by Ols Schaber
Rebwar looked up, trying to find a little story. He leaned back on the bench.
‘This is an old one but I tell this one to my son. There was an old fortune-teller and she had just finished working at the bazaar. It was late and the sun had set. She was tired and wanted to go home. There was a path through some woods and the full moon lit it. So she decided to use the shortcut. In the middle of the forest she met a wolf. He was big and hungry. Before he could pounce she cried out to him, “Oh, wolf! Spare me and I’ll tell you your future!” The wolf thought for a moment and agreed. The old lady searched in her crystal ball. “You will become a shepherd.” Then the wolf sat and began to cry like a little child. “Why are you crying?” she asked. “I think you are lying,” said the wolf.’
Geraldine smiled and finished her can.
‘Cute. I thought it was going to be Little Red Riding Hood.’
‘I’m not getting a visa, am I?’
She put her arms over the back of the bench and looked out over the river. ‘Find that killer.’ Geraldine looked up at the night sky. It was starless. ‘Did you go and see a football match with your son?’
‘He’s not interested.’
Twenty-Five
Geraldine had passed some info to Rebwar about Lawrence Gibson. A forty-year-old Crossrail site manager where Stefan had worked and had served in the army as an engineer. He was married with two children. Rebwar wasn’t really expecting anything from him, but maybe there was something he had seen or some detail that had been missed. He had driven up to Gibson’s house in order to see who he was and where he lived. It was on a quiet residential street: 34 Caldervale Road, close to Clapham Common. He parked near a skip where a basement conversion was being worked on. The two-storey house was opposite. A neatly trimmed green bush fronted the tiny front garden. The white paint was pristine as was the light blue front door. It seemed that the occupier was meticulous.
The car’s digital clock flicked to 8:00 am as the front door opened. There was Gibson wearing a puffer jacket, scarf and a grey suit underneath. Rebwar only got a quick glimpse of his wife who kissed him goodbye and closed the door behind him. Carrying a rucksack he walked down the street; unlike most commuters he had a spring in his step. He had a strong young face, sharp straight eyebrows and a short dark cropped beard. Handsome man, Rebwar thought. He drove up to Gibson and wound the window down. ‘Ordered a cab?’
Gibson didn’t quite hear Rebwar and he walked over to the car. ‘Sorry? Which number are you looking for? The numbers are quite confusing around here.’ His beard framed perfect white teeth.
‘Mr Gibson?’
‘Yes.’ He stared at Rebwar waiting for some more details.
‘I can give you a lift, I need to ask you a few questions about Vasiles.’
‘Oh, and you are?’
‘I am investigating his disappearance.’
Gibson looked at his watch and looked around him. ‘Sorry, Vasiles who?’ It was like he was looking for some excuse. ‘Police? Don’t you usually…’ He stepped to look at the back window and looked at the white and blue sticker that said Pre-booked only – Private Hire.
Rebwar had thought of using his warrant card but hadn’t had the time to change the picture. He had to think of something more convincing. ‘I represent the victims. I’m a PI.’
‘In a cab?’
‘It’s not like in the TV shows.’
‘Well I guess so. Have you got some ID or something?’
Rebwar fumbled into his wallet to find some dog-eared cards he had printed a while ago. He handed one over to Gibson and he read it.
‘So the government is outsourcing detective work now?’
‘Step in. We found his body.’
Gibson dropped the card and picked it up as if he was shocked by the news. Rebwar felt there was an arrogance about him. ‘Really, how? Sorry, that’s terrible news. I thought he might have just returned home.’
‘I’ll drive you to the station.’
‘What?’ Gibson froze for moment and his face seemed to lose some of its tan. ‘Oh, you… yes, yes of course – Tube! Yeah, OK. Clapham.’ He opened the back door, stepped in and sat without taking his rucksack off. Rebwar watched him, looking for any giveaway signs of guilt. Instead he looked nervous, twitching and obviously thinking about something. ‘He was a good man, good worker. That’s terrible. You know I’ve, I’ve never known someone that has been murdered. You read about these things.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Oh, well I’d have to check my diary. Such a shock. Have you got any idea who killed him? How come it’s not in the press?’
Rebwar stared at him, trying to find something in him, some look or a moment where he could see a killer. He could smell his fine aftershave and his skin had a moisturised glow. Rebwar couldn’t spot any nervous twitches or sweat. His eyes did look genuinely concerned but you could channel that.
‘Oh, take the left here, it’ll be quicker. Have you talked to his wife?’
‘How do you know he has a wife?’
Rebwar could see that for a moment he was surprised by the comment.
‘He told me, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, she’s…’ Of course he couldn’t tell him that they had sent her back. ‘She’s distraught. I need to talk to Stefan. Do you know where he is?’
‘Stefan? You think it was him? He’s missing too? My God! No.’
‘We are looking for him.’ Rebwar saw a build-up of traffic ahead as he approached some lights. ‘You were in the army?’
Gibson stopped and looked back at him and nodded.
‘In the Medical Corps?’
For a moment Gibson looked away like a classic tell. ‘Royal Engineer, 22nd Engineer Regiment. Sapper First Class.’ Rebwar didn’t notice any hesitation; he’d had that drilled into him. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Iran, but not relevant to this. Was a policeman for seventeen years.’ He watched Gibson for a reaction but he looked away.
The car stopped and red lights flashed across the dashboard. Rebwar stared at them like it was some bad joke. The car carried on rolling silently and he steered it towards the kerb. ‘Any good at fixing cars?’
Gibson looked at his watch and said, ‘Sorry, we build things. And I need to get to work. Nice chatting to you. Hope you find the killer.’ And before Rebwar could ask him another question he was walking off down the street.
Rebwar got out of his car and swore at it like it was some living thing that could get back up. Gibson came back and said, ‘There’s this mate of mine… he can help you. You know, AA on the cheap but has all the tools.’ He handed Rebwar a piece of paper with a name and number. ‘Tell him I recommended you. Sorry but I need to go to work.’
‘Thank you.’ Rebwar glanced at the card and looked back up. Gibson was fast disappearing down the road.
An hour or so later, a van with Mike the Mechanic arrived. He was a chubby man, wider than he was tall, and hands that had more in common with screwdrivers and hammers than keyboards.
‘All right, mate? See you got some bother here.’
‘Yes, it stopped and lots of lights came on.’
‘The Christmas tree! Lucky Santa is here.’ He smiled like he was waiting for some comment about Christmas.
‘You can fix it?’
‘Sure everything is fixable, mate. Just a matter of time…’ He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the car.
‘And money?’
To which he inhaled deeply and scratched his chin and laughed. ‘Oh don’t worry, mate, I’m a mobile mechanic. No overheads. Cheap as chips and right as rain.’ He went back into his van and brought out a laptop. Rebwar watched him hook the computer into his car and tap the keyboard. It was no wonder that he couldn’t fix things any more, everything had some electronic mind of its own.
‘What language does it talk?’
‘My littlest can get it better than me. You have to spot the red text and fix it and job done. Easy peasy.
Where are you from? Wait, wait let me guess. Syria?’
Rebwar shook his head.
‘Oh, Greece – no, Iraq?’
He half shook his head
‘Saudi. I am getting close? London?’
‘Iran, Persian,’ Rebwar told him without any enthusiasm for his game.
‘Do you get to wear some turban?’
‘That’s Sikh, Indians generally.’
‘Always wanted to try that, looks funny, he, he! Be like being in a panto.’
‘So this is all you need to have for a garage?’ Rebwar checked out the van.
‘A computer and a list of stores for spares. It’s the future, mate. In charge of it, I am. My own man, like my old man always told me to be.’
‘So you could have a mobile butcher’s?’ An idea came into Rebwar’s head.
‘Yeah, if that was your bag. Sure. Anything. Just shove it in the van, get a mate to do a custom job and you’re off.’ He handed Rebwar a card. ‘Check his website out. He’s done loads of jobs and he’s f’ing genius, he is. Even does campers. My missus wants one of them so we can retire and travel.’
‘Can I have a look inside?’
‘Sure, mate. Knock yourself out. All custom made. No penny pinching here. It’s not all finished if you catch my drift. You know, got a few more ideas up here.’ He tapped his head.
Rebwar stepped into the van. It was tall enough to stand in. It was impressive; every little space was being used for some purpose. It was a complete contrast to the guy’s grubby overalls, which had tears and were as faded as an old rug.
‘Right, you need a new alternator. Easy fix. Just need to find you one.’
Rebwar’s mind was now elsewhere; he was wondering whether Geraldine’s butcher’s lead had something in it.
Twenty-Six
Rebwar was relaxing on the living room couch, his feet resting on the coffee table. The sofa was covered with an oriental throw. Behind him hung an old faded carpet. Rebwar had forgotten its significance. The TV opposite was unplugged and dusty; Hourieh had one in the kitchen and Musa played games on his computer.
Rebwar enjoyed reading out-of-date copies of Hamshahri, one of the popular papers in Iran. He had a little pile in the corner and liked to keep them. For him they were little time machines, moments of his past life. He kept an eye on what was going on back in his homeland but also liked the distance. He was reading about the elections that had just happened and, for a change, the moderates had won over the hardliners. The president, Hassan Rouhani, had bolstered his administration; he wasn’t expecting any change. The other news story that grabbed his attention was about Babak Zanjani, an Iranian billionaire. He had just been sentenced to death for embezzlement. He had been helping Iran evade the oil sanctions and ‘spreading corruption on earth’. And Persepolis drew against Tractor Sazi; they could still win the league.
He enjoyed these peaceful moments; they were almost worry-free. Sipping his coffee and smoking. A ritual. He tapped his cigarette on the ashtray that was resting on his stomach. Smoke swirled around him. The front door lock clicked and turned. A fumbled attempt at opening it caught his attention. ‘Musa!’
No answer.
He put his burning cigarette on the ashtray, moved it and got up. More awkward movements followed by a clonk. Something hard hit the soft wall. Hourieh, laden with jewellery and trinkets, jangled to the door.
‘Musa! My Pedaram!1 Oh my dear God! What in Allah’s name have you done? My son, why didn’t you call me? You should have called me! You stupid Pesar, what have you done? All my life, since you were in my arms I have told you to be careful. Musa, my Pesar.’
Rebwar popped his head out into the hallway. Hourieh was helping Musa through the door. His left arm was bleeding and badly scraped. Rebwar went back to get his pack of cigarettes.
‘Mum…’
‘Musa! What did I tell you? To call me, not to wait. Don’t you know to ask for help–’
‘Let our son speak,’ said Rebwar, trying to help Musa along the corridor.
‘Speak? He can hardly speak – the poor child is in shock. Can you not see? He is hurt. His poor little wing… my little bird.’ She grabbed Musa’s head and forced it into her chest.
‘Did you fall off your skateboard?’ guessed Rebwar.
‘Why in God’s name did you let him buy that agent of death? You should have said no,’ said Hourieh and shooed Rebwar away like he was a curious cat. She helped Musa to the kitchen. Rebwar could only watch. Hourieh’s long orange nails dug into Musa’s bloody, cut-up grey hoodie. Rebwar looked at his son’s dark blue t-shirt; within a white square box it said Ah! and below that The element of surprise.
‘Now you must eat – are you thirsty? Rest too. We should see a doctor.’
‘Mâmân,2 lost my phone and–’
‘Pesaram, don’t strain yourself. Be quiet. Sit, sit. Now tell me, what happened?’ Hourieh opened the fridge and started to bring out plates of prepared food. Rebwar watched from the kitchen door.
‘Rebwar, please do something. Ask him how he broke his arm. Be a Pedar.3 Useless husband.’ And she waved her hand at him.
‘Son, is your arm broken?’ Rebwar went over to a cupboard in the kitchen and brought out a first aid kit.
Musa managed to shake his head.
‘Of course it is! Call yourself a policeman?’ Hourieh said. ‘Are you stupid? It was… Ach, that stupid skateboard. I knew it. It’s too dangerous.’ She opened the first aid kit and started to lay out some bandages.
‘Feeling a little sick, Mâmân. Not really hungry.’
‘Don’t be stupid, son, you need to eat. Bring back that strength. You do look a little grey.’ She stroked his cheek.
Rebwar skirted around the kitchen to run the tap. ‘Water? You can move it?’
Musa nodded. ‘And, Mâmân, I was being chased.’
‘Chased? By who? Agha shenidi?4 Someone was chasing our Pesar. Oh, they are going to pay.’ She put her hands on her hips in defiance and looked at what she had laid out on the table. There was a feast.
‘Musa, was it a boy from school?’ Rebwar handed him a glass of water.
Musa took a large gulp. There was a moment of silence as they watched him drink. ‘It was a man on a scooter.’ Musa put his glass down and squeezed his face in pain. Rebwar rubbed his tight neck.
‘Don’t move, Musa!’ Hourieh said. ‘You must rest. Have some food too. This is just from today, delicious like from home.’ She was trying to distract him as she cleaned his wound and bandaged it up. Musa made a few painful grunts. ‘Husband, we need to take him to hospital.’
‘No, they will ask questions, we should call Amin.’
Hourieh nodded.
Rebwar dialled Amin’s number and went over to the fridge. ‘Musa, who was on this scooter?’ Rebwar opened the freezer above the fridge and took out some ice. For a moment he thought back to the accident with the scooter with the ice box and the taxi cab. Couldn’t be – as that would be a coincidence and he didn’t believe in them. Why would the guy have just run away? What was in that box. A voice replied to the ring, it was Amin. Rebwar told him what had happened and asked him to come over.
‘Guy I met at the shop. You know the one… Fab Food.’ Musa tried to find a comfortable place to position his arm.
Rebwar handed him a towel full of ice cubes. ‘For your bruises. If you can move your fingers they’re not broken. That’s what Amin said.’ Musa wiggled his fingers.
Hourieh put on an apron, as if she was going to cook. ‘What, Achmed’s place? Was it one of his friends? He does look wrong to me. Always giving me the wrong change. Don’t trust him, no, no.’ She waggled her finger at Rebwar.
‘A man on a scooter?’ said Rebwar. ‘Did it look like it had been in a crash?’
‘I don’t know. He was chasing me.’ Musa looked down at the table, his greasy floppy hair covering his eyes.
‘Shouhar? Your son was being harassed. Take some of these.’ Hourieh popped some pills onto the table
. ‘We need a pillow and a t-shirt. Musa, must you always wear stupid t-shirts. Maybe that is why, have you thought of that?’
Rebwar went to get what his wife wanted.
‘What were you doing in that shop? It’s too expensive. You have to go to the other one. You know, further down the road. The London one.’
‘Londis, Mâmân. I was getting cigarettes for Dad and they wanted ID but I didn’t have it and, you know, then I asked the scooter guy who was smoking outside the shop.’
Rebwar walked back with a pillow and a plain white t-shirt. Hourieh snatched them off him. Musa looked at his dad. Rebwar knew that look. He had been getting himself some cigarettes. Rebwar let it slide.
‘Ahh, that is good, least this country protects the youth from themselves. Let that be a lesson and not to do everything that your Pedar says. He can be wrong too, now you know.’ She took Rebwar’s cigarette off him.
‘So why did he chase you?’ Rebwar looked at Musa suspiciously and lit another cigarette.
‘No idea.’ Musa shrugged. ‘I chatted to him, mentioned you. That you smoked and if I could bum a cigarette. For you, Pedar.’
‘Musa, are you smoking?’ Hourieh said. ‘I don’t want you to smoke. It’s not for the youth.’
‘Mum, I was making conversation. I–’
Rebwar stepped closer to him before the two started shouting at each other. ‘Musa, tell me. Did he chase you because of me?’
‘Maybe.’
Hourieh was still staring at Musa. ‘I am disappointed, Musa. If you were older I would be slapping you. That man was right to chase you. My son should not smoke! If only my dearest Pedar were alive… You could have told me the truth.’
Rebwar squatted down to Musa’s level, trying to see under the mop of hair. ‘Do you think you could recognise the man?’
‘Yeah, Polish type or something. Short blonde hair, blue eyes. Taller than me. He was a little interested when I told him what you did.’
‘Shouhar, you know this man? Have you got our son into trouble? You better get him out of trouble.’ She looked up as if she was talking to her father. ‘You’ll be answering to Pedar’s memory.’ She bent down to kiss his picture on the fridge.