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

by Ols Schaber

  Rebwar slotted the gearstick into drive.

  Twenty

  Rebwar was sitting in his car on Randolph Road in Little Venice, where the street was lined with various white masions with manicured gardens and trees that were about to spring open. Bijan’s pad was at the end of the road. The glossy black front door was framed by a white-columned porch. He counted the windows: ten of them over three floors. The bottom ones could fit a camel inside them. He imagined what he would find inside: marble, statues, stolen artefacts. This was Geraldine’s new assignment, watch Bijan Achmoud’s house and report on any activity. What did they want to know? They hadn’t shared that with him.

  He laughed again to himself. If only Hourieh knew that he was snooping on Bijan. There were no lights inside and the lit street was quiet. The radio was on LBC, the cabbies’ favourite. They were talking about the upcoming referendum.

  ‘Who’s on the line?’ The radio DJ faded the music down.

  ‘Michael from Kent.’

  ‘Hello, Michael. So how are you going to vote?’

  ‘Hi, Jeremy. Thanks for taking my call. To exit the European Union and Michael Gove said it right… the people of Great Britain have had enough of experts. It’s all gloom and doom if we leave. Really? What do they know, these experts? Nothing! They get the weather wrong all the time. £350 million… we need that back, I want the EU to give us that back now.’

  ‘I take your point, Michael, the £350 million is what we pay to the EU and they in turn fund infrastructure projects like rural airports and farmers to farm here in the UK.’

  ‘Yeah, they are a bunch of benefit spongers, mate. Why do they need an airport out there? Bus or train is fine and we can put that money into the NHS. We have to make Britain great again – like that Trump chap. He speaks wise words… he’ll go far. And he says we would be better off. As Farage says… we shouldn’t be managed by bureaucrats in Brussels.’

  ‘But Michael, Nigel Farage is an MEP in Brussels and getting paid by the EU. Might I add, isn’t he massaging us? Sorry I mean manag–’

  Rebwar switched the radio off and finished his cigarette. He grabbed his tattered copy of Hamshahri, one of the best-selling newspapers in Iran.

  He checked his watch. It was 9:14 pm. He reclined his seat a little, not expecting much to happen, when his eye caught someone walking down the entrance steps. He knew that walk. It was Hourieh.

  ‘What the Sheytoon1 is she doing?’ He started the car and made a U-turn in the wide street. The car’s electric motor pushing it along silently until he pulled alongside Hourieh, who was wearing a beige and black headscarf. Her shapely skirt ended just below her knees. Her walk swayed to her black high-heeled shoes. He lowered the passenger window and whistled to her. She turned, stopped.

  ‘Wife!’

  ‘Husband!’ Hourieh crouched and went closer to the car. ‘What are you doing out here? Following me?’

  ‘Get in.’

  ‘Not till you answer me.’

  ‘Hourieh stop making a scene. Get in.’

  Hourieh gave out an almighty sigh, gave in and climbed into the car.

  ‘Put your seat belt on.’

  Her dark eyes stared back defiantly.

  ‘Woman, I don’t want to lose my license, I need it.’

  She put it on, still not wanting to speak.

  ‘Tell me what were you doing at Bijan’s house?’

  ‘I can ask the same, husband. I won’t tell you. It’s business between him and me.’

  ‘He’s not in.’ Rebwar drove off.

  ‘Well I had an appointment and we had a meeting. Look, husband, can’t I see old friends?’

  ‘Old friends? Old friends? What do you take me for?’

  ‘You’re taking me home?’ Hourieh held on to the car’s handle on the roof lining.

  ‘Yes I am, and it’s my business with Bijan. Keep out of his shady dealings. You can see your friends, but not Bijan. OK?’

  She folded her arms and rolled her head. ‘I want to know what business you have with him.’

  ‘Security.’

  ‘Security? And?’

  ‘And what? That’s all I can tell you, woman. You want money for nice things? Then I have to work. OK.’

  ‘OK?’ She waggled her finger at him. ‘Husband, I was going to ask Bijan for a job. Now tell.’

  He sighed and looked at the traffic ahead, lights blinking, passing and flashing. ‘I’m doing some investigating for the police. It’s better I don’t tell you more. It pays and they are taking care of our visa.’

  Hourieh took a moment to think. ‘Have you got yourself into trouble? You would tell me if we were in danger, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘My desert flower, we came here to be away from trouble. Did you see Bijan?’

  ‘He wasn’t there. I had some little cakes. Here, you can give them to him when you see him.’

  He felt his tooth pound at the thought of eating. Hourieh saw his pain.

  ‘Let me call a dentist. Amin can recommend one.’

  For a moment he was going to say yes. ‘And he’s going to do it free? Actually I don’t want to be in more debt. It’ll pass.’

  ‘Husband, you have to get that seen to.’

  He stopped the car and motioned her to get out.

  ‘You stubborn old mule.’ Hourieh slammed the door.

  Twenty-One

  An hour or so later, Rebwar had returned to Randolph Road with Raj. He had dragged him out of his computer cave and plied him with fast food. Remnants of the last burger were over his cheeks and trousers as he tucked into the next one. Rebwar was supposed to watch the house, but now he had other plans. He took out his phone to check for any messages; there weren’t any.

  ‘I heard you can track these phones.’ He showed it to Raj who took it from him. He grabbed Rebwar’s finger and held it on the phone’s home button.

  ‘You’re like Musa… Can they?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s enabled, you’re sharing your location. I can shut it off.’

  So that’s how Geraldine had found him. A little obvious. ‘No, keep it on, it’s better, Inshallah.’

  ‘But, dude, it’s not legit. They need to tell you.’ Raj took another bite of his burger. ‘So what’s the deal with that crib?’

  Rebwar felt his tooth again and looked across the street. He could feel the laughter coming back. ‘Revenge, sweet revenge, Az kounam bokhor.’1 He watched a confused Raj stop eating. ‘We have to watch Bijan Achmoud, an old corrupt fox from the homeland.’

  Raj’s face stayed still as his brain cells searched for more meaning.

  ‘Retired general and now a “businessman” and part-time ambassador for our fine country.’ He omitted the part that his wife had just tried to visit him.

  ‘OK and?’

  ‘Raj, I want to go in there.’ Rebwar had added that part of the assignment; he was only supposed to observe. But this was too tempting an opportunity, what with Bijan being his wife’s first love, or so he suspected. He smiled. ‘You have a key or a code, right?’

  ‘What? Hack into that house? Yeah, but…’

  Rebwar put a little wad of cash on Raj’s lap.

  ‘OK, better get to work then.’ He got his laptop out. ‘This might take a few moments. Drink your coffee. Maybe get another one.’

  Nothing had moved outside or inside the house and, apart from a few straggling well-dressed kids and a dog walker, the street was now quiet. No security patrols here, and all the cameras belonged to the houses. Raj tapped the keyboard and hummed. Rebwar needed a little break from it and opened the door to stretch out.

  ‘So who is this Bijan? Did the British bring him here? I mean you don’t come here and get to live in such a crib and not have connections.’ Raj waited for the computer screen to tell him something. ‘Wait! Wait, I need some information about the man. Birthday? And can we switch the heating on?’

  ‘No. People will see that we are in the car.’ Raj looked at him not understanding what the problem was. ‘The light
s – running day lights – they come on automatically and, no, I don’t want you to hack into the car’s system. I need this car for work. Understand?’ Rebwar got the file out, put his glasses on and he read off the data from it. After a few attempts, Raj rubbed his face with irritation and banged the door.

  ‘OK, try this… desert flower, 1975 and March.’ He watched Raj play his keyboard like a piano. After a few grunts and swear words, he was punching the roof with joy.

  ‘Hey, careful, it’s my car–’

  ‘He’s only just gone and done it! Oh yes, I’m the genius, I’m in! I’m fucking in his house.’ He celebrated by doing some kind of sitting dance, Rebwar recognised it from football. ‘Are we in love with these automated houses or what? They are so dope!’ Raj clicked his fingers and looked down at his laptop. ‘Oh wow, this is a crib, it’s something else.’

  Rebwar looked over, hoping to see some pictures but it was all lines of code. ‘Text? Is that it?’

  Raj tapped a few keys and a CCTV picture came on. It was of the pool, dark, still and full of expensive reflections. He switched around from camera to camera as if he was looking for something. Rebwar wanted to stop Raj; he wanted to look. He could see he was in the zone. Rebwar looked along the road for any suspicious cars or people. He half expected the alarm to go off in the house. They were in – in a virtual way.

  Raj cracked his fingers. ‘Go to the door.’

  ‘What? The front door? Now?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s open.’ Raj’s knees vibrated matching his excitement,

  ‘We can go in, no? Ey kalak pedar sag.’2

  ‘Ey kalak pedar sag.3 Hell, yeah. Let’s go.’

  ‘Is he in?’ Rebwar asked.

  ‘Sleeping like a baby. Look…’ Raj showed Rebwar a feed of Bijan’s bedroom. It was a huge medical type of bed. Apart from some blinking lights, nothing was moving inside the dark room. Rebwar stubbed his cigarette. The old major had been covering up his health issues.

  ‘Wait, can you access the video recordings?’

  ‘I guess so, shall I download them?’

  ‘No, no, yes. Can we?’

  Raj nodded.

  ‘See what happened at 9:14 pm or before?’ said Rebwar.

  After some furious tapping he found what Rebwar was looking for. Raj’s face lit up with surprise. ‘It’s Hourieh at the door.’

  ‘Can we hear the intercom?’

  ‘No, just video.’

  He watched it. She had rung the bell, but no one had come to answer. Nothing had happened. Rebwar was filled with mixed feelings, he was relieved but also disappointed. Why had she really gone there?

  Rebwar rested his hand on the front door. For a moment he worried about leaving fingerprints – it was so clean and shiny.

  ‘Come on, Rebs, push it.’

  Rebwar could hardly believe it. The door just magically floated open. What was this sorcery? They walked into the dark house. The marble floor reflected a stolen world. He had fleeced his country well. How many bodies had he walked over? Imposing curved stairs faced them with glass doors around them. He had no idea what led to what and where to go. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead. His crazy idea had worked.

  ‘Now what?’ said Raj; it was like he was reading his mind.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ Rebwar’s childish curiosity took over. He’d never been in such a large house. This was how the rich lived. ‘Where is his study?’ He realised he hadn’t even asked himself the most basic question: What had Bijan done that they wanted him watched?

  ‘This way.’ Raj led the way up the stairs. Rebwar took cautious steps, as he tried to take in the vast amount of art, period furniture and various golden objects that were on display. It was like an antiquities museum.

  The study was panelled with a heavy dark wood and full of war memorabilia from various conflicts that Bijan deemed important. There were a few pictures from his home district, which Rebwar thought could have been Pars, some of his family who were now jetting around the world. Rebwar’s son had showed him the wonders of Instagram, a stalker’s paradise. They flaunted everything they did. It was quite amazing how they got away with it. Perhaps it was just a matter of time before they got caught?

  Raj was behind Bijan’s huge wooden desk. He closed the laptop and put it into his bag and took a Mont Blanc ink pen for good measure.

  ‘Hey, Raj! Raj, we are not robbing this place. Put them back now.’

  ‘What are we doing?’

  Before he could answer a shot rang out and broke a window and then another shot. They both ducked and the lights came on.

  ‘Khar kossdeh-ha,4 I am calling the police, you dirty thieves.’ The old gravelled voice hung like the gunshot smoke.

  ‘Bijan, Bijan it’s me.’

  ‘Who in the hell is me? You dirty dogs! Don’t try and fool an old man.’

  ‘Rebwar Ghorbani! We served together.’ Rebwar peeked across to the study to see a grey old man in an oversized smoking jacket. His thin stretched skin revealed a skeleton audibly squeaking to catch each precious breath. Frantic dark sunken eyes tried to follow his waving hand, which held a revolver. His other hand held the stick that kept him up.

  ‘Who? Don’t you trick an old man, I am armed.’

  ‘Rebwar Ghorbani! Sergeant Ghorbani of the 77th Infantry Division of Khurasan.’

  ‘Dishonour me with dirty lies? Serial number, Sarbaz.’

  ‘ID number 512. Issued in Qom.’

  ‘Stop being a coward! Come here and present yourself, Sarbaz.’5

  Rebwar walked up to him and saluted, clicking his shoes together. He knew that it would appeal to the retired soldier. He stood at attention waiting for his orders.

  Bijan’s stick tapped the marble floor as he walked around him. ‘And who is that fat arse?’

  Raj was cowering under a chair.

  ‘Raj, sir. My personal assistant.’

  White strands of hair were clinging to a balding head like a dwindling dune. It passed underneath Rebwar’s nose. He wanted to sneeze. Bijan’s white-powdered moustache was still finely manicured, a signature characteristic that so many cartoonists cherished. Bijan pointed his gun at Rebwar; his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on him.

  ‘Sarbaz, you have balls to come here. Like a dirty night thief you have a broken into my home. I can shoot you. You say you served with me.’ His felt slippers shuffled back to his desk. ‘What action did you see?’ Bijan was studying Rebwar like a hawk, looking for any familiar sign that he could latch on to.

  Rebwar’s hand twitched at the memory of his service. ‘The Siege of Basra, sir. Karbala 4 and 5.’

  Bijan tapped on his back. ‘At ease! I can tell veterans. It’s in their eyes – you cannot undo what you have seen.’

  ‘No, sir. I was proud to have served.’

  ‘You, with the elephant’s arse, come here and find some pride in yourself. Tell me why you are here.’

  ‘He’s…’ Rebwar tried to answer for him but the General wanted to weigh up his story – they hadn’t planned this far.

  ‘Don’t shoot! I’m still… still. I’m no thief, man… I… I just came with my uncle. Sorry… sorry.’

  ‘Who is this blithering fat idiot?’ Bijan shuffled over with his gun.

  ‘He’s the one who cracked your security system. I think it’s time to fire the contractors!’

  ‘You two idiots managed to hack in?’ He sat down on a well-padded chair with a deep sigh of relief, as if his body was deflating.

  ‘Sarbaz, have you come here to rob an old man or kill him?’

  ‘Sartip,6 I have a mission to watch you and thought we should meet.’

  ‘Savak? Mossad?’ Bijan’s face looked drained.

  ‘The police, UK police.’ Rebwar wasn’t too sure himself, but had to give a straight answer otherwise he would be under suspicion once again.

  Raj and Bijan stared at him.

  ‘A sub-branch. I do some security work for them. It’s secret, so I don’t get told much.’ Rebwar was
somewhat embarrassed that he didn’t really know who his employer really was. But he had been ordered not to ask and somehow he had followed orders. Maybe it was the fear of being sent back to Iran.

  ‘Thank you, Rebwar, for coming to me, I am filled with eternal gratitude. Whom did you serve again?’

  It was a test. ‘The great Ataollah Salehi. He commanded the 77th.’

  Bijan looked away as if he was trying to find something else to ask him.

  ‘Ah, I see, Sarbaz. Bring us a drink. Inshallah.’ He pointed with his gun at a polished wooden cabinet. It had a choice of whiskies in crystal engraved decanters. Rebwar picked one and watched Bijan’s reaction. He didn’t care which one and he poured two generous measures. But this wasn’t Rebwar’s poison. He was more of a brandy man and he wasn’t going to push his luck by asking for one.

  Bijan drank the light yellow liquid as if he had found it by an oasis. Rebwar had a feeling that his nurse forbade him this pleasure.

  ‘So why bring this child with you? Is he yours?’

  ‘No, he’s useful. I can find out what they want to know and feed them some stories to shut them up.’

  ‘Double agent? Dangerous game, dangerous.’ Bijan interlocked his fingers.

  Rebwar knew this, too. Back home, he had a collection of informers who were probably all lying in some sandy grave.

  Bijan breathed in and said, ‘So why did you run away? I still have ears.’

  Rebwar looked around Bijan’s palace of ill-gotten gains; he still had his head even though his body was slowly disappearing like his relics. ‘My partner gambled his police career for a political one and lost,’ said Rebwar taking another slurp of his drink and forcing it down his throat. His mouth hung open with the alcohol searing his insides. His gum throbbed, his tooth had awoken. He rubbed his cheek.

  ‘I can pay you and you can get that tooth fixed.’ Bijan waited for an emotional reaction.

  ‘I’m sure you can, but what would I be selling?’

  ‘Rebwar Ghorbani… Your wife is Hourieh.’

  Rebwar nodded.