Rebwar The Missing Parts: A London Murder Mystery Book 1 (A Rebwar Crime Thriller)

by Ols Schaber

  Rebwar

  The Missing Parts

  Ols Schaber

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

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  Also by Ols Schaber

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

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  One

  Rebwar grimaced into his rear-view mirror. A rotting tooth was pounding a dull distracting pain just behind his gold implant, a present to himself over a decade before back home in Iran. He tried not to clench at the memory of using a pair of pliers to pull someone else’s teeth out. Images of dark sandy trenches filled with waiting soldiers came back to him. His face flushed with heat and he felt little beads of sweat on his forehead. He wiped them with his handkerchief just as his cracked phone flashed – an incoming job. His finger hovered over the accept button. He sighed, took a deep capitulating breath, and pressed it. The phone spoke out cold robotic directions to where his job was to be found.

  ‘A mouse should eat you,’ he said, flicking at the device. What was wrong with radios? With the reluctance of an old cat, he pushed the gearshift into drive and stepped on the accelerator. The car whined slowly forward. He slammed his foot hard onto the floor, the engine jumped into life and the car lurched away. He knew it was some kind of electric petrol engine but somehow believed that, like a stubborn horse, it would one day comply with him. Before his thoughts could wander off, he remembered that his phone was going to tell him who his next passenger was. Forgetting where he’d put his glasses, he squinted at the screen. With the help of the flashing street lights, a blurred picture stared back at him. He let the voice guide him through London, which was glittering. Stopping on the corner of Coram Street and Woburn by the Yialousa restaurant, he lit a cigarette and noticed it was a Greek restaurant. He’d never been to Greece or tasted its food. His tooth pounded and the hunger left him like a puff of smoke.

  The streets were busy with people and cars. Behind him was a stand for those rental city bikes, and some drunk students were about to set off on them. Glasses in hand, he confirmed his arrival by pressing the cracked phone screen. Laura Pinkerton was his upcoming passenger with a star rating of 2.76; this was indicative of the problematic passenger. He looked at the tiny profile picture of a smiling blonde girl. Was that her mask to the world? An innocent, happy soul searching for her path in life while being hounded by the demons of–

  There was a knock on the window. A smiling blonde young man in an oversized crumpled up suit was waving at him like he was some lost driver. Rebwar looked around for the button to open the window. This gave the man another opportunity to knock on the glass. He looked like a wavering pole on a sandy beach as Rebwar lowered the button for the window and the man clumsily stuck his head through.

  ‘Uber?’ the man said.

  ‘That is right,’ said Rebwar.

  The man holding onto the car waved frantically to a girl on a traffic island.

  ‘Miss Pinkerton?’ Rebwar queried.

  The young man’s eyes squinted and he took a few moments to take in the information.

  ‘What? Oh yeah, yeah – that’s her.’ He turned back to the girl while trying to keep his balance with the aid of the car. ‘Come on, come on quick! It’s the Uber man!’ He waved to the girl on high heels and she tiptoed across the street as if she was on a tightrope. She had one of those suit dresses that hugged all the right curves. Her light blue shirt had two buttons undone. Rebwar wondered if the young man had unbuttoned them. Her white bra strap was on show. The man dropped like a sandbag into the back seat and she rushed in to fall on him as if he was an empty bed. They both giggled and groped each other fleetingly. One of those Tinder dates, no doubt. Back home this wouldn’t be tolerated. People would stop them and give them a piece of their minds. Then he would have to intervene and stop such street arguments – take them to the police station and interview them till they sobered up. But he had left all that back in Teheran.

  He turned to them and said, ‘Royal London Hotel?’ He was faced with an awkward moment of indecision. From their nervous smiles, this part of the date hadn’t been discussed.

  ‘Who’s smoking?’ said the girl.

  ‘The Britannia International Hotel?’ said Rebwar, even though his anger told him to throw the cocky young man out and drive the young girl home.

  The man took the lead. ‘Yeah, yeah, mate, that’s right, Royal National Hotel.’

  ‘National? Are you sure? Do you have postcode?’

  The young man fumbled around for his phone. Rebwar watched the girl’s reaction through the rear-view mirror. He could see her eyes trying to focus on the information. Her drunken eyelids flickered as she continued to try to work out what was going on.

  Rebwar put on his reading glasses and was about to input the postcode. ‘Did you say Royal National Hotel?’ His eye caught a large building in front of him. It reminded him of the Britannia Hotel, which was where he had been housed with his family when they arrived in the UK. He hadn’t been able to believe it – a hotel for refugees! This was the place to come to! ‘Are you sure? This one in front?’ He leaned in and pointed at the hotel sign.

  ‘Oh yeah, we’ve made it! Come on, babe.’ The young man opened the door and grabbed the girl. He propped her on his shoulder and they stumbled towards the hotel.

  Rebwar shook his head, idiots, it would all end in tears. Frustrated that he had been robbed of a fare he grabbed a cigarette from the top pocket of his shirt, got out of the car, stood in front of it and lit up. He puffed deeply on his precious little ‘coffin nail’, as he liked to call them. A sudden gust of wind caught him out and pushed him back and he dropped his cigarette. A scooter swayed from him like a ship in a storm. He had stepped out a little too far into the road. The scooter carried on lurching more violently till the little wheels gave way and it screeched and banged into the rack of rental bikes. Like a stack of plastic boxes, they cracked and shattered, bits of plastic flying in different odd directions. The scooter had swerved to
avoid Rebwar; the rider had lost control and now lay next to the crumpled bikes. His delivery box had snapped off, bounced along the gutter and burst open. Ice glittered like a river of diamonds.

  By Allah, the idiot! Rebwar rushed over to the rider, expecting him to be flat on his face. Instead, he was already lifting the scooter onto its two wheels. He jumped onto its seat and revved it. Its little wheels screeched away, leaving a cloud of tyre smoke. The sharp smell of the burnt rubber stung Rebwar’s nose – then a cab’s horn caught his attention.

  ‘Hey, mate! I saw that!’ A cabbie leaned out of the black cab’s window. ‘You just caused that accident. I’m reporting you. Not having my premiums go up because of you.’

  ‘I caused it?’

  ‘I saw it all. You bloody idiot! You should watch out before opening your bloody door!’

  Sensing trouble, Rebwar tried to think of something, but he could only stare at the melting ice.

  The cab’s passenger door opened. A tall, thin man with a neat side parting presented himself and said, ‘What’s the problem?’

  Rebwar stared at him, trying to work out whom he was dealing with.

  ‘What’s just happened?’ The thin man stepped closer.

  ‘An accident. He was driving too fast,’ said Rebwar.

  ‘That’s right, just blame it on the scooter. He’s probably too scared to report it. Where are you from?’

  ‘I live here.’ Rebwar looked over at the cabbie wondering on whose side he was on.

  ‘Romania? Or fucking Syria?’ The thin man pushed up to Rebwar. He was a head taller and staring down his hawkish nose. ‘Just what we need… more immigrants causing crimes. Hey, cabbie, what do you think we should do with him? Call those righteous EU remainers? Show them what the real problem is?’

  Rebwar was still sizing the man up, undecided if he was high on something.

  ‘Mate, I don’t want any bother,’ said the cabbie. ‘No one’s been hurt. It’s nothing. We should leave it. I’ve got a licence to keep.’

  Pointing his long finger, the thin man said, ‘Yeah that’s right… Just ignore it. No, no, mate, this is how this country goes to pot. They’re all getting away with it.’

  Rebwar decided to turn things up a notch to scratch at a theory that was milling around his head and stepped right up to the man. He could feel his chest heaving. ‘You want trouble? Is that what you want? Trouble?’

  ‘Don’t you start getting excited. I could punch your lights out. I–’

  Rebwar pushed the thin man and stared into his narrow dark eyes. ‘You what? You think you can beat me?’

  ‘Sir! Calm the fuck down,’ said the thin man.

  Game on, thought Rebwar. The thin man had shown his hand; he was a policeman, trained to be firm yet polite, and he’d just let that slip. Probably off duty and back from a few drinks at the pub not wanting to either go home and get off over some porn or find a fight. Right now, he was like an irritated scorpion in a bathtub. Rebwar now knew how to deal with him. He saw the cabbie sneak back into his cab.

  ‘Sir…’ said the thin policeman, before noticing the cabbie doing a bunk. ‘Oh! That’s right… Just leave me to deal with this rotten country. No need to call the cops, I’ve got this. All right, mate?’ The cab drove off in a cloud of black diesel smoke. Agitated, he turned to Rebwar who felt spots of spit as the man launched his abuse. ‘You know what your fucking problem is?’

  Rebwar had worked out a few possible scenarios. He knew what kind of training the British police got, their defence techniques, their procedures, and processes, but there was an element of unpredictability about this man, who carried on prodding and shouting at Rebwar until he backed into a brick wall.

  The man’s eyes fixed on Rebwar. He wasn’t going to back down. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, changing his tone. ‘We can work something out, you and me. Yeah, you understand.’

  An ambush? Relax your victim, catch him off guard. Rebwar didn’t dare leave the man’s hungry gaze.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m calm. Yeah, mate, I’m calm.’ The policeman stepped back, loosening his arms like a boxer.

  Instead of avoiding the copper’s punch, Rebwar had decided to take it. By giving him confidence, he would make a mistake. It was an old boxing trick. The punch went straight into his shoulder and the policeman’s hands were bony, like knuckledusters. His next one Rebwar ducked, and it missed. Even with lost pieces of old war shrapnel, Rebwar’s reflexes were still good. Angry at having missed his target, the copper swung harder and faster. Rebwar had seen it coming and moved his head out of the way. The copper’s fist crunched like a plastic pen into the brick wall, and he fell to the floor.

  ‘You’ve broken my hand! Fuck that hurts! You’ve broken my hand.’

  Rebwar, ready to spit on him, took a moment to look at the scene. The policeman was rolling around like a baby needing his mother. Rebwar swallowed and walked away, his shoulder filling with pain.

  Two

  Rebwar found refuge in a hidden parking spot on New Compton Street behind Charing Cross Road. He had a list of them, forgotten spaces behind buildings where you could find a few solitary moments. This was a one-way street with office garage entrances and some hidden council flats. There was a little oasis of a garden at the end into which he sometimes sneaked to forget the world. It was now night and closed.

  His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline. Holding a British police warrant card, he rubbed his throbbing shoulder. It had been a decent trade-off. He had managed to take it during the fight with the thin man with knuckleduster-like hands. A pickpocketing trick he had perfected as a street kid back in Teheran. Rebwar studied DCI Richard O’Neil’s picture; that neat side parting made him nearly respectable. He was probably now in A&E getting an X-ray for his broken hand. What had turned him into this angry bigot? Rebwar stowed the ID card away in the glovebox, thinking it might come in useful some day.

  He sat up, grabbed the Evening Standard and folded it so he could fill in the crossword. Four Across – Only a little girl, but she’s maybe washed up. Six letters… Approaching him from the front of the car was someone he knew. Dressed more like a man than a woman, she came up to the car and sat on the hood. Her broad ass buckled the metal with a pop. He stepped out to greet her.

  ‘Geraldine, nice to see you.’

  She fumbled in her bomber jacket for her vape pen.

  ‘I have warm seats in the car,’ he said. He took out a branded box of cigarettes. Wobbling drunkenly, Geraldine watched him with amazement as if he was doing something illegal. She sucked deeply onto the vape pen. She was wanting a raw nicotine hit. She smiled broadly at him.

  ‘Been partying?’ said Rebwar, lighting his cigarette. He noticed little piles of white bin bags by the back entrances of offices and their rotting smells cut through the smoke. She lunged and grabbed his cigarette from his mouth and inhaled like it was her last breath. Grumbling, he took out another one and asked, ‘Have you got my visa?’

  She turned away and waved her drunken hand at him. ‘Oh, knock it off with the nagging, I’m off duty. And it’s the season to be merry. OK?’ Before Rebwar could light another cigarette, she was pinching his cheek. ‘You’re so cute! Such a pity I don’t like men.’

  He watched her have a little moment of what he guessed was loneliness. She sniffed and fumbled inside her green bomber jacket again. From the bright orange lining came a brown envelope. She held it out for him to grab.

  Geraldine had landed into his life like a stray animal a couple of months before. She’d asked him to drive and made an offer he couldn’t refuse. She was from the police, but the opportunity was from a secret organisation. Neither of them was allowed to talk about Plan B. They were offering a visa for this country and would compensate him for his work. Simple enough, but if he said no he would be on the next plane back to Iran. Three weeks before, she had handed him a brown envelope; a week after that he had found the Polish couple they were looking for. They had brought over their grandmother for a hip o
peration on the NHS. They weren’t even working and were claiming benefits. He later found out that it was entirely within their rights but it had bothered someone.

  ‘Visa?’ Rebwar knew very well it wasn’t. This was going to be more bait, but he was going to give Geraldine a hard time. He grabbed the envelope, but she kept hold of it. Like she was waiting for some kind of apology. Her eyes burned into him. Rebwar smiled. She let go, stood up and with all the grace of a walking penguin started to sing. All Rebwar could do was watch her dance back towards Soho. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She pawned her dirty work on to him and blackmailed him to make sure he did it. He sat back down in his car, looked at the crossword and the big blank envelope. He emptied its contents onto the passenger seat.

  He ruffled through the papers looking for something. ‘Zanikeh Jendeh!’1 He picked up a small bag of white powder. This was his payment: another manipulative trick to push him further into the criminal world. He picked up the papers and studied them. It was a missing person case: Vasiles Konstantine, a Romanian man working on a building site. He flicked through some more sheets. There wasn’t much to go on. No next of kin, but he did have his work address. He lit another cigarette and reread the notes. Konstantine was working on one of those new skyscrapers that kept popping up like mushrooms. Someone was filling their pockets with gold, and it wasn’t these poor workers. He looked at his watch and started the car.