‘Shall we grab a cuppa?’ Maya pointed at Brick Lane Coffee, the tiny slit of a shop with tables outside. ‘This noise is doing my head in.’

Sitting outside, talking to himself and with a roll-up on the go, was an old guy in a sheepskin jacket.

Dan followed Maya over to the coffee shop. A few minutes later, they were inside the café, sitting down, and they began discussing the attack on Pick Your Vintage again.

‘The protest organisers claimed that the business owners were making an obscene profit on the clothes they bought and were depleting affordable stocks at charity shops.’ Maya sipped her coffee. ‘They’ve got a point.’

‘Sorry to butt in. I heard you talking about the street mob and the vintage shop. You don’t think there’s going to be another attack, do you? You’re police officers, right?’ A young mum had a pram with a sleeping toddler in it and a boy of about four in tow. She was chewing her lip. ‘I was in that shop with my kids when the protesters started on it. Hundreds of them in the street, throwing paint at the windows, and twenty or so trying to kick the door in.’ She patted her chest to soothe herself. ‘The owners barricaded us all in. We were terrified that they were going to torch the place.’ Her eyes were wide with alarm. ‘My toddler still has nightmares about men in masks, carrying fire torches.’ She tucked a blanket over the youngster who was asleep in the buggy.

‘We certainly hope not,’ Maya replied.

The woman was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘They weren’t all working class people demonstrating about inequality. I heard a load of posh youngsters and university students boasting about signing up to join the protest because it would be a laugh and—’

‘Hold on a sec.’ Maya’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘At the time of the protest, did you hear anyone mention a website or a forum called LfA?’

The woman’s eyes popped in shock and her hand rose to her mouth. ‘No, but lots of them were wearing masks with an LfA logo.’

Maya, midday

Maya, midday

Still in Brick Lane, Dan and I headed towards a clothing shop and went in. It had a sumptuous, funky window display. Inside, there were rows and rows of fashionable clothes.

‘They’re all made locally, in Old Street,’ a glamorous young woman said, walking to meet us with a warm smile. She had cherry red lipstick, matching hair and a black-and-white polka dot dress, probably late twenties. ‘And all made ethically.’ She smiled and offered her hand to shake. ‘I’m Natassja. It’s my shop.’ Her English was perfect but heavily accented.

‘We’re police officers,’ I said. ‘Investigating the arson attack at the—’

‘. . . Soup shop. Yeah. I heard.’ She straightened some of the stock and picked up a dress which had fallen on the floor.