by Ols Schaber
‘She was asking questions about her father. About his mistress. She died a few weeks ago…’ Bijan’s mind seemed to wander.
Rebwar was about to jump in with a set of questions but let him have his moment. Bijan’s stare had drifted to a black and white portrait on a polished cabinet. Rebwar walked over to pick it up.
‘Yes that’s her.’
Rebwar looked at the picture. He guessed it was from the ’60s: a beautiful symmetrical face with piercing black eyes. The face had a sexual tension, a perfect smile that would steal you. Her dark wavy hair tumbled around her like she was in a hurry to go.
‘Nikki… she was the most beautiful girl in Teheran. Broke more hearts than the war.’
‘What was she doing here?’ Now Rebwar realised why Hourieh was so against coming to London. This was the secret she didn’t want to discover. It had soiled her memory of her father.
‘Her funeral is soon…’
Rebwar watched Bijan’s face drop with sadness. He put the portrait back.
‘I see your mistrustful eyes,’ Bijan said. ‘You’ve been in this game for a long time, like me.’
Rebwar felt disarmed; Bijan had something on him. He felt sorry for Hourieh. How was he going to tell her?
‘Sarbaz, how did you get in? This my house.’ Bijan’s eyes had vigour in them but they were lost.
‘You need some new security. Look, General…’
‘Allahu Akbar, Basij, forgive them.’ Bijan carried on mumbling things and tried to brush some invisible flies from himself.
Rebwar recognised those empty war-torn eyes. He had seen way too many poor boys and old men sent out into the minefields. A mission from God to clear them. What martyrs they were! Rebwar poured Bijan another drink. ‘My General, it was a long time ago.’
Bijan’s skeletal hands grabbed Rebwar’s shirt and with a mad stare said, ‘Go out there and save us. It’s the will of God, Allahu Akbar.’
Rebwar could see his mad eyes flickering around the room, the poor sod was back there commanding the Basij, also known as ‘the human wave’, something Rebwar had long forgotten.
‘Sartip, you need to rest.’
‘It’s my heart. It’s weak, I need a new one. It’s old.’ He looked down with the resignation that time was going to get him.
This wasn’t the revenge that Rebwar had been seeking; he was looking at a sad man in a lonely sandcastle.
‘I was right, we had to sacrifice to win. Inshallah I did nothing wrong. My conscience is clear.’ He held his glass out for more drink. Rebwar obliged. Bijan’s muttering became more angry and incoherent.
‘Rebs, hey? Is he all right?’ Raj said.
For a moment Rebwar wanted to ask Bijan about his wife but the man was now far away. He poured a whisky into the heavy crystal glass and Bijan slurped it like a toddler would. Rebwar went over to the study desk and put his business card on it. He signalled to Raj that they should be leaving.
Twenty-Two
Geraldine’s mind had become obsessed with the case, even though Plan B had told her that it had been passed on to New Scotland Yard. Since nearly losing her job over her sister’s lies and manipulations, she had lost her passion for her work. She still didn’t really know what made her tamper with evidence to save her sister from going to jail. She was in eternal debt to Plan B and had sold her soul to them – for better or worse. It was work for them or go to jail. She had done a lot of bad things for them but she believed there was a moral code. It still hadn’t been tested and feared the day it would.
But the seed that inspired her to be a copper was still there. Justice needed to be done. Her sister had forever tried to use and corrupt that. Geraldine had even started her own evidence board in her flat. Now she was outside Zara’s flat. Since their night together, Geraldine had finally texted her saying a cute ‘hello’, but there had been no reply. Of course Geraldine wanted her for sex, but also for some information. She vaguely remembered that Zara worked in recruiting.
It had taken Geraldine a few walks to find the flat again but she eventually succeeded. 42 Cromer Street, Flat C, close to St Pancras. She finished her takeaway coffee and looked at her watch. It was 8:15 am; she had been waiting since 7:20 am. Morning was a better time to have a chat than in the evening. Evenings were too emotional and fraught. Morning was full of potential – at least that was what she told herself.
Number 42’s door was a busy one, she concluded there must have been about twenty residents in there. The door bore witness to the fact by its flaking paint and creaks. Which was handy as it kept warning her of the next person who would be stepping in or out. She guessed a few of them were taking the ‘walk of shame’. Zara stepped out of the door wearing a tight skirt that stopped just above her perfect knees, black boots and a blue woollen coat. Her hair was still wet from her morning shower. Geraldine tried to pluck up the courage to say hello. It wasn’t coming. What was she going to say? She had gone through it in her head. Zara walked head down towards her.
‘Hi, Zara.’
Zara looked up at Geraldine, froze in shock at seeing her again. She obviously wasn’t expecting to see her.
‘Zara, I don’t want anything. Just, just wanted to ask…’
‘Geraldine! Jesus, you frightened me. What do you want from me? Look, it was a stupid mistake. I was drunk. Sorry. I can’t, I can’t. You have to go away.’
Geraldine had seen this a few times. She had been right: a drunken, regretful one-night stand.
‘No, no, it’s not about that. It was nice… Yes.’ She just couldn’t help herself. ‘I need to talk to you about your job.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Geraldine, I don’t want anything to do with you. Just go away.’
Geraldine hadn’t expected this much emotion. She had to find a way to calm Zara down. Maybe a drink would have been a better idea; coffee wasn’t going to help. She reached out and touched Zara’s arm.
‘It’s about the people you find jobs for, I need to know.’
‘Just fuck off, Geraldine! Get off me or I am going to call the police for harassment.’
Geraldine backed off. Zara drew her hands in close to her body for protection and turned away. But before she had a chance to run, Geraldine spun Zara around and kissed her. The instant their lips touched, Zara’s defences fell and she melted into Geraldine.
A few minutes later they sat next to each other on a wooden bench at the Half Cup coffee shop just around the corner from Zara’s flat. Geraldine leaned against the painted wall. Brightly coloured flowers and birds swirled around them. Zara sat forward holding onto Geraldine’s hand, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings. The other guests were busy working on their laptops. Geraldine felt like she was being anchored. She hadn’t intended to kiss Zara, it was an impulse to stop her from freaking out. She was now regretting it. The girl was as unstable as a spinning top. Dreading the moment when reality would strike and bring her clattering to the ground, Geraldine had all her questions ready to fire, but held off until she could control the situation. It just wasn’t the moment.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ she asked Zara.
‘Yes, but it’s flexitime.’ She squeezed Geraldine’s hands even tighter. ‘I wanted to call you. Desperately wanted to. But I couldn’t. It felt wrong.’
Just my luck – a baby dyke, Geraldine thought. ‘You remember what I do?’
Zara looked down and smiled in embarrassment.
‘I’m a cop,’ said Geraldine.
Zara looked up. ‘Oh God! Did you tie me up? Christ, are you in trouble, is that why you–’
Geraldine touched her lips to stop her from saying any more, and Zara grabbed her hand and kissed it. Geraldine’s body tingled and her calm reasoning was disrupted. Keep it together. Be professional.
‘I need a favour. Some information.’
‘You smell so good. Lavender?’
Geraldine brought their hands down onto the table and picked up her coffee. ‘Your job. You place people in jobs.’
Zara stared at her. ‘It’s freelance. I source CVs and get builders work on sites. It’s pretty boring.’
‘So they use agencies to get jobs?’
‘Some do. Depends how skilled they are and how much the salary is. We need to take a cut so we don’t really get involved with low-wage stuff.’
It was Zara’s cute little mannerisms that had attracted Geraldine in the first place. She watched her flick her hair and smile nervously into her cup.
Zara noticed her gaze. ‘What?’ she said, suddenly shy.
Geraldine tried to hide her smile and sighed her emotions away. ‘Sorry, I lost my thoughts. I’ve got two names and wanted to know if they were on your database.’
‘Yeah, sure. Pass them on to me.’
Geraldine got her pad out and wrote on it. She could feel that Zara was excited by her task.
‘So you’re a real detective.’
Zara’s cute smile made Geraldine flush with excitement, she grabbed her face and kissed her passionately. It really wasn’t what she wanted right now – a relationship to work on, something that needed her commitment and time – but it felt good. It had been a long time since anyone had wanted her attention. It was generally the other way round.
Twenty-Three
Rebwar had a hunch about Tamar the belly dancer’s Christmas story. Since she told it at the Shishawi, outlining her own internal organs, Rebwar couldn’t forget it. She hadn’t made it up; it would have required too much creativity. No, her talent was for gossip. And in her trade she got to visit lots of clubs and restaurants that were filled with babbling clients. And she made them talk; they would spill all kinds of bullshit just to impress her. Human flesh was weak.
He had convinced Tamar to show him the client she had mentioned at the Shishawi restaurant. His name was Graham, a regular at the Sunset Strip, a well-known bar where skin was on show. Graham liked to price up bodies like they were commodities. Rebwar was not happy at the way these girls flaunted their flesh as if it was something you could buy. At least belly dancing left something for the imagination, here it was pushed in your face.
He didn’t really like getting teased in general, and with sex it was even worse. He walked past the place again, hoping he didn’t have to go in, and stopped on the pavement opposite to light a cigarette. Next to Sunset Strip was a pub and restaurant. Despite the bar’s bright neon signs, it was as if normal life existed around it; its seediness was invisible. No one made a fuss. You could even peek in and see some girls in bikinis talking to men in suits who were very different to the crowds drinking on the streets. He had come prepared, suited as a white-collar worker looking for some relief from his tedious daily grind. That was what he told himself. That was his story.
He stubbed out his cigarette, undid the top button of his shirt, loosened his tie and breathed in deeply, like a diver, breathing out as he crossed the street. Once inside he was soon greeted by a thickly made-up Chinese girl. The swirling lights bounced off her glossy lipstick. Her thin eyelids flashed a sunset blue over dark pupils that stared into his eyes. She wanted his attention, his wallet, his money. It was a dog eat dog world here.
‘Hey, wan’ drink, mister?’
Rebwar took his time to scan around the red and blue neon bar. A few men were laughing nearby while one of the girls cracked some jokes. Others were sitting around tables with bottles of cold fizzy drinks. One of the girls was sitting on a fat man’s lap, his sausage-shaped fingers grabbing her delicate white skin.
‘Wha’ your name mister? Me looking for fizzy drink.’
Rebwar gave her a quick acknowledging glance, she was like a child wanting candy. Where was Tamar? He had already had enough of watching men groping. Right on cue, Tamar made her entrance, swaying sexily out from behind a red velvet curtain. The noisy music added to his disorientation. Maybe that was the point: to catch all these punters off guard? Tamar’s smile was like a memory of home and filled him with warmth and nostalgia. Catching Rebwar’s glance at the oriental girl in front of him, Tamar moved immediately across and whispered something in her ear. The girl gave a small tut of disappointment and moved onto the next man at the bar. There seemed to be invisible territorial rules that were clearly observed.
‘Hello, darling, glad you could make it.’ Tamar leaned closer to him.
‘So is he here?’ Rebwar fidgeted, trying to find something to do.
‘Patience, and at least ask me for a drink.’ She wore a blue and green bikini with some oriental touches: little bells and thimbles. She turned her perfect bum towards the sitting men. They all stared. She was enjoying it.
‘Oh! Yes, sorry. Drink?’ Rebwar felt embarrassed.
‘Some fizz.’ She winked at him with her fake eyelashes and looked away. Rebwar asked the barman for a beer and a glass of fizz. He showed him a bottle. Rebwar’s face tensed, his patience was in as short supply as his credit. He didn’t like the game they played here.
‘So, is he?’ He turned to her with a glass in his hand.
‘No. He doesn’t come every night. Chill, my darling.’ Tamar pinched his cheek and blew a kiss from her thick red lips. He was just hoping he didn’t have to come back here and pretend to be a seedy customer looking for some cheap flesh to pick at again. He sat down on the chrome bar stool and sipped his cool beer. Today, he wasn’t feeling up to the waiting game. He was trying not to stare at anything that might excite him.
‘Right, darling, my show is coming up soon.’
He was puzzled.
‘Through there, silly.’ She pointed at the red velvet curtains. ‘I recommend that you take a seat and watch.’
What did go on through there? His throat tightened at the idea of having to watch something he couldn’t un-watch. His face clammed up. He needed another drink – maybe a chaser to find some courage. He had faced artillery shells, machine-gun bullets, gas. But this, this was sin. Each to his own and live and let live and all that, but he didn’t want to watch a woman he knew do something he didn’t want her doing. Although exactly what it was he didn’t really know either and he hadn’t dared ask. It was one of those embarrassing things that men are supposed to know. Something you get told in a drunken evening, something maybe your father told you.
‘Cheer up, love! This is a place of fun. He’ll be here soon. I can feel it in my tush.’ She wiggled her noisy costume. She loved doing that. He ordered another round. As the cash register flashed the amount he could feel time slowing down. An announcer called Tamar’s name, as if she was going into a boxing ring, tagging an exotic description of her upcoming act. Rebwar felt his face tingle with pain as if in a sandstorm. Tamar grabbed his arm, knowing he was going to try and make a swift exit. She knew him too well.
‘It’s Easter. I’m going to be an Easter bunny. They love it.’
Where was his escape plan? As she pushed him through the thick heavy curtains, another room revealed itself.
A woman with a spray and rag was cleaning a silver pole. There were two of them on the red and black stage. A red velvet couch with white pillows hugged the back of the stage. Around the room were empty blue fabric cinema-like seats. Some erotic pictures were hung randomly on dark red-carpeted walls to help with the atmosphere.
‘The ones at the front are the best, but he likes to sit at the back,’ Tamar said. This was where Rebwar was intending on hiding. She kissed him on his cheek and immediately rubbed the marks off him. ‘He’ll be here. It’s prime time.’
He grabbed her arm before she could disappear. ‘You forgot to tell me about him.’
She looked back a little puzzled; she was clearly not used to being held back.
‘How does he look like?’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry, darlin’.’ Tamar smiled nervously. For a moment, Rebwar sensed her doubt. Had she embellished the story a bit too much?
‘He calls himself Graham, but you never know with them. He has a little goatee beard which hides his chins. An odd face with droopy eyes that hang like his face is being pulled d
own. Sometimes he wears glasses – you know, the old ones from last century. The type an old father would wear. You know what I mean?’
Rebwar nodded. He had enough to go on and she left him to go backstage to get ready for the upcoming show. He was now alone, like a lost and innocent lamb in a forest full of predators. He was out of his comfort zone. Even though he was hunting a killer.
Music came on – a pop song. It was a familiar number but he had no idea who sang it. The lights shone onto the stage and the boxing MC voice reminded them of Tamar’s act. Rebwar found a seat at the back of the room. The stage lights moved around like in a disco. He would have never guessed that the Sunset Strip had a small theatre stage. A few men appeared through the curtain at the back, all a little drunk and giggling. None of them fitted the description. He sounded like a loner. Was this really his killer?
Tamar danced in wearing her jingling belly dancing costume, but it was a little more risqué than the traditional ones he was used to. He sensed it was going to come off and he didn’t really want to hang around to see. She was an incredibly beautiful girl but he felt like he was being unfaithful to his wife even if she hated him and it had been a long time since they had said they loved each other.
A few of the drunk men whistled and let a few rude jokes fly as Tamar twirled around the metal poles. She let her long silky hair fly around to the beat of the music. She grabbed the pole between her naked legs and swung around it. The men were loving it, whistling and shouting. She stepped towards them and collected some notes from them. Rebwar was getting impatient, he wasn’t sure how much more teasing he could take. She flashed one of her boobs, she had had her nipple pierced. He could feel himself getting aroused.
He looked around for Graham. Rebwar needed a cigarette. Tamar turned her back to the audience and undid her bikini top. She flung it behind her into the crowd. Rebwar had to go. Maybe the guy was at the bar.
Outside, he felt like he had been let out from a stuffy cage of wild animals. Drunken shouts and laughing came from the pub next door. Rebwar wanted to join them; it was a good energy, unlike the club, which was full of sordid power and greed. As he stubbed his cigarette on the ground, a man asked him for a cigarette. He looked up to see Graham. He was much smaller than he had imagined; his head only reached up to Rebwar shoulder. Little man syndrome was his first thought. He wore a brown jumper, his tie poked out – a stripy number, the colours matching his jacket.