by Ols Schaber
Six
Rebwar hadn’t found much at the building site. He thought they must either have destroyed Vasiles’s employment record or it had never existed, as EU workers could come and go as they pleased. He was going for the next obvious option, standing outside the work site on Newman Street wearing a woolly hat, hoodie and body warmer. He was waiting for Stefan Lupei, the worker with the spider’s tattoo on his neck. Rebwar had read his file. He was twenty-three, born in Arad, Romania, had worked for a few contractors in London, and that was about it.
The whirring cranes slowed their activity on the floodlit building site and the large drilling machines ceased their earth-shattering thumping. He checked his watch; according to the stolen shift roster, Stefan was going to finish in a couple of minutes. The clicking of the turnstiles led to a grey and brown column of men spilling onto the street. He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and walked towards them. It wasn’t long till he saw Stefan, same grey tracksuit trousers, big dirty boots and a hi-vis jacket. As he stopped to light a cigarette the tattooed web tensed as he inhaled the smoke. Then he exhaled and walked off.
Rebwar melted into the rushing crowds of Oxford Street. With no team to tail Stefan it was all too easy to lose him. He stopped in front of Tottenham Court Road tube station, stubbed out his cigarette, put headphones on and dived into the underground.
Just before the barriers, Stefan stopped dead and took out his phone. Rebwar stayed in the river of commuters and went through the gates. He steered himself to a wall with an ad and stopped to watch Stefan, who read a text message and then looked up and around him. Seeing Rebwar, he waved at him. Rebwar felt himself seize up. What a rookie he’d been! He’d already been caught. A blonde girl passed him, waving back to Stefan. Rebwar’s lungs filled again and a little chuckle of relief escaped him.
Stefan passed through the automatic barriers and kissed the blonde girl. She had short, thin hair and distinctive high cheekbones that dominated her look. Her blue eyes gave her an arresting stare. Stefan took something out of his jacket pocket and she looked at it. It was some kind of badge, but Rebwar couldn’t make out what it said. Her head bounced down like she was sobbing. Stefan hugged her, kissed her, looked into her eyes and wiped tears from her cheeks. He grabbed her gently by the waist and they set off down the escalator.
The tube screeched to a halt at the crowded platform. The doors opened and a rush of people spilled into the waiting crowds. Rebwar followed rushing passengers into the train, his bruised shoulder crashing into a man making his late escape. Pain rushed and Rebwar turned with a clenched fist, which stopped dead as the door closed with a dull thud. The passengers looked back with inquiring stares. Rebwar held his throbbing shoulder and breathed to control himself. He reached into his pocket for some pills. His scarred past was not forgotten or closed off. The lost battles were still there to be suffered and repeated.
In the packed tube, the commuters went back to their phones and presumably reached their own silent opinions about him. Further down the carriage he noticed a man giving up his seat for Stefan’s girl. As the train made its way to the suburbs, Rebwar watched them interact with each other. It felt like a fresh relationship; they kissed openly and hugged each other in the indifferent crowd. He tried to hear some snippets of their conversation, even if it was in Romanian. It felt light and friendly, the way a couple would chit-chat about their day and what they would be having for dinner. As the carriage emptied, he managed to get a glimpse of the badge that she had put on. It said Baby on Board.
At Woodside Park station, Stefan helped her out of her seat and they got off the tube. They held hands till they had to go through the ticket gates; it was as if they were glued together. It reminded Rebwar of his youth when love was like a drug; it took over your life and made you blind. He followed them to a pub on the high street.
Seven
Cigarette in hand, Rebwar waited a minute or two outside the pub, sizing it up from outside. He unzipped his rucksack and took out a grey suit jacket which he swapped for his hoodie. Looking at his reflection in the pub window, he combed his hair into a side parting and put on some black-rimmed glasses. As he adjusted his tie, someone said, ‘Hot date?’
He turned round to smell a sweet puff of cannabis. A young, made-up brunette was standing outside the pub. Her bubbly face was scrunched full of tickling smoke and the buttons of her white shirt were having the job of their lives holding everything in until her exhale relieved the situation.
‘Oh fuck, yeah. That’s better. Fancy a drag?’
‘Is that legal?’ he said, knowing well that it wasn’t.
She chuckled. ‘Nearly. And who cares? So who’s the date?’ She curled up around her joint in the cold.
‘Just a late meeting. My boss is either a workaholic or an alcoholic.’
‘I’d say both.’ She tried to look into the pub but caught her reflection and she flicked her hair off her face. ‘Hey, what do you think about all this Brexit shit?’
‘I’m not from here. I’m from Iran.’ He smiled politely and instantly regretted telling her that.
‘Oh, me neither. I’m Kiwi.’
‘The fruit?’ Rebwar said, trying to work out if she was trying to make fun of him.
‘Right. You really aren’t from around here are you? I’m from New Zealand, and it’s a flightless bird. Hey, mate!’ Her eyes stared with an animal-like intensity. ‘What do you think about the referendum, fucking Brexit thing. I mean what the fuck? It’s racism or what? Fuck yeah.’ She took another drag of her joint. ‘Shit, who the fuck is going to be working for them? I mean they’re all on the fucking dole getting benefits and think their jobs are in danger. Nah, I don’t get it. Let’s cut off the labour market – not have cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap TVs, cheap everything. And don’t get me started on the Kiwis just lettin’ the rich billionaires buy our land. Like that big fat bastard Dot Com fella.’ She puffed her cheeks and held her hands out like she was holding a huge gut and laughed. ‘Fucked up, man. He’s a fucking criminal. F. Fucking B. I. Want him. I should travel more before they close all the shitty borders. Yeah, find myself some Italian stallion.’ She squeezed Rebwar’s hand to get his attention. ‘It’s racism that’s what it’s about. Let’s all vote to be racist, fuck yeah, because we’re on a shitty island and fuck you lot out there. Yeah, fuck.’
Rebwar looked at his watch. ‘I’m late. Nice meeting you, Ms Kiwi.’
‘It’s Doreen, fucking weirdo.’ And she finished her joint.
Once inside the pub, he looked for a quiet space and found a wood-panelled corner. Nobody was around and he had a good view of the couple at a table in the front of the pub. Rebwar had bought a black coffee and a brandy chaser. Stefan and his girlfriend or wife – he hadn’t seen any telltale rings on them – sat holding hands over their drinks. He had a pint, and she had a white wine. Both of them were staring into each other’s eyes as if they were under a spell.
Rebwar took the mobile from his pocket and a piece of paper, which he laid in front of him. He took out his reading glasses and a pen, poured some of the brandy into the coffee and dialled a number. As it rang he looked over at Stefan, the call went to voicemail, and he re-dialled. This time the girlfriend pointed to Stefan’s phone which was flashing on the table, and Stefan picked up. Rebwar looked down at the piece of paper on which was written a series of questions, a script his wife had taught him. In the time they had been in London, she had worked in a small call centre for an Iranian friend. Rebwar shielded the phone with his hand so it amplified his voice and cut out the background noise.
‘Could I speak to Stefan Lupei, please?’
‘Uh, yes he is here.’
‘Hello, Mr Lupei… and how are you today? Can I call you Stefan?’
‘Uh… yes. What is about? Very busy in moment.’
Rebwar watched Stefan take a large gulp of his beer, half expecting to hear a burp.
‘We are trying to contact Mr Vasiles Konstantine and we have you as the n
ext-of-kin.’
‘Sorry what? Vasiles?’ His girlfriend tried to grab his hand, he avoided her and held his index finger to his lips.
‘Next-of-kin. You’re down as his contact person.’
‘What you want?’ He looked away from his girlfriend.
‘We need to contact him on his insurance renewal. Do you know where he is? I have an address here for him… 44 Dollis Valley Way, Barnet, EN5 2TT. Is that correct?’
‘Sorry, but have no time.’
The girl stood up and grabbed the phone from Stefan’s hand and turned away. ‘Hello? This is wife – Ioanna Konstantine. You know where he is, please?’
Rebwar looked down at his script and searched for something to say. ‘Sorry, say that again?’ Rebwar watched Stefan trying to wrestle his phone back from Ioanna. Rebwar made a note of her name on his paper.
‘I’m wife of Vasiles. I’m looking for him, please.’
Stefan finally managed to take his phone back from Ioanna and spoke into it. ‘Sorry, but he left for Romania. Not here any more.’ He hung up.
Rebwar looked over his glasses. Ioanna’s head had dropped down. She wiped the table with a tissue. Stefan tried to comfort her, but she pushed his hands away. Rebwar wanted desperately to go over to them and continue the conversation but he couldn’t, not now. He sipped his cold coffee, downed his brandy and leaned back into his seat to brush his hair back. Ioanna’s chair screeched back on the wooden floor, she grabbed her coat and walked off to the door. Stefan rushed after her. Rebwar scooped his things off the table and followed a few paces behind them.
Ioanna was already a few car lengths ahead, holding her long flapping coat shut, her trainers skipped in an attempt to run. Stefan looked concerned but kept a wary distance. He was pleading with her. They stopped in front of the tube entrance. After a few attempts to try and hug her, she gave in. Rebwar slipped into the tube station and stopped in front of a ticket machine, got his phone out and pretended to have a conversation. He watched them while trying to keep himself busy. Ioanna and Stefan kissed and, after a few moments, she prised herself away and into the tube station. Stefan remained behind. Rebwar looked at the time; it was 8:30 pm. Ioanna used her Oyster card to go through the barriers. He followed her.
Eight
Rebwar watched Ioanna crying on the tube to Holborn. She took off her Baby on Board badge and inspected it as if it had been put there by mistake. Tears mixed with mascara rolled down her strong cheeks. A woman sitting opposite her gave her a pack of tissues. Rebwar still wasn’t sure if Vasiles was her husband or if that was just a cover-up. He really wanted to go up to ask her but decided to wait till he knew where she was going; it wasn’t the time to spook her. He followed her to a tall, glass-fronted office building close to the tube station. Inside was a large open reception with a guard.
Rebwar stopped Ioanna in front of the door.
‘Hi, Ioanna.’
She turned around, startled, and studied Rebwar with her bloodshot blue eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to disturb. Could I ask you a few questions about Vasiles?’
She held her pregnant belly and stepped back towards the door trying to find the handle.
‘Over a coffee?’ he continued. ‘I’m here to help find him. I can help.’
‘How you find me, and who you?’ Her piercing blue eyes stared at Rebwar. Blonde strands escaped from her bunched up hair. They floated around like loose twigs and he wanted to flick them away from her face.
‘I’m a detective and looking to find him.’ Rebwar had seen a little coffee stall. It was a converted red telephone box. He pointed to it. She didn’t seem too sure what it was and had to look twice.
‘How about a quick coffee over there? Espresso?’
It was out in the open and she could leave anytime she wanted. She looked over her shoulder and said, ‘You have ID?’
He held the warrant card in his pocket, the one he had taken from DCI Richard O’Neil in their tussle. He hadn’t had the time to doctor it and change the photo so he took out one of his little business cards instead. She took it and read it. It had his name and title. Rebwar Ghorbani, private detective, telephone number and email.
‘But who you work for?’
‘The police have asked me to find Vasiles.’
Her eyes darted around him, trying to work out if she should trust him.
‘I will find Vasiles. I’ll buy you a coffee.’ He walked towards the red telephone box.
She hesitated for a moment, as if she was going to run.
‘Please, can you tell me about him? Was he a good man?’ Rebwar took a few more steps and she followed cautiously. He hadn’t won her trust; her arms were folded. She was protecting something. ‘I understand he worked on the Crossrail site, not far from here. Was it good money?’
She nodded and looked down.
‘Ioanna, espresso or latte?’
‘Latte. Two shot and milk.’ Her neck muscles relaxed. She had given in to his offer. The man at the coffee stand acknowledged the order. He was all wrapped up like he was going on an Arctic expedition, you could barely see his face inside the hood. Rebwar guessed he must have been from somewhere in North Africa.
‘Senegal?’
He smiled, his white teeth radiated out of his hoodie and scarf. ‘Croydon, mate. Father is from Tunisia.’
‘Hot country, lots of desert,’ said Rebwar.
‘We have sand and a little oil and lot of trouble.’
‘I’m from Iran. Similar situation.’ He handed him some money and admired the set-up. ‘Just needs a heater.’
The man laughed. He flicked a switch and receded into a jet of steam.
Ioanna hugged her coffee to keep her warm and sipped it.
‘Where is Vasiles?’ said Rebwar, giving her an easy question to start with.
‘Missing… Home?’
‘You mean Romania? Why did he go back?’ He watched her eyes as she sipped the coffee. He offered an answer. ‘Money problems?’
‘No, he… he needed to go back.’
‘Look, I’m here to help. I won’t tell the police. Understand? I…’ Pointing to himself. ‘I can help.’
She took another sip and looked up with her arresting blue eyes. He could sense that she was going to say something, he just had to manage to get her to open up.
‘As you know, I’m not from here either. I came as a refugee with my family. At least you’re legally here. You have rights. He is your husband?’
She bit her lower lip and looked at him, still obviously trying to work out if she could trust him.
‘Yes my husband. He go home.’
Rebwar sipped his coffee. The liquid hit his rotten tooth like an electric shock and he stepped back and held his jaw. Looking straight into her cold blue eyes he said, ‘I know he’s missing and not in a good way. There are no records that he left this country.’
She turned away.
‘I saw you with Stefan.’
Her head sprang back, eyes wide with fright. She was either going to say something or flee. Rebwar grabbed her arm, trying to reassure he was here to help.
‘I explain. He good friend. Old friend. Help.’
‘By kissing you?’
There was a moment of silence. She had tensed up; her breathing was a little faster. She had been caught, and she wasn’t a good liar. ‘It’s complicated. We all love each other. And we are worried for him – very worried. You right, he missing for a five weeks. He didn’t come back from work. We tried to call him and left messages – lots of messages – but phone went dead.’ She was spilling it all, and little tears were working their way slowly to her chin and creating a big drop.
‘Did you call the police?’
She looked at him with a look of puzzlement. Like he would be asking if she had forgotten to put some clothes on. ‘We… We wanted to… but they would never understand.’
‘Try me. You killed him because you loved Stefan or he did?’
‘No, no!’ She pushed h
im away. ‘That’s why did not call. You the same as others.’ More tears rolled down her face, and she ran off towards the office building, her head bowed and holding down her flapping coat.
In Iran, he would have put her in a cell and waited till she cracked. But he couldn’t. Not here. If he chased her, she would scream for help. There was some truth to what she was saying: Vasiles was missing, but what had happened was still a mystery. It was time to use some old-fashioned covert Iranian tricks and keep digging at their stories. Something would come out. He finished his coffee as he watched her disappear into the office building. Probably going to her cleaning job.
Nine
Geraldine’s phone vibrated and moved itself slowly to the edge of the bedside table and then clonked onto the wooden floor. Her hand fumbled around blindly until she found it and then her eyes struggled to focus on the LCD screen. She had four missed calls with voicemails. She scanned her immediate surroundings and, for a moment, she was lost. She slid herself up and smelled the sheets. Memories returned to her. Sweet things. She smiled. The shower was running in the background and someone was singing.
She stepped out of the bed and stood in the middle of the room naked. This wouldn’t have bothered her if she’d been at home. She looked around for some of her clothes, but there were none to be found. In her search, she found some framed photographs and studied them. More memories flashed by of the previous night. This was the girl she had just spent the night with.
‘Yeah, that’s me in Bali. It’s been cropped.’
Geraldine tried to hide her nakedness with her hands, and her ample flesh spilled out. She felt like she was carrying some old clothes,
‘Oh, hi, I was just looking…’
‘It’s Zara with a Zee and we left them on the couch.’ She smiled as she dried her hair. She too was naked, and Geraldine stared at her amazing freshly cleaned soft body.