‘From Zentralbank. He listed them as his last employer and Mr Parry as his manager there.’

‘Wasn’t Nicola Grant a personal referee?’

‘Yes. His ex-wife. One of his referees declined to submit, so we needed another. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be allowed to give you this information but under the circumstan—’

‘Of course. What’s the name of the person who declined?’

‘Nilufar Ahmed.’

‘What grounds did she give?’ Dan tapped her name into his phone.

‘None. If you don’t want to provide a reference, you simply decline. You don’t have to say why.’

‘Fair enough. What was her connection with him?’

‘She was a Project Co-ordinator at Coley Lane youth centre. He’d been volunteering there.’

What had gone on there? Dan wondered. ‘I’ll need her contact details, please.’

Tina clicked a few keys and the printer clunked into action.

‘Last question. This is important. Can you think of anything that might link Ryan to protests about gentrification? Did he ever make any comments about Tower Hamlets getting posh and too expensive for people to live?’ He was looking at her perplexed face.

‘Not that I know of. Perhaps someone at the site might know?’

‘Nothing about Ryan and fire?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Gosh, no.’

Dan gave her his contact card, but didn’t feel very hopeful that Tina Sands could help them further. He hurried out of the building, humming with impatience because he had no signal on his phone. At ground level, it returned to four bars. He dialled the incident room. As he conveyed the news about Nilufar, he felt anticipation tickle.

You didn’t refuse to give a reference without a good reason.

Maya, 10.30 a.m.

Maya, 10.30 a.m.

Overnight, elements of the media had gone to town on the Manor House murder, and Suzie James was at the front of the pack. She’d got wind of Ryan’s drug problems and homelessness, and had written a vicious piece with the headline, LOCAL DRUG ADDICT MURDERED – IS HE THE BRICK LANE ARSONIST? The City Eye was leading with PANIC OVER CRIME WAVE.

When I arrived in Stepney, I was relieved to see that the crime scene was still cordoned off. Several metres back, reporters and journalists were jostling to interrogate a man with a poker face and a sharp suit. He had a heavy accent and was doing a good job of fielding questions with broken record responses.

Robert Johnson, the site foreman, was standing at the hoardings and seemed to be in a better frame of mind today. He wasn’t shouting into his phone, but he still looked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He gestured to the media. ‘Some of them have been here all bloody night. It’ll be a five-minute segment on the news, that’s all, then onto the next person whose life has been ruined.’

‘Yup.’ I smiled in sympathy.