by Ols Schaber
‘You probably remember me. I’m Rebwar.’
Stefan nodded again and looked at him with bloodshot eyes.
‘Did Ioanna mention me? She sends her regards,’ said Rebwar. It was a lie. Stefan looked away as if he didn’t want him to see his emotions. Rebwar felt the tooth pain and swallowed. ‘You don’t say much. Where is Vasiles? You know where he is, don’t you?’
Stefan kept his mouth clamped on the cigarette like it was an excuse not to talk. Rebwar slapped it out of his face and crushed it with his foot.
‘Let’s start again. Do you know where Vasiles is?’
Stefan shook his head again.
‘We have found his foot.’ Rebwar stepped hard on Stefan’s foot and Stefan sniffed a sharp breath through his nose. His eyes burned with slow tears. He tried to hold them shut. Rebwar could see that Stefan had sympathy for Vasiles as he might a friend. Stefan tried to turn his face away, but Rebwar got up and grabbed his head, and looked into his eyes.
‘Was he your lover? Did you kill him in a jealous rage? You did, didn’t you? You have to tell me. If you confess, all this will be over.’
‘Fuck you! Not gay.’ It was a start; at least he was talking. Nothing of value, but moving his lips. Rebwar went over to knock on the door. It opened.
‘I need to talk to–’
Geraldine asked him to come out.
‘Do you have his file? I need facts?’
Geraldine stood there silent as a waxwork.
‘For cross-examination. I won’t get a confession otherwise.’ But he would get one with torture and, from Geraldine’s lack of reaction, it was what they wanted.
‘I’ll find something. I’ll get back to you.’ She didn’t say any more, he wasn’t here for a regular interview. He walked back into the room. His left hand started to twitch. It was his past creeping back like a ghost, something he desperately wanted to avoid. This was why he had wanted to leave Iran, to get away from his demons. He lit a cigarette and looked at Stefan. Like a standoff, both of them were trying to work out what was going on in the other’s head.
‘You are going to have to tell me what happened.’
Stefan spat at Rebwar. The spittle didn’t reach him.
Rebwar walked around him, trying to come up with another way to avoid the inevitable fact. ‘Did Ioanna put you up to it? Did she pay you? You tried to get me killed, didn’t you? It was you who talked to that trucker.’
‘No. You just stupid. Fuck you, stupid fucking man! You are filth. Dirt.’
Rebwar put the black hood back on him and walked around him like a cat playing with its prey. Stefan carried on swearing and making short convulsing grunts. Rebwar wanted to know more about him. Maybe, just maybe, he had killed Vasiles or knew something. But Rebwar was here to get a confession: one of guilt, of a crime, of murder, like all those soldiers he had tortured. Their voices returned to him. His face flushed with heat at the memory of their distorted images.
Stefan’s hooded head jerked around, screaming, breathing deeply, he was awake. Rebwar had to stop it, stop the pain from rushing through him like a rampant bull. His right fist clamped the rage and it slammed into the black fabric and then his left fist followed. As Rebwar carried on, the feeling left him, years of canned emotions exploded. As the red mist cleared, thoughts returned and his fist missed the bobbing head. His body followed it like a man falling into a hole. He tumbled onto the floor and held his breath. If he had been alone, he would have been crying like a baby, but he just managed to hold it in. He looked back at the limp head. His body still moved for air. He got up and took the black fabric off Stefan’s head. He had done a job on him. Stefan’s face was red and distorted. Rebwar walked back to the door.
‘I need a bucket of water. Now.’ Rebwar looked at his bloody knuckles and they reminded him of all those faces he had hit, and for what? The metal bucket scratched the concrete floor. He picked it up and threw it over his captive’s face. Stefan woke up and looked around him.
‘Talk to me. Tell me what happened.’ Rebwar slapped his face. ‘Hey, Stefan, listen to me… What happened to Vasiles?’
Stefan seemed to know he was dealing with a trained soldier.
‘You fucking stupid. You are the idiot. I want lawyer. Somebody clever.’
‘So you want help? Why not ask for it before?’
‘People hate us, but like using us like fucking dogs. Why you do this? You foreign too. You are a shit, son of a whore and you hit like a woman.’
‘Did you pay the trucker to take me?’
Stefan’s face lit up as if Rebwar had hit a nerve.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, yes. It was Ioanna. She wanted you off this island.’
‘So did Petzalis kill Vasiles?’
‘Maybe, I not know him. Ask Ioanna. She know more about him.’
Rebwar took another cigarette.
‘I am innocent man, you understand? Have done nothing wrong. Vasiles just did not one day come back. You must find him. For his unborn child. Please.’ His eyes were pleading with him, Rebwar felt it was some kind of truth.
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘Because of this. And Ioanna did not want. How do you say… she begged. Understand? And then she pregnant. I gave help to her, and we helped each other. Like friends. Understand?’
‘Understand? No, not really understand. You were having an affair while your friend was missing! Madar Ghabah.’1 Rebwar could feel his anger returning.
Stefan looked away. ‘Yes, yes but it was a bad mistake that is all, I feel bad. Bad man. Understand. Bad man, no good. Sorry.’
‘You killed him to get Ioanna? You did, didn’t you?’
‘No. You put words in mouth. You are nasty stupid man.’
He stopped as some loud bangs came from the metal door. It screeched open. In the thin gap, he could see Geraldine’s face.
Rebwar walked over and said, ‘He’s cracking, slowly. Is that…’ He wanted to go on. Who did they think he was? A sadist?
Geraldine handed him a thin file. He opened it to reveal three blank pages. He looked back, but the door had already closed. They had given him a prop, like in an improvised theatre play. This was real.
‘Stefan, no more lies, my friend. Tell me again what happened, run it by me.’
‘You are making lies. Are you a dirty Arab scumbag?’
Like he was searching for facts, Rebwar stood in front of him with the file. ‘Here it says that you did time in prison. You are a criminal. What gang are you working for? Did they make an offer you couldn’t refuse?’
Stefan spat on the floor. ‘All shit, Pe dracu!2 I was just a kid, understand? A kid. Was stealing from shop. Nothing else. Poor kid.’
Rebwar had to keep pushing his buttons. He went up close to his ear. ‘And it is your kid inside Ioanna. It is your DNA. And that gives you motive. Was that trucker part of a Romanian gang?’
Stefan looked at him, unable to speak and shook his head. ‘No, no. Ce puii mei?3 Not true, you lie again. Fucker, I need to speak to Ioanna. Hey. Ma freci la icre.4 Let me speak to her.’ And he shouted her name and in Romanian spoke to her like she could hear him. ‘Futu-ti mortii mati!5 You shit my life, let me see her.’ He tried to wriggle out of his bind. ‘I want see her, understand? Now, this moment, or I will kill you like dog.’ His agitated movements made the chair screech on the concrete floor. ‘I will… sa o fut pe mata!6 Fuck your women, you all shit! Because of you, the world is shitted. Yes, you and your evil prophet of hate. Spit on your grave and your children, fuck you do.’
Rebwar slid the black hood back over him and let him shout his poison inside some darkness. This time the profanity stirred his demons. His fist stopped shaking and tensed. He could see screaming faces running out of the dark, bayonets at hand running towards him, jets of sand howling above him. Men were just disappearing in a red cloud, blasted out of this world. His breathing tightened within his chest. His anger returned to him. He held it in his fists, but he couldn’t
control it. He threw a punch straight into Stefan’s face followed by another. Stefan’s head bobbled back and forth like a buoy. Rebwar was back on the front line fighting for his life. The man in front of him wasn’t Stefan but a soldier. His punches became more and more erratic. His fist flew past Stefan’s head, and he followed it clumsily to the floor. He rolled into a heap by the tiled wall. His heavy breathing recovered as did his reality. Stefan’s head was limp, hanging down, lifeless. He couldn’t remember what had happened. Had he just killed him?
Stefan’s head stirred. Rebwar felt relief return to him like an oasis. He picked himself up and went over to remove the hood from Stefan’s head. Stefan spat some blood followed by some teeth. His tattoo was barely visible with the blood obscuring it.
‘Hey, Stefan! Did you kill Vasiles? Hey! Did you?’
‘Yes, yes. Please stop, I did it all… He needed to be killed. Please, no more… I…’
‘Say that again?’
‘I did. Yes… killed Vasiles… Please stop, I did it.’
Rebwar felt relief. Like a hot rock had been taken off his chest. He could breathe again. ‘Tell me again, just to be sure.’
‘I did it. Yes… did… it. Did!’ Tears streaked down his bloodied face. His mouth was stuck open, grunting dribbling confessions of pain and guilt. Rebwar was about to cross-examine him. It was routine. But Stefan had broken. Rebwar had done what he had been asked to do. A feeling of shame and guilt engulfed him. He would be crying if he had been alone. He walked to the door, banged on it and asked to be let out.
Seventeen
Geraldine had heard through the grapevine that some body parts had been found close to the Edmonton incinerator in North London. As she didn’t really have anything pressing, her curiosity got the better of her and she had made her way there. She had decided to take the scenic route and walk from Tottenham Hale up the canal path up to the scene. She liked to walk. It gave her some ‘me time’ where she could escape.
The grey drizzle had cleared up and the sun was shining over the wet puddles and rising mist. The canal was much quieter since the days when it had been used to ship goods in and out of London a few centuries before. Now its towpath was used by cyclists to commute or tourists looking for some hidden history. There were a few old moorings with people living on barges, an affordable alternative to the insane house prices. Geraldine had considered it with her last girlfriend, but that relationship had hit the rocks before they could find a space. She ambled round under a few bridges before she saw the crime scene.
It was overshadowed by the massive chimney of the incinerator, which reflected into the oily canal water. She flashed her badge at a policeman guarding the perimeter. He greeted her and lifted the tape. Ahead of her were the familiar white pop-up tents and people in overalls. She watched a working barge full of rubbish make its way lazily past them.
‘It’s going to the incinerator,’ said one of the women in overalls. She lifted her mask. ‘I’m Bekie, assistant pathologist.’
‘DC Smith. I’ve come to have a look.’
‘It’s not much, but it is human body parts.’ She led Geraldine over to the tent.
Laid out on a collapsible table were transparent evidence bags. Geraldine had a close look at them. One was a finger. The other three bits looked like chunks of meat with some skin. Geraldine felt her gut tighten up; she had seen horrible things, but this was up there with the worst. It was as if a drunken butcher had tried to cut some meat. She held her sleeve to her mouth.
‘What’s left has been mangled up by a propeller, probably one of those boats.’ Bekie pulled her white hood back, her dark shining hair fanned out and bounced. She smiled at Geraldine. It felt sexy. Geraldine breathed in her perfume. It tingled. She wanted to touch Bekie’s soft white skin. To distract herself she picked up some notes and read them.
‘At the moment I can’t tell much,’ Bekie said. ‘I should be able to discover if it’s male or female. Maybe race, we’ll see. There is probably more in the canal.’
Geraldine moved closer to Bekie and she could smell her sweet caramel and vanilla perfume. Her breathing was delicate. Bekie retreated a little.
‘One thing… I think these were already cut up and put in a black bin liner. I reckon it fell off of one of those barges.’
Geraldine looked over to the square blocks that made up the incinerator. It was a sure way of getting rid of a body. She wondered if the rest of the body had gone up in smoke. This made her think. ‘No signs of any Romanian tattoos?’
Bekie shook her head.
‘Thanks, doc. Give me a call on this number if you find anything – or if you fancy a drink.’ There was no harm in testing her luck.
Even though the case was now closed she decided to make her way back to Scratchwood Park where Vasiles’s foot had been found. From the map on her phone, Borehamwood High Street was just around the corner. She headed towards it and her thoughts wondered about Zara. She still hadn’t heard from her. But, to be fair, neither had she herself called or texted. She wanted Zara to make the first move. Her taste and smell was still fresh. She was ready with a reply even if she was a beersexual. She had sensed some guilt when she left her that morning.
Borehamwood High Street was one of those classic high streets with a few independent rundown shops and brands slowly taking over bankrupted local traders. It didn’t take long before she found what she was looking for: a family butcher’s with handwritten deals scrawled over its window. Geraldine walked in to face a glass counter with an old greying man behind it. Wearing the traditional white coat and blue striped apron, his sunken black eyes were a bit close for comfort. She asked him if she could see the manager. His greasy stare stayed blank.
‘Police matter.’ She flashed her ID card. From his semi-uninterested glance, he had seen a few of them or had spent time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. She looked at what they had on offer. She was still considering becoming a vegetarian and looking at all the meat, it made her more resolute. The floor had a light sprinkling of sawdust.
‘Looking for some dead meat?’
Geraldine could see the figure of a large man behind the butcher’s curtain. He had a jolly laugh. His well-rounded belly pushed through the PVC slats followed by the rest of him. Thick brown glasses rested on his big red cheeks and his body swayed slowly as he walked towards Geraldine, who moved away from the counter to meet him.
‘I’m investigating a murder.’ Getting to the point, she flashed her card at him. ‘Your offcuts and waste, what do you do with it?’
‘Good day, DC…? Who’s been murdered?’
‘DC Smith and I can’t say. What do you do with your waste?’
‘Well, DC Smith, we bag it up carefully and put it out front. Then bin men come by and take it away.’ He smiled and leaned on the counter waiting for another question.
Geraldine looked out of the window. ‘And when do you do that? Mr…?’ She took out her notepad.
‘Mr P. Smite. You mean, when do we shut up shop?’
‘Yes, what time would that be?’
‘Oh, that’s usually after five and then we go for a pint at the local. Don’t we, Jim?’
‘Oh yes. Pint of bitter.’ Jim licked his lips at the thought. From his veiny red nose, it was more than the casual one pint.
Geraldine scribbled a few notes. ‘And they get picked up when?’
‘You have to ask the company that picks it up.’ He pushed his slipping glasses back.
‘Yeah, ask them,’ Jim added.
‘And it’s regular plastic bags.’
He went over to the back and came out with a thin white bag with some red writing.
‘We have to use these. Their number is here.’
‘You haven’t chopped up any bodies lately, have you?’ Geraldine watched both of them for their reactions.
‘Should I be calling a lawyer? Lady, you’ve seen too many movies. We’re a respectable family butcher’s.’ Jim’s mouth moved like he had a loose denture while he
looked out onto the high street.
‘Foxes…’ Geraldine prodded them.
‘We don’t sell game.’
‘No, I guess you don’t. But would they steal the white bags?’
‘Possibly. Not my problem, is it? Should bring back fox hunting if you ask me. Vermin they are.’
Geraldine scribbled down more notes. She could feel him trying to look at her notepad. She fired another question. ‘Do you get many Romanian customers?’
‘No. We get a few Polaks. Not really… they stick to themselves, don’t they? And it’s cheap processed meat they want. Not our kind of clientele.’
Geraldine looked at the old faded stars advertising deals. She noted the prices.
‘Yeah, not our kind,’ piped in Jim, looking out onto the high street.
‘So you’re not missing any clients?’
‘We lose a few every year, if that’s what you’re asking.’ He winked at her. ‘Still ounces and pounds here and we want it to stay that way. None of your metric rubbish. That’s what I’ll be voting for, and the foreigners want them out too.’ She looked around and noticed handwritten notices of deals in old money.
‘Do you need any cuts? Otherwise I have to go out back to work.’
‘Can I have a look back there?’ He shook his head, and Geraldine added, ‘I’d like to see if there are any offcuts of the human kind.’
‘You’re testing my patience, and I’d like to see a search warrant for that.’
She knew she was working on a hunch; she didn’t have any evidence that would grant a warrant of any kind. Rebwar was right: the Romanians weren’t the killers. Whoever did it was still out there.
‘It all looks kosher to me. I’ll carry on with my inquiries. If you find any body parts around here, call this number.’
‘We don’t cater for the Jews. Again they stick to themselves. So go on, spill the beans… who’s been murdered?’ He looked over his glasses.