got officers doing house-to-house inquiries. Have they interviewed you?’
‘Saw them coming, didn’t I? Didn’t answer the door.’ He grinned, pleased with himself.
As had lots of residents no doubt. ‘Did you see anyone going into the soup shop in the morning? Or leaving?’
Matt shook his head. ‘I don’t get up ’til late. I do a lot of my work at night.’
‘Seen anything suspicious or out-of-the-usual the last few days?’
‘Nah.’
‘Would you tell me if you had?’
‘Probably not.’ He grinned again.
Dan gave him a steely stare. ‘Well, aren’t you the epitome of neighbourly good feeling? Two people died in that fire. The owners have lost their livelihood, and two residents were taken to hospital in a critical condition.’
‘Oh. Right . . . ’ The glee disappeared from his face.
‘You heard of a website called LfA?’
‘Course. Everyone has.’
Dan threw him a dirty look. ‘What do you know about them?’
‘They organise street events. Flash mobs, pavement painting and stuff like that. Know what I mean?’ He winked.
‘No, buddy, I don’t. Care to fill me in?’
‘Look, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble or spread slander. I’m not sure they’re legit, that’s all. I’ve seen their guys hanging round youth clubs, chatting to the kids. Might be kosher but I don’t get that feeling.’
Dan saw that Maya’s antennae had zoomed in on the twenty-something lad. ‘Do they sell drugs?’
‘Bit of weed, maybe.’ Then added hastily, ‘Don’t know for sure, like.’
‘Do you know the names of any of the LfA guys?’
‘The one everyone knows is Frazer but he doesn’t go out recruiting. He gets his dogs to do that. Frazer just posts on the forum. Keyboard warrior, innit?’
Dan got out his notepad and wrote down the house number. ‘Matt Barker, you said. Contact details?’
*
Ten minutes later, they’d reached Sclater Street on the left. The building site that Matt was referring to was like bomb-wreckage. Buildings had been flattened. Red brick and render rubble lay in heaps. ‘I’ve never seen so much construction work.’ Dan’s head was on a permanent swivel.
They carried on walking.
Dan cast his eye up and down the street. All around them, cranes loomed like long-armed monsters stretching across the koala-grey Shoreditch skies. In every direction high-end flats were springing up, offered to anyone who could afford them, despite the fact that what the area desperately needed was affordab
le housing.
‘Shall we grab a cuppa?’ Maya pointed at Brick Lane Coffee, the tiny slit of a shop with tables outside. ‘This noise is doing my head in.’
Sitting outside, talking to himself and with a roll-up on the go, was an old guy in a sheepskin jacket.
Dan followed Maya over to the coffee shop. A few minutes later, they were inside the café, sitting down, and they began discussing the attack on Pick Your Vintage again.
‘The protest organisers claimed that the business owners were making an obscene profit on the clothes they bought and were depleting affordable stocks at charity shops.’ Maya sipped her coffee. ‘They’ve got a point.’
‘Sorry to butt in. I heard you talking about the street mob and the vintage shop. You don’t think there’s going to be another attack, do you? You’re police officers, right?’ A young mum had a pram with a sleeping toddler in it and a boy of about four in tow. She was chewing her lip. ‘I was in that shop with my kids when the protesters started on it. Hundreds of them in the street, throwing paint at the windows, and twenty or so trying to kick the door in.’ She patted her chest to soothe herself. ‘The owners barricaded us all in. We were terrified that they were going to torch the place.’ Her eyes were wide with alarm. ‘My toddler still has nightmares about men in masks, carrying fire torches.’ She tucked a blanket over the youngster who was asleep in the buggy.
‘We certainly hope not,’ Maya replied.
The woman was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘They weren’t all working class people demonstrating about inequality. I heard a load of posh youngsters and university students boasting about signing up to join the protest because it would be a laugh and—’
‘Hold on a sec.’ Maya’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘At the time of the protest, did you hear anyone mention a website or a forum called LfA?’
The woman’s eyes popped in shock and her hand rose to her mouth. ‘No, but lots of them were wearing masks with an LfA logo.’
Maya, midday
Still in Brick Lane, Dan and I headed towards a clothing shop and went in. It had a sumptuous, funky window display. Inside, there were rows and rows of fashionable clothes.
‘They’re all made locally, in Old Street,’ a glamorous young woman said, walking to meet us with a warm smile. She had cherry red lipstick, matching hair and a black-and-white polka dot dress, probably late twenties. ‘And all made ethically.’ She smiled and offered her hand to shake. ‘I’m Natassja. It’s my shop.’ Her English was perfect but heavily accented.
‘We’re police officers,’ I said. ‘Investigating the arson attack at the—’
‘. . . Soup shop. Yeah. I heard.’ She straightened some of the stock and picked up a dress which had fallen on the floor.
‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘A lot of people round here think the wife did it.’ There was no self-consciousness to her statement.
‘How d’you know that?’
‘People talk.’ She shrugged dismissively.
‘Were you not a fan of Mrs Ulbiene?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know her. She came charging in here one day, screaming at me because she thought I was having an affair with her husband. Accusing me. Calling me all sorts of names. Can’t say I was too thrilled about that.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told her I’d never even spoken to him, but she wouldn’t believe me.’ She brushed some dust off a jacket and straightened another on a hanger. ‘Turned out he had some woman on the go and she’d got it into her head that it was me.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘She came back in and apologised.’ Natassja’s expression was furtive. ‘I’ll give it to her. I felt right sorry for her. She was in pieces. Said she was pregnant.’
‘Did you get an idea of who the woman was?’ I was thinking about our UnSub in the fire.
‘No, but she knows. She said she’d found out who it was and confronted him.’ She paused. Seemed to reflect. ‘Poor cow. Her life can’t have been a barrel of laughs, living with him.’ She tapped her fingers on her chin, and I got the impression there was something else she wanted to say. ‘There was a journo in here earlier, asking all sorts. Said something about “blowing the story wide open”.’ She flashed an apologetic smile. ‘I’m really sorry. She caught me on the hop and I’d just had a double espresso. I think I told her a bit too much.’
I stifled a groan. ‘Who was it?’
‘The woman from the local paper. You’ll know her. Black hair. High heels.’
I opened the internet browser on my phone and pulled up the Stepney Gazette’s website. On the front page, posted twenty-one minutes ago, was a piece by Suzie James, with the headline: ‘SERIAL ADULTERER DIES IN FIRE – was the person with him one of his many mistresses?’
The article text went on to say:
‘With his pregnant wife out, local womaniser, Simas Gudelis, is thought to be the man who died in the arson at the old bagel shop yesterday . . . ’
‘Do you realise his wife is in hospital?’ I asked Natassja. ‘If she clicks on this website, thanks to you, she will read things that she doesn’t know and which may not be true.’ I made sure my eyes locked on hers while she absorbed my words. ‘If any more reporters ask you questions, please don’t tell them anything.’ Then, to Dan, I said, ‘Let’s go.’
*
Five minutes later, we were on our way, walking down Brick Lane towards Whitechapel. When we passed Fournier Street, a group of kids came hurtling round the corner towards us, shouting and running full pelt. None of them a day over ten.
‘Hurry up,’ one of them yelled over his shoulder to his mates. ‘They’ll catch us.’ He lengthened his stride and the gang powered down the street, seemingly not bothered that they were on a collision course with the two of us and several other pedestrians.
‘Woah. Look where you’re going, fellas,’ Dan told them, his hand raised to indicate they needed to slow down.
‘Sod off, Grandad,’ the boy snarled, wild-eyed. His accent was familiar. He spat on the pavement when he approached Dan, narrowly missing his shoes.
As he passed us, I caught the glint of metal as he slid a knife out from his jacket sleeve. ‘Dan, leave it,’ I hissed. ‘He’s got a blade.’
Several boys were behind him, slapping each other on the back, eyes popping and jaws twitching. At the rear, four younger boys were sprinting to keep up. One of them was Ali, the boy from the flash mob, but he seemed completely different. Hyper and out of control. A few metres past us, he stopped dead and his three pals crashed into him.
‘It’s finish,’ Ali shouted back to them. ‘They got us block off. Look.’ He pointed. ‘Is that psycho, Kyle. He’s going to kill us. Run.’
‘Ali?’ His lip was bleeding and the stitches on his forehead had burst. ‘What’s happened?’ His trousers were ripped at the knee.
For a fleeting moment, his face softened when he saw me, and relief flooded over it, but before I could say any more, the leader of the group of boys took off down an alley, yelling at the others to follow him. Within seconds, they’d scaled a wall into someone’s back garden.
Dan punched the air in frustration.
‘I wonder who Kyle is?’ I asked.
Dan shrugged. ‘Ali said, “He’s going to kill us.” Whatever it’s about, I suspect it’s a bit more than a couple of kids wagging school.’ He took his phone out and started dialling.
Maya, 12.30 p.m.
‘We’ve found some ID in one of the bags we recovered at the Brick Lane crime scene.’ Dougie was on loudspeaker in the car. ‘Belongs to a student called Sophie Williams. She’s doing A-levels at New City College.’
‘Any more detail?’
‘She’s seventeen and lives in Bow. Place is registered to a Mrs Williams. It’s 162, Saxon Court. Massive block on Hamlets Way, the ones that are being developed. Huge contractor banner outside.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Luckily for us, the bag was wat
er-resistant. Bit of damage at the seams and pockets, but the technicians have dried out her phone. They’ve begun accessing her comms data.’
‘Hallelujah.’ I grinned at Dan.
‘Have you seen Suzie’s article?’ Dougie asked.
‘Yeah. We’ve just interviewed the shopkeeper she got her gossip from.’
‘She cannot resist, can she?’ Dougie knew better than anyone how much grief Suzie had caused me over the years, and how she delighted in dredging up the most personal information in people’s lives.
‘Listen, was there literally nothing on the premises that could give us a clue to the woman’s ID?’
‘Nope. I’d have told you.’
‘No child’s hair grip or toy? I can’t get out of my head that she may have an elderly relative or kid at home.’
‘Sorry.’
‘OK. Speak later.’ I rung off and turned to Dan. ‘Let’s get over there, shall we?’
‘Do you think Sophie’s a significant witness?’ Dan asked.
‘Hmm. Don’t know. I’m curious about her relationship with these two lads. Particularly since one’s so young.’
Ten minutes later we arrived at Sophie Williams’ address. As Dougie had suggested, she lived in a vast block. The building stretched the length of the entire road and had five identical entrances at the front, on the street. A large scaffolding clung to the outside of the property with a green net suspended from the roof to the ground, to stop debris falling. We didn’t need to ring the buzzer as the door to the block was propped open and builders were traipsing in and out.
Sophie’s flat was on the third floor. The door was yanked open seconds after I rang the bell.
‘Where the hell have you—?’ A ghost of a face was staring at me, with a scruffy top-knot of strawberry-blonde hair.
