‘Ten weeks pregnant and Simas didn’t know? Jeez.’ Dan stared at me in disbelief. ‘Did Marta say why Indra hadn’t told him?’

‘Apparently, Simas was adamant he didn’t want children.’

‘Meaning what? Indra hoped he’d change his mind and was building up to telling him? She was waiting ’til she was past the three-month mark? Simas wasn’t the father?’

‘Marta swore she didn’t know why. All she said was she and Indra don’t discuss Simas any more.’

Dan tutted. ‘That’s convenient.’

‘Actually, I believe her. She clearly has a low opinion of her brother-in-law. Perhaps she found it easiest, and kindest, not to talk about him.’ Mum flashed through my mind. Had this been why she hadn’t wanted to talk about Dad?

‘I wonder what Artem will say about his brother’s philandering.’ Dan pulled a face. ‘I’d put money on two things. He’ll be on the defensive and he’ll take Simas’ side.’

At the exit, as the glass doors swung back, a swarm of reporters surged towards us, firing out questions and wanting their pound of flesh.

‘Inspector, is it true that the other person in the fire was a woman?’ asked one.

‘Keep walking,’ I hissed at Dan, blinking amidst the blinding flash lights.

‘Given the woman in the fire wasn’t the shopkeeper’s wife, who was it?’ another shouted.

‘Inspector, what precautions have you taken to keep the capital safe in the face of fears about copy-cat fires?’ It was Tony from the City Eye again.

Something slid round the back of my hair and ear. I turned to see a microphone below my chin, and it was then stuffed towards my mouth.

‘Can you confirm reports that a child was in the fire?’ The beefy hulk of a journo bellowed at me, practically spitting in my face.

‘A what?’ Damn. I’d responded before I could stop myself. I pushed his mic away from my face and addressed the gaggle. ‘There have been NO reports of a child in the fire. No further questions for now. All communication will go through the usual channels. Thanks.’

*

Half an hour later, Dan and I were outside a large glass-fronted business premises in Bethnal Green. Silver lettering twinkled in the morning sunlight and showed the name COCO. Two shiny-suited security guards stood outside, wearing headsets and attitude, next to a roped-off section on the pavement. One of the bouncers lumbered towards us, tight-faced and suspicious.

‘We’re here to see Artem Gudelis,’ I said, and we showed our warrants.

The security guard didn’t acknowledge what I said but immediately started to speak into his headset in Lithuanian, and then turned to his colleague and made a comment to him. They both sniggered at whatever he’d said. It was hard not to wonder if they were indicative of what their boss might be like.

The man snapped, ‘Come,’ and marched inside the building.