Out of the Ashes

by Vicky Newham

  *

  A quarter of an hour later, we arrived at Tomasz’s bar. The two bouncers were outside, under the awning, looking as off-putting as they had the day before. One of them led us inside and escorted us along the corridor to the boss’ office. The door was ajar and from inside, we could hear Rosa’s son, bellowing into what I guessed was the phone.

  ‘Of course it matters,’ Tomasz yelled. ‘Find out what the hell happened and get back to me ASAP.’

  Above the door, another state-of-the-art CCTV camera quickly positioned itself to capture our arrival.

  The knuckle-faced security guard rapped on the oak door and the conversation stopped immediately.

  ‘Come.’ Tomasz was behind his desk, sitting in a large high-backed chair. As soon as he saw us, he got to his feet. The phone call had obviously been of a tense nature and this was reflected in his body language: his brow was crunched into an irritated frown; his lips were pursed and the expression in his eyes was hard, as though he’d had to concentrate on the conversation and now needed to calm down and prepare himself for whatever was to come.

  ‘Everything alright?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, staff, that’s all. Nothing serious.’ He forced a smile. ‘That’ll be all, thanks, Aliasj.’

  The bouncer left.

  ‘What can I help you with?’ He gestured to the seats in front of his desk. ‘Rather late, isn’t it?’

  I preferred to stand. ‘What’s your relationship with Indra Gudelis?’

  ‘I know her through their shop, opposite Mum’s.’

  ‘And her sister?’

  ‘She works for me.’

  ‘Did you know Indra was pregnant?’

  ‘Of course.’ He frowned suspiciously. ‘She lost the baby when she fell in the street the other day. Marta took her to have her scan at the hospital. She asked if she could swap shifts so she could accompany her sister.’

  ‘Did Indra tell you who the father was?’ I studied his tells.

  ‘Why would she?’

  ‘Because you were.’ I looked straight at him, watching every muscle in his face.

  He sank back down on his enormous leather chair, his face drained of colour. ‘I assume you aren’t joking?’ His cheek was twitching.

  ‘The hospital confirmed it earlier. It’s on the baby’s records.’ For a moment, I felt sorry for him. Unless he was an accomplished actor, the news was obviously a shock, but we had to assume it might not be. If he’d known, it gave him a possible motive for wanting Simas out of the way.

  He closed his eyes slowly and placed his palms over his face, gently shaking his head from side to side.

  Dan was tapping into his phone.

  ‘Would you like to tell us what your relationship is with Indra and Marta?’

  ‘I don’t have a relationship with Indra. We slept together a couple of times around three months ago. She was wanting company and – how can I put it without sounding like a heartless bastard? – attention. I’d seen her a few times when I visited Mum and she’d made it obvious she liked me. On one occasion, she’d had a row with a local shopkeeper who she thought her husband was . . . Let’s just say she was upset about her husband’s infidelity and either wanted to get even, or was bored. I don’t know, and I didn’t ask.’ He opened a bottle of water and took a large swig. ‘I had no idea she’d got pregnant. She told me she was on the pill. Christ, what a mess.’

  ‘And her sister?’

  ‘Yeah. We are . . . not seeing each other yet but . . . ’ He rubbed at the back of his neck while he thought what to say. ‘Oh, hell.’ He slammed his fist down on the table and stared at us both. ‘I don’t know if Marta knows that Indra and I slept together. Have you told her? You really aren’t shitting me about this, are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘You can check with the hospital, I’m sure, or with Indra. As for Marta, I don’t know what she knows, I’m afraid.’ I wasn’t about to start moralising. He’d said that he regarded himself as single. ‘What is the situation with Marta?’

  ‘I really like her. She and I only got together in the last couple of weeks. It might sound sordid, both sisters and all that, but nothing’s happened with Marta and I don’t want it to until all this is over and Indra is back on her feet again.’ He blushed. ‘Marta and I have had a couple of kisses and a bit of flirting. I’m assuming you’ve checked her background? The trafficking and—?’

  ‘We have.’ Dan’s tone was solemn.

  ‘I’ve been trying to persuade Marta to go out with me for a couple of months. I didn’t tell her that I’d had a stupid fling with her sister because Marta was always teasing me about being a “lad”, and I was worried that this would be proof and stop Marta and I getting together permanently. What a bloody idiot. I like Indra but not like that. It meant nothing. And now . . . now—’

  ‘Are you sure Marta doesn’t already know?’

  Horror ran over his face. ‘Shit. No. God, I really hope not. I need to go. I need to speak to Indra and find out what she’s told her sister.’ He grabbed up his phone.

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ I said firmly. ‘With you being the baby’s father, it might give you a motive for wanting Simas out of the way. Are you sure you don’t have feelings for Indra?’ It occurred to me that Marta could be his alibi.

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ He looked indignant. ‘I had no idea Indra had got pregnant.’ He stuffed his keys in his jacket pocket. ‘Why on earth would I want Simas and his girlfriend dead if I wanted to get together with Marta? It’s hardly going to help, is it?’ With that, he dashed past us and out of the room.

  Maya, midnight

  Beneath a cloudy sky, the streets of Whitechapel were full of shadows. Each time I moved, a shape appeared from a doorway or an alley, and the darkness seemed to swirl around me. The rain was a fine drizzle, the sort that made its way into your hair, ears and eyes, and drenched your clothing in minutes.

  Under a thick coat, the stab-proof vest was tight, and the rain had already begun seeping through at the seams.

  ‘Please. You have change?’ A thin voice asked from the pavement. It was a teenage girl with deadened eyes, wrapped in a ripped tarpaulin, hair caked with dirt and despair.

  I felt for some coins in my pocket and dropped them in her bowl. Was Ali here? Crashing in doorways and eating from bins?

  My gloved hand went to my bag. I had to plough on for another hour, and keep distributing the photographs we had of Kenny Hayes and Ali. Once that was done, I wanted to get back home. It was time to read the Forensics report on the fingerprints on Mum’s phone. If Dad was alive, I had to know – even if it turned my world upside down.

  SUNDAY

  Rosa, 7 a.m.

  ‘It would help if you put the flipping light on. I can’t see a thing.’ Agnieszka’s tone was snappy.

  She and Rosa were in the garden at the back of the newsagent’s. Once a much-loved family space, these days it was a mass of brambles and nettles.

  ‘Here. Let me do it.’ Agnieszka leant inside the ramshackle shed that had once housed the outside loo, and flicked the switch, but nothing happened. ‘Great. The bulb’s gone. What exactly are we looking for?’ It was the second time she’d asked.

  ‘Photographs of the funeral. I told you.’ Rosa was impatient. She’d been awake most of the night, unable to stop thinking about Maya and her family.

  ‘You got me out of bed at 7 a.m. to hunt for photos? Are you mad?’

  Rosa yanked the handle on the rickety wooden door, trying to open it wider to let more light in. ‘Oww. Stupid fingers.’ She shook her hand and blew on it.

  ‘Let me do it before you do yourself any more damage.’

  ‘I’m sure I put a box of them in here after the funeral. I couldn’t bear to keep seeing them. Try at the back.’ She cupped her left hand round the aching fingers.

  ‘Shift over then.’

  Rosa shuffled out of Agnieszka’s way. ‘I’ve checked under the stairs and they aren’t there. There may be some in the loft, but before ei
ther us gets up that dreadful ladder your father put up, I want to check the privy.’ Rosa had been without Józef for a year and every day had been almost unbearable. Maya’s anguish last night had moved her. For their father to have left, and for the family to have never found out whether he was dead or alive, they must have lived a daily hell.

  Agnieszka got the shed door properly open and began rummaging. ‘This needs a bloody good tidy.’ She stopped. ‘Can’t we do this a bit later? Let me get dressed, and grab a coffee, and I’ll clear it out for you. What’s so urgent that we’ve got to find the photos now?’

  ‘They’re for DI Rahman.’ Rosa told her daughter what Maya had said about Kazi.

  ‘I think I remember something about that. They never found out what happened?’

  ‘That’s what she said. The thing is, I woke up this morning and remembered that Kazi came to your dad’s funeral. Kazi, Ody and Cyril. I saw them there, as clear as day.’ Rosa put her hand to her forehead. ‘But now I’m wondering if I imagined it and I don’t want to tell her unless I’m absolutely—’

  ‘He did. He was there. They all were. I remember because Mr Rahman was telling the girls about the canal.’ Agnieszka stopped. ‘Given he was at Dad’s funeral, most likely he’s still alive. She must realise, surely?’

  Rosa shook her head. ‘It’s why I don’t want to tell her unless I’m sure.’

  Agnieszka pushed the shed door shut and flicked the latch. ‘C’mon. Let’s go inside. I’ll find the photos in a minute, even if it means getting up that bloody ladder.’ She placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders and gently guided her towards the back door of the shop. ‘I’ve probably got some snaps of the funeral on my old phone. If I haven’t, I doubt it matters. The local paper covered the funeral. They’ll have loads of photographs. They’re bound to have one of Mr Rahman.’

  Brick Lane, 1984 – Maya

  I can smell the sweetness of the dough as it cooks in the enormous ovens, and I yank my hand free of Jasmina’s, and skip into the bagel shop. Behind us, even Sabbir is excited about the prospect of a warm, chewy bagel.

  ‘Where’s Dad gone?’ I shout over my shoulder.

  ‘Next door, to get a haircut,’ Jasmina replies.

  It’s the weekend and we’ve left Mum at home to have a lie-in, and have come out early to enjoy the sun. We stand behind rows of hungry people, and peer at the bagels in the glass cabinets, mulling over the many choices before ordering the same as always. The smell of warm salt beef and pickles wafts through the shop, making my stomach rumble.

  ‘Here you go.’ Sabbir hands over the money and takes the paper bag, knowing that Jasmina and I will try to snatch ours from him before we’ve left the shop.

  Back on the bustling street, we wait for Dad to emerge from the barber’s next door. Over the road, the shopkeeper is arranging the window display at the newsagent’s, and people are queuing at Posner’s to get their shoes mended.

  I’ve finished my bagel, and ease myself up onto tiptoes to see into the barber’s. ‘He’s not here.’ I turn to my brother.

  ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’ Sabbir hands me a thin serviette. ‘Here, wipe your mouth.’

  I dab at my face half-heartedly and hand it back to him. Contort myself again to see into the shop. ‘Can’t see him.’

  Jasmina’s still eating her bagel. Far more ladylike than me, she savours each mouthful, enjoying the taste of the dough on her tongue.

  At the window, my eyes search the build and clothes of each of the customers, my greasy fingers on the pane. A sharp rap on the glass sends me leaping backwards, and when I find my feet and glance up, a man’s face is glowering at me, his finger wagging disapprovingly.

  ‘Maya. Get away from the glass. It’s just been cleaned.’ Sabbir grabs hold of my hand and yanks me away, waving apologetically at the shopkeeper.

  ‘Can’t leave you alone for a minute without you causing havoc.’ The familiar, warm voice is behind me.

  I spin round. ‘Dad.’ And I fall into his smile.

  He waves at the man in the barber’s and mouths ‘sorry’ at him.

  I fling my arms round Dad’s waist, drinking in his smell, aware it’s altered slightly.

  ‘Oh, child. I’ve been gone all of five minutes.’ He ruffles my hair, peels my arms off him and leads us off into the summer sunshine.

  As we shuffle along, I scour his features from the side. No signs of a shave or haircut. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Hakim couldn’t fit me in at the barber’s,’ he says, and he’s looking at me in a strange way. For a moment, everything stops and the street goes still. ‘So, I popped to see a friend.’ He ruffles my hair again, knowing full well I hate it and that it will distract me. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘Who?’ I seek out his eyes, and the caramel pools, which always tell the truth, are narrower than usual and darker.

  ‘No-one you know, Miss Nosey-Parker.’ He gives a small laugh, but it sounds hollow and tight.

  ‘You told us you were going for a haircut.’ I pull my hand from his and race back over to the barber’s, unsure why Dad has said the place was busy.

  ‘I changed my mind, darling. I had to attend to a bit of business. That’s all.’ He softens his voice and smiles warmly. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Honestly. Let’s catch up with your sister.’ He turns to check where she is, and I catch sight of a waxy red mark on his neck and one on his cheek. Sabbir has gone ahead and is chatting to a friend but Jasmina is level with us now. I nudge her.

  ‘What are they, Dad?’ I point at the two round marks. ‘On your neck and . . . ’

  Dad blushes and blindly rubs at his skin, where he thinks I mean.

  ‘They’ve gone now,’ I say, and I’m trying to push down the feelings which are bubbling up.

  He’s facing Jasmina and me. ‘There’s no need to tell your mother about this. OK? We don’t want to upset her.’

  His words make me angry and scared, and I don’t understand why, except that it feels like a secret and I don’t like secrets. ‘I s’pose,’ I reply begrudgingly, and I stomp away from him, thoughts crashing in my ears like waves on the seashore. All I can think of is that I want to yell at him, and ask him why he lied and where he went.

  Maya, 8.30 a.m.

  ‘Here you go.’ The familiar voice broke into my sleep.

  ‘Hmm?’ I opened my eyes. ‘What time is it?’ I tried to orient myself. Kitchen cabinets. Notice boards. The news on low. And Dougie’s face, smiling at me.

  ‘Half eight,’ he said.

  I was in the staff rest area at the station. ‘The couch was a bad idea.’ I rotated my neck and kneaded it to ease the stiffness. ‘I was dreaming about Dad and the fingerprint report and – Wait. Have we found Ali?’

  ‘Not yet. But Sophie Williams’ mother turned up this morning. She’s been on a bender.’

  I sighed. That was good news for Sophie, but it meant we were even further from identifying our UnSub. For every step we took forward, we were taking two back.

  Dougie pulled up a spare chair and placed a mug on it. ‘Here. I got you a packet of bourbons from the machine.’ He handed them to me. ‘Don’t ever accuse me of being unromantic.’

  I smiled a thank you. ‘The fingerprints on Mum’s mobile are likely to be Dad’s. I read the report last night.’

  ‘Talk about bad timing.’ Dougie crouched down next to the couch. ‘How do you feel about that?’

  ‘God knows. I can’t take it in.’

  The television report broke into my thoughts.

  ‘All I can think about is Ali and where he slept after running off, poor kid. I dreamt about that awful squat too . . . and a young girl—’

  ‘Hold on. One thing at a time.’ Dougie’s voice was soft. ‘First, Jackie’s on the war-path.’

  ‘I knew she would be.’

  ‘And the media are all over the squat story.’ He turned the volume up on the plasma screen on the wall.

  The reporter continued:
r />   ‘. . . where distressing details are emerging from Duckett House on Stepney’s infamous Ocean Estate.’ Behind him, a dingy housing block looked like a wall of miniature flats. Scaffolding clung to part of the outside, and windows were covered with metal plates. ‘The place has been derelict for three years and no residents have been registered to live here for that time. There’s a demolition order on part of it. The squat has been cleared overnight. We understand that four minors were living here with two men, thought to be in their late teens or early twenties, and a number of casual sleepers.’ The reporter turned away from the scene. His words were factual, but anguish leaked into his tone. ‘At the moment, we have no information on how long they’ve been living at the squat, and residents and councillors are demanding answers from the Mayor of Tower Hamlets. Local MP, Cherry Smith, is demanding to know how this situation has been allowed to happen.’ He took a breath. ‘Two of the minors escaped from the police last night and their whereabouts are unknown. The other minors are receiving emergency medical treatment and will be going into foster care while their circumstances are investigated, and family contacted. Two of them are thought to be aged ten and . . . ’ The reporter’s voice wobbled with emotion. He swallowed. Covered his mouth with his hand and cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, I’m . . .’ He coughed into his fist. ‘The other is aged twelve. One of the boys told the police that they originate from Syria and entered the country as asylum-seekers in a lorry at Dover, after several months travelling through Europe. The boy says he cannot remember when they arrived or how long their passage was. The police would like to hear from anyone with information on the squat or on any of the boys who were staying there.’ A graphic flashed up contact details for Limehouse Police Station. ‘The flats in this block have been vacant while developers tried to agree the details of the regeneration work with the council.’

  The screen displayed a photograph of Duckett House’s current state of decay, alongside an artist’s impression of what it could look like.