Out of the Ashes: A DI Maya Rahman novel. Vicky Newham

under her nose as if she was holding back a floodgate.

      ‘Tomasz arrived at the shop earlier. He was very worried about you. Would you consider staying with him until you’re back on your feet again?’

      ‘He’s very kind. Always has been. I’m very lucky with both my children. But Bethnal Green’s too far away.’ She sighed. ‘And I don’t want to put anyone out. My children have their own lives.’

      ‘If your son wants to help, why not let him?’ I voiced the question gently, realising that it was a sensitive subject.

      Rosa shook her head. Determined. ‘He’s extremely busy . . . ’

      I paused, trying to decide whether to press her. I got the impression that not wanting to put people out wasn’t the real reason.

      ‘I’ll be right as rain in a day or two.’ She smiled bravely.

      ‘What about your daughter? Would you consider staying with her?’

      ‘Oh, no. It’s all arranged. She’s popping back later to take me home to the shop.’

      ‘Is that wise? You’ve had a nasty scare.’

      She shook her head. ‘Agnieszka and Olaf have a tiny terraced house and three children. They don’t have room for an old lady. I’ve made my mind up. I’m going home to the shop.’

      There was pride in her features, and a reluctance to ask for help. I recognised it from Mum. A dogged refusal to accept limitations and change, and the need for help. But it was hard to know when pride became stubbornness. ‘Are you sure the shop is the best place though? It’s so damp and cold.’

      She sighed. ‘I know but it’s my home. All my memories are there and it’s where I feel safe.’

      Her face took on a wistful look and I felt desperately sad for her. ‘Would you mind if we contacted your daughter?’

      She frowned, then shrugged in resignation. ‘If you want to.’ She was trembling now. ‘For years I had nightmares. My mother was pregnant with me when the Nazis resumed deportations from Warsaw to Treblinka. The Jews in the Ghetto mounted an armed resistance. There were twenty-seven days of bombs, blasts and gunfire while they fought the Germans. My brother was eight. He made the mistake of smiling at an SS officer, who ordered one of the Judenrat officials to shoot him. When the man refused, the SS officer shot him and my brother straight through the head.’

      ‘Oh, Rosa . . . ’ I gasped.

      ‘My mother nearly miscarried, but I made it and was born in 1944, the year of the Warsaw Uprising. It was when Christian Poles rose up against the Germans. My parents escaped from the Ghetto, and we lived outside the city with a Polish family that Dad knew from his old shop. They say you remember things from in the womb. Sounds, words, voices. For me, it’s blasts and gunfire.’ The expression in her eyes was haunted. ‘And my mother’s sobbing.’ She looked away for a few moments. ‘I used to have the dreams regularly, even when the war was over and when we arrived here. Once we settled into life in Brick Lane, they receded. I haven’t had them for years, apart from the occasional one. The fire at the soup shop yesterday . . . ’ she was shaking her head, ‘ . . . brought it all back.’ She coughed, and I heard her chest wheeze. ‘There was a woman on the ground in front of me. The cracks and bangs were so loud, I tripped over her.’

      Much as she seemed to want to explain, I could see it was distressing her, talking about Poland, and I wanted to move the conversation onto happier times. ‘When did you come to live in Brick Lane?’

      ‘Nineteen forty-eight. I was four.’ She released a sigh. ‘My family moved back to central Warsaw after the war, but life under communism wasn’t easy, and my parents found it impossible to settle amongst such horrible memories.’ Her expression changed again as the recollections came alive. ‘At that time, Józef and his family were already living in Brick Lane. His parents owned the newsagent’s. He worked for his father when he was at school, doing a paper round, and then helping with deliveries and putting stock out. The two of them worked alongside each other for twenty-five years. He took the shop over when his father died, and then he and I ran it together. I’d known him since I was four.’ Her mouth flickered a tiny smile and it was one of the saddest things I’d ever seen.

      The arrival of a staff member prevented Rosa from saying anything further. ‘Time for your meds, Mrs Feldman,’ the nurse said cheerily, and she poured out fresh water.

      I waved to indicate I was off. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ My phone had been vibrating in my pocket, so I took the opportunity to check my messages.

      It was a text from Shen.

      Indra had woken up and was extremely agitated. She wanted to speak to me.

Maya, 8.30 a.m.

      Dan and I were in the lift at the Royal London Hospital, on our way to interview Indra on the ward.

      ‘Rosa is adamant she’s going back to the shop,’ I told him, and pressed the lift button. ‘I’ve asked Shen to speak to the consultant. She’s a determined lady. I’ve got visions of her discharging herself, flagging a black cab down in her hospital gown and then falling down the stairs at the shop.’

      ‘Good idea.’

      ‘Given what Indra’s gone through, I’d have preferred to leave it a day or two before broaching the subject of money and murder motives, but we have to consider her a suspect.’

      ‘I hope for her sake the shop was well insured. Not just the building but their income and business.’

      ‘I was thinking the same thing.’ The lift dinged and I followed Dan out.

      ‘I want to know why she told the police she thought Simas had been murdered. Don’t you?’

      ‘I guess it’ll depend whether she knew about her husband’s infidelities. If that’s his body in their shop, and he was messing around with another woman . . . ’ The thought was upsetting. ‘I’m hoping there will be an innocent explanation for the woman being there. Perhaps the two of them huddled together to escape the fumes?’ One thing was sure, the interview was going to require careful handling.

      When we arrived at Indra’s ward, rows of narrow beds greeted us. Nylon curtains hung on rails round each unit. It was hardly private. Marta was sitting beside her sister’s bed on the visitors’ chair, holding Indra’s frail hand. It was bruised, and Marta held it carefully so as not to aggravate the place where the cannula entered the vein.

      Indra’s blonde hair lay around her head like a nest, and her eyes looked huge in her gaunt features.

      ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Ulbiene. We all are.’

      ‘Ačiū.’

      I pulled up a chair and gathered my thoughts. ‘Would you like your sister to stay with you?’

      ‘Таip.’ I knew this meant yes. Beside the bed, the drip stand held a bag of clear fluid.

      ‘I’ll keep it as brief as I can. They aren’t tactful questions, I’m afraid.’

      She didn’t react.

      ‘Is your shop insured?’

      ‘Таip.’

      ‘Building and contents cover?’

      ‘Taip, žinoma.’

      ‘Are you OK to speak English or do you need an interpreter?’

      ‘I speak English.’

      I smiled an acknowledgement. ‘Do you remember the name of the insurers?’

      ‘My husband deals with that side of the business. The paperwork is in the flat and . . . ’ Her arm flailed in the air because the rest was obvious. Hopefully, she’d have details of their insurers in an email