by Vicky Newham
‘It wasn’t drugs which killed your son,’ Maya said gently but straight to the point. It was something Dan admired about her. ‘Didn’t your daughter-in-law tell you?’
Her eyes popped with surprise. ‘What was it then? Did you hear that, Gabriel?’
Gabriel still hadn’t spoken.
‘The forensic evidence suggests he was murdered.’
She gasped. ‘Our Paddy?’ She began fiddling with her wedding ring.
‘I’m very sorry.’ Maya kept quiet for a few moments. ‘Have you had much contact with him in recent years?’
Dan had wanted to move Sinead on too.
‘We phone him – don’t we, Gabriel? – but he never phones us back.’ She shot her husband an intense look of some kind, a meaningful frown, as if urging him to say something . . . or warning him not to. ‘I think he’s ashamed of his ma and da.’ She gave a sniff and fanned her face with her hand.
Dan picked up on the anger in her words and tone. ‘Why would he be?’ Suddenly, the room felt heavy, and it made him wonder whether Patrick had known she thought this.
Sinead gave a tiny laugh, as though she didn’t know how to respond to Dan’s comments. ‘I think it was when he got that job, working with all them high flyers. It was as if he’d forgotten his roots. Thought he’d climbed up the social ladder with all that money, you know?’
All the time Gabriel Ryan had been silent apart from continual wheezing as he breathed, and intermittent coughs. He was flicking through the TV channels, seemingly oblivious of the conversation which was going on around him. Dan wondered whether this was deliberate or caused by medication.
‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against your son?’ he asked.
She was silent for several seconds. ‘We didn’t know much about Paddy’s life.’
‘Did he ever mention to you that he was in trouble or had problems with anyone?’ Dan carried on looking round their front room. It was pleasant, comfortable and clean, but he couldn’t escape the feeling of unhappiness that clung to the air.
‘No-o.’
‘What about his ex-wife, Nicola?’
‘What about her?’ There was a tightening in her voice as she spoke.
A chesty, gurgle-y cough erupted from Mr Ryan.
‘Weren’t you keen on her?’
She gave an I-don’t-want-to-say shrug.
‘Is that a no?’
‘She was much posher than him. We always felt that she put pressure on him to make all that money. To support her in a certain lifestyle. You know?’
‘What made you think that?’ Dan asked.
She shrugged and got up from the sofa. ‘We suspected she clocked onto his earning potential from the off.’ She shuffled over to the fireplace where she began rearranging objects on the mantelpiece.
For a moment Dan watched her, considering whether he had got Nicola wrong – but he didn’t think so. People were often quick, when something turned out badly, to blame another person for having a bad influence.
‘Maybe success and money were what your son wanted at the time.’ Maya moved closer until she was beside Sinead at the hearth. ‘Was he easily influenced?’
‘Paddy? Never.’ Her response couldn’t have been more unequivocal.
Dan and Maya exchanged looks.
‘Mrs Ryan,’ Maya said gently, ‘could you have a seat for a moment?’ She gestured to the sofa where Sinead had been sitting, and waited for her to sit down. ‘I’m sorry to say that your son was shot.’
She gasped. ‘Shot?’ Her hand went straight to her mouth.
Dan hoped Maya wasn’t going to mention his tongue.
‘What we don’t know is why. Can you help us with that?’
She sat, frozen, as though she’d been stung. ‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Do you have any idea who might want to harm him?’
Sinead seemed paralysed. Hands still clasped over her nose and mouth, she continued to shake her head. This time she didn’t ask her husband what he thought, and it was as though she’d given up expecting an answer from him.
‘Can you think of any reason why someone might harm your son?’ Maya asked.
It was a small sniff to start with. Then another and a wipe of the nose. Then she dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. And then the sobs came full tilt. Huge, loud wracking sobs.
Maya waited for a few moments. ‘Mrs Ryan, would you like a cup of tea? Can I get you some tissues?’
‘Um . . . tissue, please.’ She sniffed and swallowed and dabbed at her face.
Maya passed her a packet of tissues and sat down next to her on the sofa.
For several more minutes Sinead continued to sob and blow her nose.
When she stopped, Maya said, ‘I have a feeling it’s not just your son’s death that’s upsetting you. Can you tell us what it is?’
She took a loud breath in through her nostrils, her head moving back as she drew it in. ‘I’m his ma. I should have known what was going on in his life. I don’t blame him for wanting to better himself. We weren’t always like this. We came to the UK forty years ago. Things weren’t easy back home in Ireland and there was a labour shortage here. It was before the asbestos got to Gabriel. He was well then. Worked on the tools as a sparky. Now look at us. Stuck here in this dump.’ She waved her hand at the walls and the furniture. ‘If you’d had the opportunity to earn that sort of money, would you have taken it?’ She locked eyes with Maya.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ she replied. ‘But I think a lot of people would have. And I certainly know about having to graft to make a successful career.’
‘Why did he have to end up dead?’ Sinead’s face was streaked with blotches and her eyes were tiny. ‘I never told him I loved him, and now it’s too late.’ Her regret lay in the room between them all.
‘I’m so sorry. We will find the person who did this.’
Maya’s words were interrupted by an email alert from first Dan’s phone, then Maya’s.
‘Excuse me,’ Dan said. He left Maya with the Ryans and crept over to the door. Clicked his browser open and read the message.
It was from Alexej.
Frazer was back.
And he’d posted on the forum.
Maya, 5 p.m.
Telling the Ryans about their son’s death had been awful. It was always one of the worst parts of the job, and it had been made all the more poignant by the family’s estrangement, and the regrets I knew Mrs Ryan would have to deal with alone. Once I got back to Tower Hamlets, I decided to duck in at the flat and grab a quick shower. It was a relief to turn my door-key and feel the deadlock: Dougie was at his place, and I could soak up fifteen minutes of silence and be alone with the events of the last few days. I switched the shower on full-blast and hoped the stream of hot water might rinse away some of the day’s human devastation.
*
A while later, I was back in Brick Lane, in the front room above the newsagent’s, with Rosa and her daughter sitting opposite me on the worn sofa. The flat was quiet except for voices on the TV. The front room seemed cosier and warmer than last time I’d been there, thanks to a halogen heater which I suspected Agnieszka had introduced.
I politely declined a cup of tea, all too aware that the conversation wasn’t going to be an easy one. I’d prepared what I wanted to say on the way over, but now I was here, it felt wrong.
Rosa must’ve picked up on my preoccupation, as she said, ‘What is it, dear? Has something happened?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news which affects you both. It looks like the soup shop was targeted by the arsonists in error. We now believe that the intended target could have been this place, the newsagent’s.’ I ploughed on. ‘That has a number of implications. For the police, it means refocussing our investigation. What we need to know is who might want to target you, Rosa, or the shop? Next, it means that the arsonists may still have plans to set fire to this place.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Agnieszka’s face paled
in horror. ‘Here?’
‘We think it’s possible.’ I explained that we didn’t know whether the target was the shop or Rosa, but the outcome was the same: it would be best for her to move out until we’d concluded the investigation.
‘Definitely not.’ Rosa didn’t waste a moment to state her position, and her look of defiance wasn’t lost on her daughter. ‘I’m not being chased out of my home.’
This was what I’d expected, so I took the two of them through safety precautions and explained the limitations of police support. ‘Now, I need to ask who might want to harm you or the shop?’ I fixed my attention on Rosa.
‘Mum’s freeholders are the most obvious candidates,’ Agnieszka chipped in. ‘They’d do anything to get Mum out of here.’
‘That’s preposterous,’ came Rosa’s response. ‘You’ve been watching too much TV.’
I studied her facial expression and body language. Despite Rosa’s bravado, I could see the news had unsettled her. ‘Has anyone been threatening you recently? Any petty vandalism?’ Again, I directed my question at Rosa.
She shook her head. ‘Apart from the star.’
‘Anyone complaining about the business?’
‘No.’
‘Either of you seen a tall, thin guy, hanging around?’
They both looked blank.
‘This part’s a bit delicate. Is the shop insured?’
‘Of course.’ Rosa’s face was a mixture of indignation and anticipation. ‘Mr Stein, the freeholder, organises the building insurance – which we then pay for – and Józef always did the contents.’
‘Now, I have to ask this too. Did either of you decide to help things along? Get the shop burnt down maybe?’ It was an unpleasant question to ask, and I had no idea how it would land.
Rosa snorted, as though the idea was ridiculous. ‘I know I look doddery but I’m not daft. I’ve seen enough lives ruined by fires. There’s no such thing as one that’s safe. And if I wanted to claim on my insurance, why would I set fire to the soup shop?’
‘I think she means did we pay anyone to do it, Mum?’ Agnieszka’s words had an icy tone.
‘Did you?’ This time I faced Agnieszka.
‘Absolutely not. Unlike Mum, I don’t care about this stupid building, but I do care about my mother. Do you think I’d risk her getting hurt? Are you asking Tomasz this too? And my husband?’
‘Of course. We have to consider all possibilities.’ I paused. ‘But someone wanted to torch the place and I won’t rest until we know who that was.’ I was about to get up when I saw that Agnieszka was nudging her mum.
‘Tell her,’ Agnieszka whispered.
‘The thing is . . .’ Rosa broke off. Her voice sounded strange. Almost nervous.
‘Mum. She needs to know.’
‘The thing is, after you left the other day, I remembered something about your father.’
‘What?’
‘It was seeing them all together in that photograph,’ said Rosa. ‘Your father came to Józef’s funeral. They all did. Kazi, Ody and Cyril.’
The news hit me like a slap in the face.
‘I was worried that perhaps I’d imagined it,’ Rosa said hurriedly, as if she was scared she’d lose her nerve. ‘I know I’ve got photos somewhere, but I think they’re in the loft. The ladder’s riddled with woodworm and we daren’t go up. I’ve asked Tomasz to fix it but he’s busy and can’t do it until tomorrow, and we thought you’d want to know.’
‘Thanks. Yes.’ I was absorbing the implications of her news.
‘I’ll leave you to . . . er . . . I mean, if he was alive a year ago—’
‘Don’t say that,’ Agnieszka muttered, and mouthed ‘sorry’ at me.
‘The funeral was a bit of a blur for me, but Agnieszka says the local paper covered the event and took lots of photos. One of the last Jewish processions in the East End, or something. You’ll know the journalist. She’s probably still got the images. Who was it, Agnieszka?’
‘Suzie James.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ I said. ‘The article will probably still be online.’
Rosa was apologising and explaining and apologising some more, but her words were a blur. I wanted to be on my own. To sit down and think. I thanked them both, said goodbye as quickly as I could and told them I’d see myself out. As I clambered down the stairs, my legs felt weak and my body was shaking. This was a shock. What the hell did I do with the information? It had to mean Dad was alive, surely?
On the corner of the street, the pub lights beckoned. A window seat and a large gin were sorely tempting, but I had a task to complete. Dad would have to wait; I’d have a quick coffee and plough on.
Maya, 9 p.m.
We’d been searching for Ali in the dark for the last two hours. Under-the-radar doss spots, recreation grounds, car parks, we’d tried them all. Still there was no sign of him in the Brick Lane area. This was the sixth youth centre we’d been to.
Dougie pulled the door open. ‘You’d better take me somewhere swanky.’ He’d been teasing me all evening. ‘Dragging me out like this.’
‘Wherever you like, as long as you stop moaning and we find Ali.’ I marched ahead.
‘Ah, now that’s sneaky. Talk about moving the goalposts. You only mentioned me coming with you, not a successful outcome or having to wear a bloody stab-vest.’
We entered a lobby. In overall appearance, it looked the same as the last one, and the four before that. Washable flooring, scuffed walls, strip lighting and plastic-coated notices. A faint babble of chatting trickled along the corridor.
The manager already had photos of Kenny, John, and Ali. ‘Sorry, no,’ he said. ‘Ali hasn’t been here all week, and I haven’t seen the other two.’
Dougie and I retraced our steps, each time a little slower than the last.
‘We need a plan,’ I said when we got back outside. ‘The youth clubs will be closing soon. I’ve already emailed Ali’s photograph to all the local libraries, and asked the shopping centre managers to distribute them to their security guys. That leaves a few more stations, hundreds of bus stops and four more parks. We’ll be more effective if we split up.’
‘Only if I cover the parks. You’ll get yourself killed, traipsing round like this at night.’
Dougie knew I was capable, but I appreciated his concern and was too knackered to argue. ‘OK, you take the parks and I’ll do the rail and bus stations. We’ll have to leave bus stops for tonight. They’re less likely anyway as they’re open.’ I handed him the list we’d compiled earlier over supper. ‘Shall we meet for last orders at the Morgan Arms? I reckon I can shout you a pint to make that vest a bit tighter.’
‘Good idea. I’ll duck into Shoreditch nick and borrow some wheels. See you later. Be careful.’
‘You too.’ I got in the car, floored the accelerator and sped away.
It was so frustrating.
How could Ali have disappeared into thin air? As the days and hours rolled by, I began to wonder if we were ever going to see Ali alive again.
Feldman’s Newsagent’s, Brick Lane, 1989 – Maya
I catch the urgency in Mum’s voice as she makes the request. She hates it when Dad’s home late.
‘I’ll go,’ I say, relieved at the chance to get out of the flat. I don’t get any competition from Jasmina, who’s got her nose in a book, or Sabbir, who’s been quiet again ever since he got in from work. It’s the last week of the summer holidays and lots of my friends are dreading the new term, but I’ve been counting down the days until school starts.
Down the road, in Brick Lane, the shop door dings when I push it. Mrs Feldman is serving a customer, so I smile politely and wait until she’s finished.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says once the customer has left.
‘Is Dad here? Mum’s sent me to get him.’
‘They’re out the back. I don’t know what they’re doing, but you’re welcome to go through.’
In the garden at the back of the Feldmans’ shop, tune
s from next-door’s radio jangle from a window ledge. The sun has bleached the grass to a creamy-white and it’s bald in places where it’s been trampled. Along the fence, and where trees cast shade, it’s long and a lush green, and a broken hose dribbles water. A couple of bushes are brimming with late summer blackberries. The four men are seated around a cardboard-box table. In shirt-sleeves and shorts, their backsides on upside-down bottle crates, they seem oblivious to the whine of flies. I’ve seen this sight before. Dad, Mr Feldman, Mr Atyeno and Mr Merrick. Their elbows on their knees in the blistering afternoon sun, playing cards and sipping beer from bottles. Dad always says it’s man’s business.
Dad sees me arrive and beams. ‘Ah, here she is. Won’t be long, darling. We’ll just finish this round. Come and sit with us.’ He pats his leg, and sits back to make room for me on his lap. ‘Say hello, Maya.’
I mumble a greeting and skip over. Wriggle onto Dad’s lap, and lean into him, aware of his warmth behind and around me, the welcome familiar smell of him.
‘What have you been up to today?’ he mutters into my hair. ‘Hmm?’
‘Nothing much. Mum’s not well again, so Jasmina and I made her some soup, and we went to the shops to get food.’ We all heard them arguing last night. And Mum sobbing afterwards, but I don’t want to say anything and especially not in front of Dad’s friends. ‘She asked if you can come home.’
‘In a minute, sweetie,’ he says dismissively and leans round me to lay a card on the make-shift table. ‘Did she eat today?’
‘Not really. She didn’t like the soup we made.’
‘I won’t be long, then we’ll go home and make sure she’s OK.’ He plants a kiss on my hair and throws out a light-hearted comment to his three friends. They all roar with laughter and Mum is forgotten.
I sink back into his warmth again and Dad’s belly moves up and down as he chuckles and breathes. The movement is comforting, but as I soak up the sun on my face and arms, I realise that Dad doesn’t want to go home at all. He prefers being here with Mr Feldman, Mr Atyeno and Mr Merrick. And I feel separate and strange and wonder if it’s Mum he doesn’t want to go home to or all of us. Perhaps I should go home without him?
