Out of the Ashes. Vicky Newham

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СКАЧАТЬ cacophony of voices broke out.

      ‘Where is the shopkeeper, Mr Gudelis?’ a local journalist shouted.

      ‘We are trying to establish his whereabouts,’ I replied.

      ‘Is this a hate crime?’ shouted a reporter for The Messenger.

      ‘We have no evidence of that.’

      ‘You’re not ruling it out though?’

      ‘We are pursuing a number of lines of enquiry.’

      ‘We’ve seen Mrs Gudelis. Who is the other fire victim?’

      ‘We’re waiting for a formal ID.’

      ‘Are we likely to see a wave of arson attacks in East London? Copycat flash mobs and property torching? Bit like the way the London riots spread.’

      The man’s question hit me like a smack in the face. Tony was a reporter who’d worked for the City Eye for as long as I could remember. He was famous for his sensationalist headlines.

      ‘We have no reason to believe that’s going to happen and would urge you not to scaremonger, Tony, please. We want to encourage people to come forward with information, not send the city into panic.’

      ‘That’s a yes, then.’

      I gritted my teeth.

      ‘Does this case have personal involvement for you too, Inspector?’ Suzie’s question purred through a beautifully lipsticked mouth, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to catch her jeer.

      I glanced over at Dan who rolled his eyes. We both knew Suzie James of old. ‘I’ve lived in this area for thirty-seven years, Suzie. It’s all personal to me. Thank you. No further questions.’

      ‘Well done.’ Dan spoke softly.

      ‘Thanks,’ I said wearily. ‘Right. Back to the nick for briefing and let’s get cracking.’ And added, ‘I dread to think what the headlines are going to be.’

6.30 p.m.

       When the girl woke up, she lay where she was, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. She knew something was wrong when she saw the ceiling. Her stars had gone. She tried to sit up. The mattress was slippery and smelled funny and didn’t have a sheet. Her head was spinning, like when she was poorly sometimes. She lay down on her side, trying to figure out where she was. Two windows. In a corner of one, black plastic was peeling away from the frame, and slivers of light fell on the carpet and walls. No posters. No lamp. Her bedroom at home had a blind and a fluffy rug.

       While she was sleeping, she’d thought she’d heard footsteps. They’d stopped at the end of the bed. And voices. She must’ve been dreaming.

       She listened now.

       Nothing.

       ‘Mummy?’ She spoke quietly in the dark, but no-one heard.

       Thirsty. Her mouth was dry.

       She sat up again, and slid her legs off the edge of the mattress and onto the floor. She’d sit here for a while, until her head stopped spinning. Beneath her toes, the thick carpet felt soft and squishy. She liked it. She liked being in a warm room with a lovely carpet, but she wanted Mummy. Mummy would bring her a drink and Mummy would know where the stars were and the slippy mattress with a drink . . . dizzy . . . and the stars in the shiny . . .

Maya, 7.30 p.m.

      Back in the MIT room, the team were poised for our first briefing. The first twenty-four hours of the investigation were critical. We all knew that. Around the room, the boards were up and important information had been plastered over all available surfaces. Maps showed locations and routes. Shops had been plotted on a street plan. Facts and questions stood out in coloured board markers. We’d all examined the mug shots and got to grips with the key names.

      ‘Let’s get started, everyone,’ I said. ‘First, good news. The fire brigade has inspected the soup shop through the openings where the windows were, and only found one gas cylinder. It has already exploded, which probably contributed to the ferocity of the blaze, but it means we no longer have an explosion risk.’

      A wave of relief swept through the team.

      ‘We have a tentative ID on the male victim. Simas Gudelis, age forty-two, originally from Lithuania. He was co-owner of the shop with his wife, who says he was ill in bed.’ I paused for breath. ‘We have no ID for the woman, who isn’t his wife.’

      The next board had ‘VICTIMS’ as its heading. Here, we had multiple image sources for Simas: social media, the shop website and the ones from the fire officer. We only had the low-resolution photographs of the female.

      ‘We need to prioritise identifying the woman so we can notify her next of kin and consider who may have wished her harm. Have we had any calls?’ I’d only just briefed the media but I couldn’t help hoping we’d had news.

      ‘Nothing yet. And no matches on the MisPer register.’ I saw the concern on Dan’s face. ‘She could live alone or work away a lot? Sometimes it takes a while to realise someone’s missing.’

      ‘True. Another possibility is that she has dependents at home. This could help our chances of someone calling in or it could create additional risk factors.’ A terrible thought occurred to me. ‘If she’s got someone old or young at home, they might not be able to look after themselves. That bumps the need for her ID even higher up the order of priority.’ My brain was snatching at possible solutions. ‘What’s the situation with the facial profiler?’

      ‘She can’t make much progress because of the lack of detail on the photographs.’ Dan spoke quietly.

      ‘OK. Our other priority needs to be getting the bodies out of the building. That’ll be done the moment the building is deemed safe to enter. Then we can get better quality images, do a more specific media appeal, process DNA samples and search dental records.’ I approached the board and took in the woman’s wax-like features. It was impossible not to be reminded of my brother’s appearance after the fire that killed him, although our victim had more flesh intact than Sabbir’s charred bones. I swallowed down the dull thud of pain which the memory stirred, and took the cap off one of the marker pens to jot on the board.

       Victim 2 (UnSub)

      -Lives alone?

      -Homeless?

      -No family vs. dependents?

      -Asylum seeker?

      -MisPer?

      ‘Dan, I think you’ve got information on motives?’

      Dan zapped on the overhead projector and stepped in front of the team. The light on the board exaggerated his Irish colouring. ‘Let’s consider why might someone might want to set fire to the soup shop. The key arson motives СКАЧАТЬ