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

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Maya, 3.45 p.m.

      Dan and I were in the mobile phone shop, helping uniform to interview the people who needed medical treatment. Rima, an interpreter I’d met before, was perching on a stool next to the Syrian boy with the gash on his forehead. She had a bag at her feet and was filling out a form on an iPad. Her patient features conveyed her caring, professional manner as she spoke to him in Arabic.

      ‘Thanks for coming, Rima. It’s—’

      ‘Scared the life out of me, it did.’ The interruption came from a woman who was sitting nearby. ‘I hope no-one was in there.’

      I introduced myself, and tried to reassure her. ‘While we’ve got the interpreter here,’ I said to her, ‘can I speak to this young lad? If you go with DS Maguire, he’ll ask you a few questions.’

      ‘If you like, dear,’ she said, looking mildly put out for a second before beaming at Dan’s youthful, squaddie appearance and running her hand over her hair.

      I gestured Dan over and shifted my attention to the boy who had been sitting next to her. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Ali.’ He shrugged. ‘I need go.’

      Dougie was right about him being nervous. Shock from the fire and the gash, probably. The cut had been stitched, and traces of congealed blood were smeared over his childlike features. ‘I’m Maya. Rima is going to translate, OK?’

      His nod was fast. He was chewing at the skin round his finger nails. ‘My parent be worry. I need go.’

      ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

      Rima translated.

      ‘Were you already here when the flash mob started?’

      He shook his head. From his height and build I guessed he was about ten, but the expression in his eyes could have put him at three times that age. He pulled himself up straight as though wanting to shake off the fear he knew I’d seen.

      ‘You aren’t in any trouble.’ I kept my voice as gentle as I could and waited for him to relax. ‘Can you tell me what you saw?’

      His face held its silence but his eyes didn’t. He stared at Rima as though he was hoping she’d understand something. ‘Was just bit fun.’ He didn’t wait for the translation. He fixed dark eyes on me, and it hit me how vulnerable he seemed. ‘Dance. Music. Is all.’ He pointed his nose away from me, dismissive and disinterested.

      The burnt-out building was a mere shell, the damage self-evident. I wanted to say that it wasn’t fun for the people who’d been hurt and lost their livelihoods, but he was just a kid, and I needed to focus on getting what key information I could. ‘What was the flash mob about?’

      Rima spoke gently.

      Ali shifted forward so that his feet were on the ground, and pawed at the laminate flooring with his scruffy trainer. He gabbled in Arabic, and gestured pleadingly to Rima with his eyes.

      ‘He says he doesn’t know anything about the flash mob. He was there. It started up. That’s it.’ Rima’s frown suggested she wasn’t convinced.

      ‘Who brought the speakers?’

      Rima translated.

      ‘He doesn’t know.’ He was avoiding my gaze, and his spindly leg was jigging up and down. His white trainers had broken laces, and were covered in scuff marks, and he wasn’t wearing any socks.

      ‘How old are you?’

      He cleared his throat and straightened his back again. Spoke for longer than it would take to give his age.

      ‘He says he’s nearly eleven,’ said Rima.

      ‘D’you live round here?’

      ‘York Square.’ He looked up at me through a thick forelock of almost-black hair. ‘My parent wait me there.’

      ‘In Limehouse?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Who asked you to come here for the flash mob?’ I posed the question slowly, as I suspected he’d understand, and I wanted to gauge his reactions.

      He waved his arms in the air, angrily, muttering in Arabic.

      ‘He says it wasn’t a flash mob. It was just a few people, dancing and playing music. He was here with a friend.’

      He clenched a fist. Gabbled to Rima again.

      ‘He says they weren’t doing anything. Just passing time. They were bored. He says they’re The Street Rats.’

      Ali laughed, pretending to be cocky. ‘Yeah. We are Street Rat.’ He winced as the movement tugged at the stitches in his forehead.

      ‘Is that a gang name?’

      He jutted his jaw, defiance blazing in his eyes.

      ‘Do you need Rima to call your parents?’

      ‘Is OK. They wait me already.’

      I needed to revisit a question. ‘We believe the flash mob was deliberately organised. Where did you hear about it?’

      ‘He can’t remember,’ said Rima.

      ‘We suspect that the fire at the shop was also caused deliberately. If that’s true, it’s a very serious offence.’ I softened my tone. ‘Especially if anyone has died.’

      Ali looked at me now, and for the first time I noticed how black his eyes were. His shoulders were hunched, and he was jabbing at the floor with the heel of his shoe. I realised I felt scared for him. ‘Where did you hear about the flash mob?’

      He began a lengthy explanation.

      Rima translated as he spoke. ‘There’s a website that posts about upcoming events . . . some are flash mobs . . . the website tells you the date . . . and the rough location . . . you register your email or cell phone number . . . it’s called London for All. LfA, for short.’

      ‘And is the website public?’ A sinking feeling stole over me.

      ‘Yes, but they have a private discussion board,’ said Rima.

      The news filled me with dread. Discussion forums were the bane of the police. ‘Do you know who runs the forum?’

      He shook his head and spoke further.

      ‘A guy called Frazer,’ Rima translated, ‘ . . . posts the messages . . . but it’s never him that comes to the events . . . and no one knows who he is . . . it’s a different person . . . who comes along . . . and no one uses their real names on the forum.’

      ‘And what’s your username?’ I asked.

      ‘He says it’s “cookiemonster”.’

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