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

by Ols Schaber

  ‘It was lovely last night,’ said Zara.

  Facing the door to the living room, Geraldine said, ‘I’ve just been called in. Need to visit a crime scene.’

  Zara’s head twisted to the side with surprise. ‘Did you bring your handcuffs, you might need to restrain me…’

  Geraldine smiled and went to get her clothes.

  The calls had been from an officer who had found a body part in a park called Scratchwood in Mill Hill, deep in suburbia at the end of the Northern line. As it was raining, Geraldine had taken a cab to Scratchwood, which at this time of year was mostly used by dog walkers and keen joggers. The area was fenced off with blue and white police tape. The place was deserted. The Django Lounge cafe looked more like a derelict shed. Around the porch area were broken chairs and wet soggy sofas that were littered with branches, cans and dead leaves. It felt bleak and the perfect place to dump a body. The white crime pop-up tents were a bit further down the path. Geraldine lifted up her collar in a gesture to fend off the rain. The path was muddy and puddled. Her new white trainers didn’t take long to lose their glow.

  The bare tree branches swayed like they were trying to grab her. She pushed her way into one of the crime scene tents. Everybody was huddling inside trying to find shelter. She was conscious that she hadn’t showered. A uniformed officer was writing on a clear plastic evidence bag that contained a foot. She could see there was a tattoo on the foot; it wasn’t in English.

  ‘Is that Latin?’ she asked the young officer who must have only recently left school. He didn’t even look as if he owned a razor. Rain pelted the little white tent that was covering the crime scene.

  ‘No, it’s Romanian, my other half’s from there… I messaged her a picture.’

  Geraldine gave him a stare and grabbed the bag from him. The foot was light yellow with some puncture wounds. Forensics wasn’t her strength, but she tried to see if there were any other clues.

  ‘You’re married? I wouldn’t have guessed. What does it say?’

  ‘It’s a little hard to read but my wife said it’s Cine aleargă după doi iepuri, nu prinde nici unul.’

  ‘And in English?’

  ‘You must not run after two hares at the same time.’

  She sniggered a little to herself at the thought of last night and wrote it down on her small pad.

  ‘Geraldine, you old battleaxe. You’re still CID? How have you managed to keep that job?’

  She turned to face a grey-haired man in a wet white overall. His puffed up face reminded her of an unripe tomato.

  ‘Still batting for the other side?’

  Geraldine took a moment to calm down and remind herself not to get wound up. She had been there before, far too many times. Dr Bob Carver was old school and had been involved in the case that had got her into trouble all those years before. She noticed that his big beer belly had grown; it was as if he was pregnant with a Swiss exercise ball. He had helped her to falsify some evidence for her sister. Geraldine had taken the rap, but he kept quiet on how it had been done. She had to toe the line with him, and he relished it.

  ‘Munching those carpets.’ He laughed and looked around him, expecting others to join him. Some sniggered but soon stopped when they saw Geraldine’s reddening face.

  ‘Dr Carver.’ She turned to the young officer. ‘What can you tell us about this foot?’

  ‘That you’re holding it, and it’s a left one,’ said Dr Carver.

  She knew nothing of any importance was going to come out of that idiot’s mouth. She was going to have to wait until she could manage to find the report, which would be sent late to some lower ranked male colleague. She had no time to waste on bigoted banter.

  ‘Where was it found?’

  The young officer pointed outside the tent at a marker in the wood.

  ‘So how did it get there?’

  ‘That’s your job, detective.’ His smile creased his fat face.

  Geraldine sighed, she could feel the hangover grip her stomach. Holding her breath, she took a closer look at the foot. ‘OK then, what… nibbled it?’

  ‘A vulpes vulpes.’

  ‘Come on, doc, give me a break.’

  ‘The common red fox.’

  ‘Did your mother ever tell you that you’re incredibly annoying?’

  ‘She loves me too much, and I live with her.’

  ‘Christ, it’s worse than I thought.’

  Geraldine would have to wait until the forensics came in to reach any conclusions as to whose foot it was. She was hoping her collegues might have found something else, but there was nothing so far, and not much more she could do in the meantime. She looked around the space. It was one of these popular parks that when it was sunny was full of people trying to escape to some semblance of nature. But she had to wait until the forensics came in to reach any conclusions as to whose foot it was. She watched the rain come down. She was sure her colleagues would tell her if they found something else. She got her phone out, hoping for a text from Zara. She had left her number on the table. She was playing it cool, but she was desperate to hear from her to the point that she was pulling on her hair, a nervous tic. Still no text.

  Ten

  The day started as if he had woken up in a muffled up grey blanket. Rebwar had to get to Ioanna’s flat. It was probably too late. She and Stefan had had plenty of time to clean the evidence. That was her day job, getting rid of people’s mess. But he wanted to catch them dumping evidence that belonged to Vasiles. It was also easier if they found the interesting bits for him.

  Traffic was its usual mad rush of single-minded people heading to their jobs. There was no point in fighting it, as it was like quicksand: the more you resisted, the deeper it took you into the red mist. He arrived at Dollis Valley Way in Barnet just before 7 am. It looked like a Soviet council estate. They hadn’t even bothered hiding the fact that they actually looked like shoeboxes. The wonders of prefab. At least Lego coloured their bricks. Some of the flats had England flags hanging out of their windows like drying laundry. Everything about them was faded and cracked, underneath were small garages in various states of disrepair.

  He drove past some parked cars, and a white VW Golf got his attention. The steering wheel was on the left-hand side and it had foreign plates, the initials RO were in a little blue box. It was filled with black bin liners. Rebwar parked his car a few spaces down, and he was ready for his American breakfast. A burning cigarette slipped between his fingers and he sipped his sweet black coffee. He checked his watch – 7:12 am. The local recycling centre opened at 8 am, and unless they were in a hurry to dump a body, that was going to be their destination. His logic: he had followed too many people in his life, and they pretty much did the mundane all too well.

  Stefan stepped out between the second and third block. He had showered; his black hair looked spiky and sharp. The hexagonal spider tattoo was visible. He carried another full black bin liner and was smoking a cigarette. He wore ripped jeans and a blue hoodie with some silver script that Rebwar didn’t recognise. He looked around while dragging on the cigarette. It was like watching a mouse circling a spot. Ioanna appeared from the same exit. She, too, was in casual sports clothes, which seemed to be the working class uniform. With her blonde hair tied in a bun and a splash of make-up, there was a hint of glamour about her. He took out his camera to document the moment. Stefan charged ahead to the car, a few steps in front of her. There was work to do, and he was leading her out like a reluctant pet.

  Rebwar tailed their slow progress through the morning rush hour. Were they getting rid of their friend? How did they think they were going to get away with it? He could have approached them and put them on the spot. But he still wasn’t sure what they had done. Was it a twisted accident? As predicted, their car turned at Porters Way and into the Summers Lane recycling centre. Rebwar parked and flipped the sun visor down to reveal the mirror. Without hesitation or thought, he put on a thick fake moustache and furry eyebrows. An NY baseball cap completed his
disguise before he drove his car into the centre. He saw them by the clothes bank leaving the black bin liners next to a container. Stefan dropped a case in a pile of electronic goods, and they drove off. It wasn’t that stupid if no one had been watching; all that Stefan had left was rubbish and it was now with thousands of other people’s unwanted waste.

  Rebwar drove up to the container and opened his boot to make it look like he was delivering rubbish. Most of the council workers were more worried about having to help customers with their sorting than policing for theft. Head down and with purpose, Rebwar took the thin black case and picked up the bin liners. He was sure that if there were cameras, no one actively monitored them and, unless someone asked to see the footage, it would be forgotten in a mass of daily-recorded video.

  He drove off and found a large empty parking lot by a Vue cinema just off the North Circular. Cigarette in hand, he felt the bin liner, trying to work out what could be in it. It felt soft. He undid the knot, put his hand inside and brought out some neatly folded jeans. They smelled washed and were in excellent condition, no slash marks or rips from any struggles. He took out a t-shirt and some shirts. Their labels were from high street names, not from a supermarket or obscure sweatshop. So he cared about himself, or his wife did. There was some kind of respect for his disappearance. This wasn’t really hiding his possessions. They would have burned them if they had any sordid evidence on them. Why leave the laptop? Was it meant to be found? Of course this had to be switched on and examined but, for now, all he could do was to crack it open. Like a safe. He was going to find an old friend, an expert in the world of IT. Raj.

  Eleven

  Shishawi was Rebwar’s local, a Middle Eastern restaurant in Edgware Road or ‘Little Cairo’ as they liked to call the area. After each revolution, an influx of refugees would come and find company smoking their shishas. It wasn’t because of its food or company that he had picked this particular one. It was more that it was open night and day, which suited his work roster. He was there for a late meeting with his best friend’s nephew, Raj. Born in Teheran twenty-one years before, he had lived nearly all his life in London. He was as wide as he was tall, one of those ‘happy fatties’ as Rebwar called him. His clothes stretched over him like a cover over a sofa, his rounded head, which always had a smile on it, sitting on top. For Rebwar, he was family and IT skills.

  Tonight was on Rebwar, and Raj knew it. Food surrounded him. The decor was cheap, opulent, a mess of angular shapes filled with bright colours that attracted flies. It wasn’t a place to be if you suffered from OCD; it would drive you up the greasy walls with dementia. Raj dipped his fork into the Tahchin, and with two gulps it had gone. You didn’t want a hungry Raj if you wanted something from him. He pushed the Kash-e-badejan away from him to grab a slice of pitta bread. His hand hovered over the little plates, grabbed an olive and he followed it with a large slug of his foreign bottled beer. Still chewing on his olive, Raj said, ‘So, Rebs, how’s it hanging?’ His chubby round hand dived in with a piece of fresh pitta bread, swirled up the hummus, stirred around to maximise his helping. ‘Nooshe jan,’ said Rebwar. His appetite was lost to the pounding rotting tooth. Cigarettes were the only medicine.

  Raj bounced his big body closer to Rebwar’s ear. ‘Is she here?’ He smiled with his mouth full of bread.

  Rebwar smiled back and tapped his nose with his index finger.

  Raj took another huge helping of hummus. ‘Not hungry?’

  Rebwar reached for what had brought him here and placed a cracked and scratched laptop on the table next to all the food.

  Raj giggled nervously, grabbed a stuffed vine leaf and said, ‘Uncle! You waste no time!’

  Rebwar waited for another reaction, something that would bring some colour and shape to the very bland pieces of the puzzle he was dealing with. It was like the Shishawi’s decor, nothing fitted together. Rebwar was hoping Raj could change that.

  Raj pressed his fat finger on the power button and nothing happened. ‘What? You expect me to make this piece of shit work? Man! This is scrap. Put it in that goldfish tank and let them swim around it.’

  ‘You can’t rescue anything from it?’ Rebwar looked at him with deep concern, as if he might take Raj’s food away.

  ‘I thought I just had to set something up. Like email.’ Raj looked at it again. ‘This is work!’ He whistled. ‘Expert stuff, man!’ His round fingers picked the casing up and shook it. It sounded as if there were some lost grains of sand inside. He pushed his empty beer bottle towards Rebwar. ‘It’s not a shame to ask. It’s a shame not to know.’

  Rebwar snapped his finger towards the bar for another beer.

  ‘I need some time with it. I think the hard drive is still in one piece.’

  ‘So it’s not destroyed?’

  ‘It’s broken.’

  Rebwar wasn’t sure if this was a technical term used for computers, so he asked again. ‘You said broken?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s broken, and there’s fucked. If you wanted to fuck it, you would put a nail through the hard drive.’ His blubber giggled with him.

  ‘Hey, sweet giggles, what’s so funny?’ Standing by the table with a bottle of beer was Tamar, the belly dancer.

  ‘Hey, Tamar! Good to see you! This is Raj, nephew of my old friend back in the homeland.’

  Tamar was wearing a traditional shiny, jingly costume, which squeezed her rounded flesh. Her broad white smile had captured Raj’s short attention span as if it was on a computer screen. Rebwar had brought him to the Shishawi for that exact purpose, and she had him now. Now Raj would roll over and give his world to him, which he needed in order to get this case going. She leaned in to peck Raj on his cheek, making sure he got a good view down her cupped breasts.

  ‘Oh! Did I leave some lipstick on you?’ She licked her finger and rubbed it off his bouncy cheeks. ‘Your parents know you’re out?’

  Raj giggled like a squeaky toy.

  ‘Hey, Tamar, we’ve got some business to attend to, come back when he’s thirsty again.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Raj gulped nearly half the bottle down.

  ‘Hey, Tamar here’s some little extra.’ Rebwar drew her bare waist towards him. She leaned instinctively towards his ear and he slipped a little wad between her breasts.

  ‘Oh, you know how to treat a woman.’ Her long eyelashes and heavily made-up eyes fluttered.

  ‘I need some ears to the ground. Has anyone gone missing? Or have you heard anything odd?’

  Her thick plastic red lips hung onto his cheek, sticky and soft. She stood up and smiled at both of them. ‘Now that you mention it, sweetie, I met this strange guy – or funny depending on your mood. This client at Sunset, in Soho.’ She gestured to Raj. ‘In case the young one hasn’t been, you know… a titty bar.’ Her bangles jiggled around her boobs. ‘And it’s good pay before you judge me. Pays my mortgage. Thank you very much. Anyway, this client looks me up and down and asks how much I’m worth – the cheek. “More than that thin wallet you’ve got down your pants,” I told him. Then he grabbed my buttocks and put a price on them like you would in Aldi. I slapped his hand away and he went on to grab my belly. Well anyway, this goes on like some silly doctor’s game and he gives me a total body scan, like I was at the checkout in some plastic surgery supermarket. Then he carries on to my organs.’ Her crimson-nailed fingers pointed at her bare body parts. ‘Yeah, you know… like kidneys, heart.’ She drew outlines where she thought her organs would be. ‘It made me shiver. Look at my skin. I’ve got goosebumps.’ She rested her long naked leg on Raj’s leg. His fingers hovered not daring to touch it. ‘I mean he must be a right old laugh at Christmas.’ And Tamar snorted at her own joke.

  ‘Did he have a bow tie and tweed jacket?’ asked Rebwar.

  Tamar put her index finger on his lips. ‘It was my Christmas story before you analyse it. More beer?’ They watched her bouncing idea of a skirt shimmy away towards the bar.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ said Rebwar.

 
‘What? Oh yes, back here! Sure, yeah!’

  ‘No, the computer.’

  Raj rubbed his face. ‘If I get lucky… and Tamar you…’

  ‘What about Tamar?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing…’ Raj giggled.

  Twelve

  Rebwar was standing in an empty dark lay-by on Island Road in Kent, not far from the port of Ramsgate. The countryside was flat and barren, dry leaves and drizzle swirled around him. The odd car flashed by. It was 11 pm and Rebwar had followed the lorry from a warehouse in London to Kent, where the driver had parked up for his night’s sleep.

  Over three days and nights, Raj had eaten his body weight in chips and Coke. Rebwar had fed him to make sure he recovered some information from Vasiles’s hard drive. Raj had used three different data recovery programs and, after a few tantrums, he had succeeded. They found an email that showed a regular shipment of money back to Romania. Vasiles had been booked on this month’s truck.

  Rebwar locked his car, turned and stepped out onto the road. A bus flashed its lights and honked. Rebwar fell back onto his car, the red bus nearly grazing his face. He watched the back of the disappearing bus, he had seen it somewhere. There were large letters stuck on saying Vote Leave – Let’s take back control! Rebwar looked up and down the road again and walked over to the Romanian-registered truck. It was parked a bit further down the road. The blinds were drawn over the cab window, light pulsed through them. Rebwar walked around the truck, taking in any interesting details. The three trailer tyres were close to their legal limit. There were oil stains on various parts of the metal frame. GREGORY LOGISTIC was written in a bold blue font across the tarpaulin. Further forward on the rusting and scratched cab was a faded airbrushed half-naked woman smiling up towards the driver.

  It was a DAF-XF. From its size it was a long-haul model and it had seen its best days. He went over to the door of the cab, and for a moment he had to think which was the driver’s side. It was a full floor above him. He knocked hard on the lower part of the door. The cab rocked to the driver’s movement, a blind rolled up, and the window lowered. A man’s head popped over. It was round, wrinkled and tanned. He looked down, and his steel blue eyes were picked up by a car’s passing lights. He waited for Rebwar to say something.