Out of the Ashes: A DI Maya Rahman novel. Vicky Newham
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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”.’
Ali blushed, and for a few moments, vulnerability betrayed his desire to look older.
The police technicians would be able to track down the site host and administrators. With any luck, the cyber-crime unit might already have data on LfA. ‘Did the posts say what the purpose was of today’s flash mob?’
He’d said no but I wasn’t convinced.
‘He says they didn’t care,’ said Rima. ‘But from how he describes it, it sounds like it was something to do with anti-gentrification.’
‘Yes. Genti-thingy.’ He pointed at the street and lapsed back into Arabic.
‘Was any incentive offered to turn up?’
‘He doesn’t want to get anyone into trouble. They were told not to tell anyone.’
‘Tell anyone what?’ I looked from Rima to Ali.
Ali was silent.
‘Who told them not to say anything?’
‘Frazer.’ Rima emphasised the name and raised her eyebrows. I got the impression she was trying to check I’d taken note.
‘What was the payment?’ Please, God, may it not have been drugs.
‘Sometimes he gave them a bit of money or some food,’ said Rima. ‘And masks.’
‘What sort of masks?’
Ali and Rima talked in Arabic. ‘Black bandanas with the LfA logo on them,’ she said.
This was news. ‘And drugs?’
‘NO.’ Ali was on his feet now. His eyes were flashing with fear, and for a moment I wondered if he was about to make a dash, but his body swayed and rocked. He put his hand out and sunk back down onto his seat. ‘Not drug.’
‘OK.’ I changed tack. ‘Today – who brought the speakers?’
‘He says they were there when they arrived.’
‘They?’
‘He came with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Riad.’
‘How old’s he?’
‘Nearly sixteen.’
‘And Sophie,’ Rima said. ‘She’s doing A-levels at New City College.’
‘Does Riad live with you in York Square?’
‘Yes.’
‘What number in York Square?’
‘Twenty-eight. Opposite the entrance to the park.’
‘Where are Riad and Sophie now?’
Fear filled Ali’s eyes and he covered his mouth with his hand.
‘He doesn’t know. They got separated . . . When the fire started . . . they ran for cover and . . . Riad’s not answering his phone. He says he’s scared.’
‘Which direction did they run in?’
‘That way and left.’ He pointed.
‘That way?’ I gestured. ‘That’s right.’
‘Ach.’ He punched his leg, as though he felt stupid. He turned to Rima and spoke to her.
‘Down there and right,’ she said. ‘He says his brother will turn up. He’s probably dropped his phone or they’ve gone to get some chips.’
‘Ali. Are you sure neither of them entered the building before it went on fire?’
‘They were both with him.’
‘We’ll need their descriptions . . . and a formal statement, Rima, if you can translate, please? Ali, if you hear from your brother or Sophie, please inform us straightaway.’ I summoned a uniformed officer and began briefing him.
Mrs Jones, the blue-rinse lady who’d hurt her wrist, was shivering and fidgety, so Dan settled her on a fold-out chair in the stock room at the back of the mobile phone shop and went to fetch her a cuppa. As he returned with it, she made a point of checking her watch and sighing loudly.
‘You got a hot date to get to?’ he asked, grinning mischievously.
Mrs Jones gave a giggle. ‘My old mum will be wondering where I’ve got to. She’ll have seen all this on the news and will be fretting. She doesn’t do mobile phones and neither do I.’
‘Thanks for waiting,’ Dan said. ‘Have a swig of this.’ He passed her the cup of sweet tea and squatted down next to her. ‘It’ll soon get you warmed up, eh.’
She was trembling, but her expression relaxed a few notches and she sipped the tea.
‘Can you take me through what you saw when you arrived?’
She nudged smeared glasses up the bridge of her nose with a shaky finger. ‘I was walking that way.’ She pointed in the direction of Whitechapel. ‘My mum lives