by Ols Schaber
Geraldine put her notepad away.
‘Are we suspects?’ asked Jim.
‘Just routine door-to-door inquiries.’ She walked out.
Eighteen
Geraldine was sitting in the back of Rebwar’s cab. It was in front of the Fitzroy Tavern on Charlotte Street. People were on the pavement laughing and shouting. Drunk from the sun and cooling pints. Geraldine was not in the same frame of mind.
‘Can you drive somewhere?’ she said, leaning back on the headrest.
‘Anywhere you like?’ A man fell with a thud onto the car’s bonnet. He crawled off it and fell onto the pavement. Another bump to his already battered Toyota. He wasn’t car proud, so he let it go.
‘Away from this shit. Want to forget.’
Rebwar shrugged and drove out of the parking space. Cold rain came down. People sought shelter and a few prepared umbrellas opened. Geraldine’s mind wandered back to that afternoon.
Only a few hours before, she’d been sitting on one of three blue chairs facing an empty, solitary red one. Everything was fixed to the floor. The rectangular white table was in between with a panel underneath, to stop anyone trying to smuggle anything to the prisoner. She had been at HMP Downview, in Surrey. Visitors had slowly filled the large hall, families, husbands and friends. All of them had brought something with them. They put their bags around the chairs and laid out the contents on the table. Geraldine had something, too – a very late Christmas present. Easter had just passed. She looked around and felt a little embarrassed. When was the last time she had visited her twin sister?
Warders dressed in white shirts, black trousers and ties, milled between the tables, looking carefully at what was going on around them. Geraldine noticed their utility belts. They had all the tools required to control any unruly behaviour. Jokes and laughter filled the room as they waited for the prisoners to be let in. Geraldine tapped the white table. Next to her was an old woman, white hair, her wrinkled fingers rounded with fake rings. She had brought a cake. In front of Geraldine were two black girls with extensions and long plastic nails; everything bulged out for someone’s attention and their white smiles cheered her up.
A door at the end of the hall buzzed as if a hornet was stuck behind it. A uniformed woman with cauliflower ears walked out, her weighty breasts resting on her round belly. She shouted over the crowd, announcing that the prisoners were going to come in and that the visitors were to observe the rules. Geraldine felt nervous. Her bitten nails drummed a little faster on the table. A warder passed her table. She was too small to be there. Her badge read Imojen. She smiled at Geraldine and walked on.
The prisoners had to wear a bright red bib-like vest over their regular clothes. They filed out of the door into the visiting area and they were greeted with cries, shouts and tears. The wardens tried to keep them quiet. Rachel stood by the door looking for her twin sister. She was thin, shapeless with sunken dark eyes. Her hair was dark, thin and flat. She squinted and leaned forward to Geraldine.
‘What happened to you?’
‘Hi, Rachel.’
‘Fucking hell, girl! Or should I say man?’ She sat down on the red chair. ‘Are you going for the op?’
Geraldine looked around, feeling self-conscious. It wasn’t how she had imagined it.
‘You know a few others have. They get transferred. But, really, sis. What the fuck? Do you miss… you know?’ She winked and smiled. Rachel had lost a few teeth since Geraldine had seen her last.
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘No.’ Geraldine pushed over the present she had brought along.
‘Oh, thanks, but you could have visited me before. What is it?’
‘A Christmas present. Are there any Romanian prisoners in there?’
Rachel brought out some gum. After a couple of chews, she offered some. Geraldine said no thanks.
‘I’m not saying you didn’t help me. What the fuck, sis? Fucking Christmas?’
Obviously, her sister had forgotten that their mum loved Easter. Geraldine saw her close up as she looked around chewing. Rachel’s skin was thin as rice paper and her lips were cracked and dry.
‘Hey! Did Nan live in Borehamwood? I remember Mum taking us there, in that old beaten up lime green Escort.’
‘That was ages ago. We must have been, like, twelve or something.’ Rachel smiled.
‘She took us to that butcher’s? You know the one on the high street.’
‘Fuck yeah! It stank. We became veggies. What made you remember that?’
Geraldine shrugged.
Rachel was about to open her present.
‘Keep it for later. You still a veggie?’ Geraldine had given up ages ago. She felt the distance between them had grown to be an ocean. She could still remember them walking to school in their stitched up uniforms.
‘Fuck yeah, don’t want to get any old sausage down me. Although it’s more fingers and objects here. Might suit you.’
Geraldine looked away. ‘Do you remember the butcher’s?’
‘Yeah, he had a son. I had him in the back alley.’
Geraldine straightened up. ‘Really? What was his name?’
‘Didn’t ask. But he got some girl pregnant. Dead now. Got involved in some gangs.’ Rachel got up with her presents. ‘Thanks for the visit, sis. You know Zane is coming out soon. Good behaviour. Fucking joke.’
‘Are you still…?’
‘I can’t stop loving him. I can’t stop – been through too much.’ And she walked off.
Geraldine thought back to what she had done for them. Obviously it was for nothing. Rachel had asked her to plant some evidence against her sister’s best friend Jordan. Who had already been convicted of benefits fraud and theft, and had been working as a prostitute. She wasn’t what you would call a model citizen. But had Geraldine dug a little deeper she would have never gone down that road and put her career on the line. Zane had been having an affair with Jordan and she would go on to testify against Rachel. But she had lost Rachel a long time before when she had got in with the wrong crowd. As she disappeared behind the door, Geraldine wiped away a little tear and made it look like she had something in her eye.
A passing rain shower hammering on the car’s roof brought Geraldine back, and she looked at Rebwar’s face in the rear-view mirror. She had to disappoint him and tell him about the case. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. She held off for a few more moments.
Easter had just passed. It made Geraldine sad, as it reminded her of her mother who loved celebrating it.
‘Been busy?’ Geraldine said and turned to the passenger window.
‘Oh, you know, on and off. It’s too busy or too quiet, nothing in between. And you?’
‘Much the same.’ She wondered if he knew she was tracking him… He just knew not to ask, especially about Plan B. But she knew he would soon make his own enquiries and find out. He was smart for a foreign bloke.
Rebwar must have seen her smile. ‘What’s funny?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Who was she kidding, he was a detective. ‘It’s just weird how justice gets handed out. They got sent back to Romania. Obviously, I didn’t tell you that. I’m not supposed to give you information. Right?’
‘OK! Thanks.’ Rebwar looked ahead. ‘Who?’ And before she could answer, he’d got it, of course he had. ‘But Stefan, he was innocent, and she was too. It was a mistake.’
Geraldine looked out of the window watching the lit office buildings pass by. Quite a few of them had office workers still toiling away. ‘Well, they’ve been shipped back, OK? Case fucking closed.’ Now she regretted starting the conversation.
‘But the killer is still out there. You made a mistake. You will see. Came out of the pothole, fell into the well,’ said Rebwar, waggling his index finger at her.
Geraldine tried to make a face for him to let it go. But she knew herself that Stefan and Ioanna weren’t the killers. He was right. And they had found another body part. But, again, she couldn’t tell him
that. As the Field Mouse she too had nothing to say. If only she could rant about Plan B and their stupid animal hierarchy. It was like bloody kindergarten, and she smiled again at the thought of the Arnold Schwarzenegger film, Kindergarten Cop.
‘Is it funny? You know he will kill again and then–’ He hit the horn. ‘You idiots! Is that how the police works here?’
‘Yeah, we just ship foreigners out, the more, the better.’ She needed someone to vent her frustration on and opened the window as she lit a cigarette. ‘Hey, Rebs, how’s the insomnia?’
He, too, lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke. His face looked ahead, concentrating on the traffic. Geraldine knew that long stare. She found it sexy. It had wisdom, exotic intrigue and power, all in those intense brown eyes. But she knew he was, like her, angry and frustrated. They were sharing an unspoken moment.
‘It’s back, but maybe it is good. I can work more.’
They both smiled and dragged on their cigarettes.
‘Rebs, how about stopping off in a pub?’
‘I need the money. Going to take my son to his first English football match.’
Geraldine dragged the last of the cigarette and dropped it outside. ‘Which team?’
Rebwar shrugged.
‘Which one did you support in Iran?’
‘Persepolis. They play in red.’
‘Then go and see Arsenal, or Man U – Drop me off at that corner.’ The car slowed, and she put an envelope on the front passenger seat.
‘Happy Easter, Rebs. It’s a little one and…’ She felt like saying sorry but she held it, she was getting too close to the Robin. ‘Report to me when you’re done.’ She stepped out of the car and headed for the closest pub she could see.
Nineteen
Rebwar watched Geraldine’s slouched walk. She was going towards the Crown, a pub on Seven Dials in Covent Garden, where crowds were being held in by ropes on the pavement. To Rebwar they looked like sheep waiting for a dip. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Waiting for something to happen. Just like a year before…
Rebwar had been sitting in the passenger seat drumming his nervous hands on his legs. Firoud, his partner, had been at the wheel of the white Peugeot 206. The police radio was silent, off. Rebwar wanted to call it in but they had talked about it and wanted the element of surprise. They were driving as the sun rose to Davarze Ghar in Block H. Golden rays showed the underbelly of Teheran, forgotten because of its drugs and gangs. Firoud wanted to go places, and they had been doing the same old cases for years. It was time for a change. Show initiative and get a promotion was Firoud’s sudden idea. It was a bad one – that’s what Rebwar had told him. But Firoud had told him to trust him. It was still a bad idea.
Firoud was banging on the door of Apartment 356 on the third floor. The place was a mess and the builders hadn’t even bothered to finish. Rusting metal bars stuck above the poorly poured concrete. There were cracks everywhere; some were covered up by bad graffiti, names of the gang kids and their mottos.
The door opened. Khodadad, the son of the Emir, aka ‘Khod, the King of the Blocks’, was standing in his black underwear – not an ounce of fat on him, some tattoos, a beard and angry bloodshot eyes; he was still high on something.
‘Talk to my associates,’ he said, and went to close the door.
Firoud blocked it with his shoe and pushed it open. He stepped in like an unwanted gust, armed with a gun and some handcuffs. Rebwar had been avoiding Firoud today. Rebwar was like an observer, a camera looking into this bad operation.
‘Get the fuck out, police scum! You know who I am. Negar, call the police and tell them we have some lost scum here.’ Khod’s wife disappeared further into the flat.
Firoud rushed into the flat, straight through the bare living room. There was a TV, a chipped wooden table and a stained sofa. And that was all. The ceiling was low, bare and oppressive. Khod grabbed a metal pipe that was propped by the door. He swung it. Rebwar grabbed it in mid-flight. The weight of it carried on into the concrete wall. It dug in as if it was sand, crumbling until it rang against metal.
‘You scum! Get out of my house! By Allah, I will kill you both!’
‘You have no authority here,’ said Negar bursting out of a door on the other side of the room. ‘My children are asleep. Show me your papers.’ Negar’s dark chador covered her slender body but she was naked underneath; her nipples showed through the fabric. She had been feeding her baby. Milk stains grew around them. Rebwar found it strangely arousing. Was it the adrenaline kicking in? Her face was partially covered by the cloak and her eyes were fierce with anger.
‘My children, my children are being taken by your rapist thieves. This my house.’
Rebwar was still standing in the hallway with the heavy metal pipe. Khod rushed to get something, probably another weapon. Firoud grabbed Negar. Another bad idea. He handcuffed her to him and held her. His hand was just under her left breast. The fabric pulling to showing its beautiful bouncy shape. For fuck’s sake pull yourself together, Rebwar told himself. Khod had a gun.
‘Get your dirty hands off my wife, you scum! I will shoot you and eat your liver for my breakfast.’ Khod’s muscles were taught and defined. Ready to lash out.
‘Calm down, Khod!’ said Firoud. ‘You are coming with us to the station. I am arresting you.’
‘Over my dead body. You are a nobody. Let go of my wife. Now, scum!’
‘Do you understand me? I am arresting you. For–’
Negar was fighting with her feet and fists. ‘You dirty raping thieves! Allah will let you rot. Let go! I am a mother.’ She continued to try to free herself, pulling forward and screaming. Firoud struggled to keep control of her.
‘Mummy, Mummy, I’m scared.’ A little girl walked in, sleepy eyes in pink pyjamas.
‘Sweetie, listen to Daddy. Get back in the room. Now!’ The girl started crying on seeing her mother struggling.
This was bad. Rebwar backed to the wall. Taking his gun out, he clicked the safety. He didn’t want to drop the metal pipe. It would draw attention; he needed to hold the gun with two hands to find his target. They were all shouting. Scared for their lives. This hadn’t gone to plan. Khod was supposed to be single. Probably fucking some whore, Firoud had said.
‘You let go of my wife, you infidel scum! I am going to shoot your dick off. Do you know who I am? Hey! Do you?’ As Khod shouted, his gun waved with him.
Rebwar threw the pipe into the middle of the room. It landed with a flattening crunch on the flimsy table and rolled off onto the bare concrete floor. A shot rang out. It hit the wall, just by Rebwar’s face. Dust and crumbling masonry flew around. Another shot rang out. The noise bounced in the bare apartment like they were inside a bell. Rebwar poked his head quickly into the living room to have a look. Khod was holding his bleeding arm. He looked up to see Rebwar and shot with his left hand, but missed and more dust filled the stuffy room. Some light was coming through the curtains.
‘Die you, thieves! Allah will take revenge on your dirty souls.’ Khod emptied his magazine. Shots flew like bolts of lightning. The gun clicked repeatedly away. Rebwar poked his head out again. Picture-sized holes marked the walls. Rebwar tried to find Firoud and Negar. Khod carried on firing his empty gun. Crying.
In the middle of the floor lay a dead child. A bullet hole in her chest. Khod’s breathing shallowed and increased in speed. He realised what he had done. Out of the bedroom, Firoud appeared, his face covered in dust and pulling Negar. The moment of shock carried on rolling silently like a boulder coming down a mountain. Waiting and waiting for it to hit the valley floor. It was still falling. The dust floated around them. Khod fell on his knees. Negar’s face dropped, and she drew breath. All Rebwar could do was to watch, his mind numb and blank.
‘Hey!’ Rebwar looked up, and a black cab was beside him. The window was rolled down and a red round face stared at him. ‘What the fuck you think you’re doing? Hey? Get out of London, mate, you’re not wanted here. Fucking Uber dri
vers! After Brexit, you’ll be out of here, mark my words.’ He kept throwing his pointed finger at Rebwar like a dart. ‘All you lot are going to be rounded up and sent back. Show me your ID. Sure you’re legal here? Hey? Fucking Uber doesn’t care. No checks. Hey?’
Rebwar’s phone lit up. It was an incoming job. He accepted as the cabbie carried on ranting. The sat nav was giving him instructions on where to go. He looked at the brown envelope next to him.
‘Hey, hey wanker! You mark my words, I’m–’
Rebwar flashed his stolen warrant card. It still had Richard O’Neil’s picture. In the dark and from that distance the cabbie could only see the silver badge flashing back at him. The cabbie’s eyes fixed on Rebwar’s face and he was speechless. He drove off.
What had Geraldine given him as his next assignment? The last one wasn’t even done. He opened the envelope with some dread that again it would end up with no real conclusion. He hated that feeling; it dragged you down and he was down already. He flicked through the pages and his heart stopped. A smile grew and grew into laughter. He couldn’t stop himself and it just kept coming back. He wanted to share it. He opened a white envelope, and this time there was a little money. ‘Christmas has come.’ Even if it was May.
‘What’s so funny?’ Rebwar looked round to see a portly, greying bloke with stubble who had opened the back passenger door. ‘You’re Rebwar? Right?’
Rebwar took out a hankie and blew his nose. ‘Yeah, that’s me. Sit down, please.’
‘I ordered a ride to the station.’
‘Sure, please make yourself comfortable.’ He put everything back into the envelope.
‘What’s was so funny?’
‘Oh, it’s a joke. I need to tell my wife about it. It’s an old Iranian joke would be lost in translation. Where are you from, my friend?’
‘Woking, and I need to catch the 10:43 at Waterloo.’