Out of the Ashes. Vicky Newham

was the payment?’ Please, God, may it not have been drugs.

      ‘Sometimes he gave them a bit of money or some food,’ said Rima. ‘And masks.’

      ‘What sort of masks?’

      Ali and Rima talked in Arabic. ‘Black bandanas with the LfA logo on them,’ she said.

      This was news. ‘And drugs?’

      ‘NO.’ Ali was on his feet now. His eyes were flashing with fear, and for a moment I wondered if he was about to make a dash, but his body swayed and rocked. He put his hand out and sunk back down onto his seat. ‘Not drug.’

      ‘OK.’ I changed tack. ‘Today – who brought the speakers?’

      ‘He says they were there when they arrived.’

      ‘They?’

      ‘He came with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend.’

      ‘What are their names?’

      ‘Riad.’

      ‘How old’s he?’

      ‘Nearly sixteen.’

      ‘And Sophie,’ Rima said. ‘She’s doing A-levels at New City College.’

      ‘Does Riad live with you in York Square?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What number in York Square?’

      ‘Twenty-eight. Opposite the entrance to the park.’

      ‘Where are Riad and Sophie now?’

      Fear filled Ali’s eyes and he covered his mouth with his hand.

      ‘He doesn’t know. They got separated . . . When the fire started . . . they ran for cover and . . . Riad’s not answering his phone. He says he’s scared.’

      ‘Which direction did they run in?’

      ‘That way and left.’ He pointed.

      ‘That way?’ I gestured. ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Ach.’ He punched his leg, as though he felt stupid. He turned to Rima and spoke to her.

      ‘Down there and right,’ she said. ‘He says his brother will turn up. He’s probably dropped his phone or they’ve gone to get some chips.’

      ‘Ali. Are you sure neither of them entered the building before it went on fire?’

      ‘They were both with him.’

      ‘We’ll need their descriptions . . . and a formal statement, Rima, if you can translate, please? Ali, if you hear from your brother or Sophie, please inform us straightaway.’ I summoned a uniformed officer and began briefing him.

Dan, 3.45 p.m.

      Mrs Jones, the blue-rinse lady who’d hurt her wrist, was shivering and fidgety, so Dan settled her on a fold-out chair in the stock room at the back of the mobile phone shop and went to fetch her a cuppa. As he returned with it, she made a point of checking her watch and sighing loudly.

      ‘You got a hot date to get to?’ he asked, grinning mischievously.

      Mrs Jones gave a giggle. ‘My old mum will be wondering where I’ve got to. She’ll have seen all this on the news and will be fretting. She doesn’t do mobile phones and neither do I.’

      ‘Thanks for waiting,’ Dan said. ‘Have a swig of this.’ He passed her the cup of sweet tea and squatted down next to her. ‘It’ll soon get you warmed up, eh.’

      She was trembling, but her expression relaxed a few notches and she sipped the tea.

      ‘Can you take me through what you saw when you arrived?’

      She nudged smeared glasses up the bridge of her nose with a shaky finger. ‘I was walking that way.’ She pointed in the direction of Whitechapel. ‘My mum lives on White Church Lane. Out of the blue, music started up behind me. Gave me a real fright, it did.’ She clamped her hand to her chest. ‘When I turned round, I saw people dancing in the street.’

      Dan guessed Mrs Jones was around his mum’s age: late sixties. Too much energy to do nothing, she always told him. ‘Who was in charge?’

      ‘No-one as far as I could see. Everyone was encouraging everyone to join in. D’you know what I mean?’

      Dan had seen flash mobs in Sydney and knew how quickly they snowballed. ‘Yes, I do. And the music?’

      She pursed her lips while she tried to remember. ‘The tracks were quite short. Prepared, ready, like those cassette tape things we used to make. The songs changed every couple of minutes.’ She looked as though she was enjoying having someone listen to her. ‘Those masks though. They were a bit sinister.’

Maya, 4 p.m.

      In the afternoon light, Dan’s ginger hair was glowing through his military buzz-cut. His usually pale skin was flushed with excitement as he strode the few metres along Brick Lane towards me. I could tell there’d been a development.

      ‘The kids at the flash mob were wearing—’

      ‘. . . masks. Yeah.’ I conveyed what Ali had told me.

      ‘London for All?’ He repeated the name back. ‘That certainly fits with anti-gentrification.’

      ‘Exactly. Let’s walk back to the cordon. Indra has just arrived. She’s asking if her husband is alive and I haven’t spoken to her yet.’ I told Dan about the man called Frazer. ‘I’ve forwarded the LfA link to the technicians and the cyber-crime unit. Told them it’s urgent. Screenshot some of the content in case it’s deleted.’

      ‘Woah. Get you, Ms Suddenly Tech Savvy.’

      ‘Suddenly? Cheeky bugger. I expect it comes from working with someone who’s on the internet all the time.’

      We both laughed, relieved to have a bit of banter.

      ‘Let’s hope they shut that bastard site down.’ Dan’s words came out in an angry whisper. ‘A lot of these kids don’t know how to keep themselves safe online.’

      ‘The kid with the gash is only ten.’ I gestured to the two shops. ‘What the hell’s he doing, roaming the streets with these older boys?’

      Dan’s manner was sombre. ‘I agree. It worries me about my two girls. Kids are growing up so quickly these days. They don’t understand how careful they need to be.’ He was shaking his head. ‘At least it sounds like that young Syrian lad’s got his parents and brother to look after him.’

      Back at the scene, Simon Chapel gave me a thumbs-up. A second aerial platform was manoeuvring itself into position outside the shop.

      A uniformed officer was standing with two women at the cordon. From behind, they had similar frames. Both tall and slim. One had a curtain of blonde hair down her back, and wore a khaki parka with a furry hood, jeans and trainers. The woman she was talking to had dark brown hair in a ponytail, knee-high leather boots. I guessed they were Indra and her sister. I went straight over to them. ‘DI Rahman. You must be—’

      ‘Is my husband dead?’ The blonde woman’s voice quaked with fear. She had mascara smears round her eyes.

      ‘I’m sorry. We don’t know what the situation is yet,’ I said. ‘I think it’s only fair to warn you that if he was in the fire, it’s unlikely he will have survived.’ It was an awful thing to have to tell her, and I paused for her to absorb the news. ‘We should know more once the platform lifts a fire officer into the room where your husband is.’ I turned to the dark-haired woman. ‘Are you Indra’s sister?’

      ‘Таip.