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

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СКАЧАТЬ round each other. The pose – the man curled round the woman like a spoon – was a peaceful one but their melted, greasy appearance and the fire-charred room was a vision of agony.

      ‘Jeez.’ Unless they’d grabbed hold of each other out of terror, it suggested they’d been curled up in bed together when the fumes and flames got to them.

      ‘If it’s any consolation,’ Andy said, ‘the two people in that room would have become unconscious extremely quickly and died within minutes. The accelerant was focussed on the hall and staircase. The fire will have ripped through the centre of the building.’

      In the image, the man’s face was shiny and burned back to tissues and fat, but his cheeks and the area around his mouth was much darker, which could be from having a beard and moustache.

      Dan lined his phone up with the camera so that one of the internet images was next to the shot. ‘Looks like him, doesn’t it?’

      ‘There are definitely similarities but it’s hard to be sure from these images.’ It was frustrating. Facial profiling might help but it wasn’t a reliable method on its own. ‘We need to find out from Indra if she has anything of Simas’ which might have his DNA on.’

      ‘And whether he had any identifying marks,’ said Dan. ‘The sister might be able to help too.’

      I glanced at the images again. ‘We can’t be certain it’s Simas, but it seems probable. Let’s hope someone has reported the woman missing.’

      ‘I’ll get Alexej to check the MisPer Register.’ Dan began to dial on his mobile.

      I faced Andy again. ‘Can we take a copy of a few of these photographs as an interim?’

      ‘Sure.’

      It took Dan a couple of moments to copy a few of the images into secure cloud storage and we made our way off the crime scene.

      Just as we reached the car, a tall, mousey-haired man strode towards us. ‘Hey. Police. Wait a moment.’ It was a clipped, East London accent. His black, military-style trench-coat flapped with each stride and his eyes were darting around the scene.

      The voice was familiar.

Maya, 6 p.m.

      ‘Someone said my mother’s been taken to hospital.’ The man was peering through the window of the newsagent’s and looking over at the wreckage of the soup shop.

      Of course. That’s why he was familiar. It was Tomasz Feldman. The man in front of me was tall, a couple of years older than I was – but last time I’d seen him, he’d been a teenager.

      ‘Is Mum OK? Where is she?’ He took in the scene of devastation. ‘Why’s the street being evacuated?’

      ‘Your mother has been taken to the Royal London Hospital.’ Perhaps he didn’t recognise me?

      ‘Christ. She’s asthmatic.’

      ‘She’s inhaled smoke and was in a bad way. I gather her condition is stable now. She was in the street when the fire broke out and must’ve struggled back into the newsagent’s. I found her on the floor behind the counter.’

      ‘Thank you so much. Sounds like you saved her life.’ He had the same kind manner as when we were kids. ‘I’ll get down to the hospital and see if she needs anything.’

      ‘I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Maya Rahman. My sister and I used to—?’

      His face softened. ‘Oh, I remember you two. The pick-n-mix,’ he said with a note of amused affection. ‘I was sorry to read about your brother. Dreadful thing to happen.’

      ‘Thank you.’ I paused to recalibrate and tell him about the gas in the soup shop. ‘The reason we’ve evac—’

      ‘It’s very damp in your mother’s shop.’ Dan’s interruption broke my train of thought. ‘Couldn’t you help her to get the heating updated?’

      I shot Dan an unimpressed look. ‘Er – this is my sergeant, DS Maguire.’

      ‘I’ve been trying, believe me,’ Tomasz replied. ‘Spent the last ten years trying to get Dad to sort it out. Even offered to organise and pay for the work myself but the old man wouldn’t hear of it. Said the place was fine.’ He raised his hand in a baffled gesture. ‘Everyone can see it’s been neglected for years. With Dad, unfortunately, I think it was pride.’ He focused his gaze on me. ‘But it’s created an impasse as Mum seems to feel some misguided sense of loyalty now that Dad’s dead, and she won’t agree to work being done either. I’ve offered to put her up in one of my properties while the work is done but she won’t hear of it. I’ve run out of ideas.’

      ‘What’s your line of business?’ I wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t followed his parents into running the newsagent’s. He’d always seemed ambitious.

      ‘I own some property and I have a bar.’

      ‘Around here?’

      ‘A bit further towards Shoreditch.’ He gestured behind him with his thumb.

      Dan was already on his phone. He seemed to have taken a dislike to Rosa’s son.

      ‘Do you live up there too?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes. When my sister and I left home, she moved out to Newham and I stayed in Tower Hamlets. She had a family and when Dad got sick, it was easier for me to keep an eye on Mum when I was up the road.’

      ‘Are you in touch with your sister much?’ She’d been a few years younger than me I’d never got to know her.

      ‘Agnieszka? Oh, yes. We both do what we can to help Mum. Especially now Dad’s not around.’ He paused, as though he was deciding what to say. ‘It isn’t easy. I don’t think they make them like her anymore.’ He gave a small, frustrated laugh. ‘Perhaps it’s a generational thing: being born at the end of the war and emigrating . . . ? It must have been hard. She’s fiercely independent and not good at asking for help. The old man was extremely proud. He didn’t like help either.’ His smile creased the corners of his mouth, and the obvious affection made his thoughtful brown eyes shine.

      His comments reminded me of my own mother, and I wondered how she would have coped, slogging away in a shop, organising orders and deliveries, and doing business accounts at the age of seventy-five, after losing her husband months earlier.

      ‘Agnieszka and I both told them to give up the shop years ago. Things have changed round here. All the people Mum and Dad knew have moved out of Brick Lane.’ He pointed, first at Alchemia, with its new glitzy shopfront, and then at his mother’s newsagent. ‘It’s sounds harsh but no-one needs Basildon Bond envelopes and jars of instant coffee when we are surrounded by espresso bars and supermarkets.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’d better shoot. I want to get to the hospital and make sure she’s OK.’

      ‘Before you dash off, we’ll need your contact details.’ I signalled for one of the uniformed officers. ‘When did you last see your mother?’

      ‘First thing this morning.’ The frown clouded his features briefly and I СКАЧАТЬ