Читать книгу Out of the Ashes: A DI Maya Rahman novel - Vicky Newham, Vicky Newham - Страница 10

Maya, 2.30 p.m.

I scraped my scruffy hair into a ponytail and took a deep breath. It was the first moment’s peace in the MIT room since seven this morning. I opened the email app on my phone and scrolled down to the one from Forensic Services with ‘Mr K A Rahman’ in the subject line. The message had dropped into my private inbox moments earlier. My finger was poised, ready to click, when Dougie’s advice popped into my mind. ‘If you’re going to do this, you need to be prepared for all possible outcomes,’ he’d said.

Was I?

I wasn’t sure.

I’d given up trying to find out what had happened to Dad. We’d all accepted he was dead, until a year ago when Mum started saying he’d visited her. And now it seemed like he might be alive after all.

‘Emergency services have been on the blower, eh.’ Dan’s Australian accent cut through my thoughts. Never one to enter a room slowly, he lobbed his keys on the desk, curved his athletic frame down on the seat next to me and whacked the space bar on his computer. The impact made my desk shake.

I grunted my disapproval and tucked my phone back in my pocket. ‘What about?’ After eighteen months of working with Dan, I still found some of his behaviour—

‘If you stop texting your boyfriend, I’ll tell you.’ He faced me, his hazel eyes red-rimmed and puffy. ‘Listen to this. First response has flagged up the smell of accelerant.’ He pressed ‘play’ on the recording on his phone.

‘Poleece?’ The woman’s voice was shrill. A heavy accent. ‘My husband is in the fire in Brick Lane. I think someone’s tried to kill him.’ Her words came out in snatches. There was a female voice in the background. It sounded like the person was prompting her. ‘I think someone’s murdered him.’

‘Shit.’ I searched Dan’s face for a reaction, but it was its standard pallid hue. ‘Do we know who made the call?’

‘Can’t trace it. Cell site data places the phone in East Ham but it’s an unregistered mobile. Goes straight to voicemail and there’s no personalised message.’

‘Is there a fire in Brick Lane?’

‘Yeah. Massive one. Uniform are there now with the fire brigade. Here.’ He passed me a transcript of the call. ‘No CID yet though.’

‘“My husband is in the fire” and “I think someone has tried to kill him”? We’d better get over there. I’ll tell Superintendent Campbell we’re going to check it out. What’s the shop?’

‘New place.’ Dan checked the incident log. ‘The Brick Lane Soup Company.’

‘You’re kidding?’ I stared at him. ‘That’s where the Jewish bagel shop used to be. Developers bought it a couple of years ago. There was a real hoo-ha.’ I could vividly picture the freshly cooked salt beef and bagels that had once sat in the window. I grabbed my jacket. ‘Come on. Let’s get over there.’

Minutes later, we were zig-zagging along the A13 from Limehouse, in the clank and clatter of the afternoon traffic. Lorries and red buses belched out choking fumes into the watery April sunlight.

In Brick Lane now, and on foot, the blue lights from the emergency services vehicles barely cut through the black smog which hung over the area. As we approached the street, heading north, discombobulated voices echoed through the haze. Two motorcycle responders tore past us, sirens blaring and blue lights flashing. Dan’s stride quickened, and I broke into a jog to keep up, past the takeaways of my childhood, the barber’s and money shops.

Up ahead, it was a scene of devastation. Smoke caught in my throat and I fished in my pocket for a tissue to cover my mouth and nose. I made out a terrace of three-storey buildings. Here, parts of the roof hung precariously over the shop I’d known since I was a child. Torrents of water were gushing down the street, and spray and fizz had sent puffs of steam into the atmosphere.

A few yards away, the liveried news crew vans were in a cluster, and their staff were frantically assembling satellite dishes, gangly tripods, panels of bright lights, video cameras and sound equipment. The BBC, Sky and ITV reporters were shouting into microphones over the noise of the water pump.

Carly, one of the Sky reporters, had just begun live broadcasting.

‘ . . . here in Brick Lane, it’s a scene of utter carnage. Earlier this afternoon, at around two thirty, emergency services were inundated with calls about a fire in the shop behind me.’ She stopped and pointed. ‘Many callers mentioned music and people dancing in the street before the blaze began. Locals are worried that this might be a tragic case of arson.’ Carly paused. ‘Unusually, it appears that the shop was closed today and . . . ’

We’d arrived at the red and white fire tape now. Outside the cordon, I counted four ambulances. Blue-light staff were escorting people with injuries and burns away from the fumes and into a mobile phone repair shop. Here, paramedics and ambulance staff were triaging care needs, dispensing first aid and carrying out emergency treatments. In the Indian restaurant next-door, uniformed officers were collecting contact details from passers-by and had begun basic interviews.

Dan and I hurried over to the uniformed police officer who was guarding the scene. ‘I’m DI Rahman. This is DS Maguire. Limehouse.’ While he added our names to the log, I told him about the woman’s call to 999. ‘She thinks her husband’s been murdered in the fire. Sounds extremely scared.’

He pointed at a thick-set man with a shaved head, who was standing inside the cordon next to a digger, giving orders to a team of fluorescent-jacketed men with brooms and shovels. ‘Simon Chapel is the fire crew manager. You’ll have to speak to him.’

Dan and I made our way over. An army of personnel had cleared people away and begun conducting operations. Uniformed police, fire-fighters, fire investigation officers and CSIs all weaved around each other. A high-volume pump was in front of the shop, and a water management unit and aerial platform were standing by. Firefighters were a mass of blue uniforms, and their yellow stripes and helmets stood out like beacons. Some were transporting ladders and breathing apparatus. Others were holding jets and unravelling reels. A few charred window frames were still in place. One small pane remained, jagged and angry. Black and white tendrils of smoke were still seeping out of openings, but it was hard to tell whether these were fumes or steam. Water streaked the walls of the building, staining the yellow brickwork.

I introduced Dan and myself to Simon, and told him about the woman’s phone call.

He groaned. ‘Someone knew what they were doing, I can tell you that, but I hope she’s wrong.’ The man’s tone was clipped and the veins on his face and scalp bulged with concern, knowing he held people’s lives in his hands, and that his decisions were critical. ‘As soon as the building’s safe, we’ll get someone in.’

‘Any signs of anyone in there?’ The woman on the recording had sounded terrified. Not a bit like a crank caller.

‘We can’t get close enough to see. The speed the flames tore through the floors, and the fumes in there . . . ’ He was shaking his head. ‘If anyone was inside, they won’t have survived those temperatures or the smoke. They had an extraction system on the ground floor. Add timber flooring to that, wooden joists, lathe and plaster, and it’s all increased the speed the fire spread. Not seen a blaze like this for several months.’

‘Any indication it was deliberate?’ A sinking feeling was stealing over me. The caller had refused to give the emergency services operator her name, so we couldn’t be certain she was connected to the premises.

‘Can’t say for definite yet but we’re pretty sure accelerant was involved. Whoever poured it couldn’t have lit it from inside. Or if they did, we’ll be finding their body too.’ His phone buzzed and he checked the screen. ‘Excuse me. I need to take this.’ He clamped the phone to his ear. ‘Chapel.’

Around us, debris had been shovelled into huge piles for the council to remove. Strips of drenched, charred wood smelled bitter. Glass shards glinted threateningly in the light. Curtains and blinds had blown out into the street. Human traces were littered around the pavement: clothes, drink cans, food wrappers, a baseball hat, a couple of rucksacks, all drenched and abandoned.

Simon rang off. ‘That was the building inspector,’ he said to Dan and me. ‘He’s on his way. We aren’t sure whether the fire is completely out in the centre of the building. It’s still too hot to get in there. Our thermal imaging cameras can only reach so far.’ He gave me an apologetic smile. ‘I’ll call you the moment we get news or can get in.’

‘Thank you.’ I turned to Dan. ‘Let’s find out what witnesses we’ve got before they all clear off.’

We left the cordoned area and headed up the street to the phone repair shop where casualties had been ushered for treatment. When we arrived, the interior of the shop was a mass of people who’d been injured, display cabinets and product racks. A Sikh man was stretched out on his back on the floor with an oxygen mask over his face. Teenagers were huddled against the wall, looking pale and scared. Others were sitting on the floor, cuts and burns on their faces and arms. A lady with a blue-rinse hairdo was sitting on a plastic chair, clutching her arm, her entire demeanour one of shell-shock. Her hair was dishevelled and flecked with ash and dust, and she was clinging to her bag as though she was scared for her life. Beside the door, a paramedic was trying to attend to a lanky boy who had a large gash on his forehead. The young lad seemed unsteady on his feet and was muttering in Arabic.

Amidst the bodies, I spotted Dougie. As crime scene manager, his job was to talk me through the evidence and forensics. As soon as he saw us, he hurried over to the shop entrance. His large frame filled the doorway. He had a smear of blood on his cheek and ash had lodged in his hair and eyebrows, making his eyes seem greyer than usual.

‘Practising your First Aid?’ I smiled at him.

‘It’s been mayhem.’ He turned away from the shop so we were out of earshot. ‘I had a feeling you’d turn up when you heard it was the old bagel shop.’ Affection creased the corners of his mouth before he switched into professional mode. ‘Uniform have begun eyewitness interviews, including some of the teenagers from the flash mob. The woman with the sling was on her way to visit her mum and someone pulled her into the crowd. She fell on her wrist. The young lad by the door is anxious to get moving – something about his parents being worried. His English isn’t great so it’s hard to figure out exactly what he saw, but the priority is to get stitches over that cut before he gets a nasty infection. He’s already feeling dizzy. Rima’s on her way to interpret.’

I was absorbing the details. ‘A flash mob and arson?’ I frowned the question.

The three of us began walking towards the burnt building.

‘It is a bit of a coincidence,’ Dougie replied.

My mind was spinning.

Dougie wiped his blackened face with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘The fire investigators think the blaze started on the ground floor. Probably at the foot of the stairs. It would then have spread quickly upwards, building in intensity, and then blown out the windows. The top floor has collapsed under the weight of the water.’

‘In that case, I’ll get the H-2-H teams started so we don’t waste time.’ I glanced ahead. A neon sign lay on the ground. Over the front of the shop, smoke-charred in places, I made out ‘SOUP’. I turned to face the shop opposite the fire and felt nostalgic momentarily.

FELDMAN’S NEWSAGENT.

‘Dad often brought us here. He and Mr Feldman were pals.’

Suddenly, I heard something. Faint and weak, but its distress gnawed through the air. ‘What’s that? I can hear someone.’ I wheeled round, trying to locate the source. ‘It’s coming from one of the shops.’ There it was. ‘It’s the newsagent’s. Someone’s calling for help.’

I dashed over to the shop; pushed the door open and entered the shop alone. ‘Hello? It’s the police.’

A different smell greeted me. Musty. Less of the acrid smoke, and the water-drenched tarmac and masonry; this was damp timber and plaster. It reminded me of our first flat. In the dim light, it was like stepping back in time. It was as if the whole place hadn’t been touched for thirty years, and suddenly I was a child again, in here with my brother and sister, choosing sweets.

‘Help, help,’ came the voice, followed by a series of rasping coughs.

‘Hello? Help’s arrived.’ I scoured the room for signs of movement or noise. Around me, white MDF shelves were thin on stock. Tea bags, tins of soup and jars of coffee lay in rows, collecting dust. A central aisle housed packets of envelopes and writing paper. ‘Can you tell me where you are?’

The paintwork was a nicotine-stained ochre, and had a sheen to it, as if the place hadn’t been painted for decades. By the till, a barely touched drink sat in a cup and saucer. Behind the counter, folding doors were drawn over a cabinet with a lock in the middle. The closer I got to the back room, the stronger the damp smell got. Years of living in unheated flats had tuned my nose.

‘Mrs Feldman? Is that you?’

‘Here,’ came a croaky voice from behind the counter. She was flat on the floor, cheek to the ground and lying on one arm.

‘It’s OK. Don’t try and move. Have you hurt yourself?’ She was an older version of the one I remembered but it was definitely her.

She cleared her throat. Once, twice. Then wheezing coughs erupted.

I was about to dial 999 when Mrs Feldman began spluttering and gurgling again. She was gasping for breath – and failing. If she didn’t get help quickly, she was going to die. ‘Emergency in Feldman’s Newsagent’s,’ I shouted down the phone at Dan. ‘Get one of the paramedics and bring them in. Behind the counter. The shopkeeper is having trouble breathing.’ I took in her grey features, the rasping breath, and her bloodshot eyes. ‘Hurry. We’re losing her.’