by Ols Schaber
Rebwar scratched his stubbled chin. ‘I’ll find him, this curious rider. Was he delivering for the shop?’
‘Na, Pedar, Achmed didn’t know him.’
‘Shouhar! Look at your son! You better keep that promise. Trouble has come to our doorstep. I am still trusting you for the moment. But one more time and… I’ll be telling.’
Rebwar drew deeply on his cigarette. He had someone on his tail and they had threatened his family.
Twenty-Seven
Rebwar was sitting in his car watching his son standing across the road in front of Fab Food. Amin had made Musa wear a sling, his arm had to rest as he had pulled some ligaments. It was night on Primrose Hill Road, which was round the corner from their flat. He had studied the area carefully for his plan. A big red-bricked church was on his right, the Parish Church of St Mary the Virgin. It was dark and quiet inside, no risk of a group of people coming out to confuse the scene. On the other side was a large tree and a bench on the corner. He’d parked the car on a double yellow line so he could see the traffic island in the middle of the road opposite the newsagents.
His cigarette smouldered between his fingers on the steering wheel. Raj and Musa had attempted to find the scooter driver on social media. This plan was at the bottom of the list. He wasn’t happy about it. It was not as stupid as Firoud’s plan but uncomfortably close. He had gone through every outcome he could think of. He was ready; he had done his homework. He had a flick knife in his pocket. The idea was simple, a magician’s trick of diverting attention.
They had rehearsed it. Musa was to run away across the road to Rebwar’s car. The street light was broken. Raj was on a scooter a bit further down the road under a working street light. Musa would hide behind Rebwar’s Toyota and Raj would drive off. It was all about timing, which is where it could go wrong. But Rebwar was ready with his knife. The man would come round the corner and see Raj driving off in his scooter. Same clothes and, by then, he’d be in the distance.
Rebwar still couldn’t believe that this Polish man had managed to find his son. Just bad luck; wrong place at the wrong time. Was he looking to blame Rebwar for his crash? Had he lost his job? Did he lose something valuable in that box? What would you keep on ice that was so valuable?
Rebwar inhaled his cigarette deeply and watched his son wait. He had padded Musa’s jacket so that he and Raj would look a little similar, enough to fool the man. People remembered faces but not details; that took training. What was he thinking? What in Allah’s name was he trying to convince himself? His hand grabbed the door’s latch. He was going to abort this stupid plan. Was he insane? Musa was his only son. But Rebwar was desperate; it was his only lead. Everything else had ended up as a dead end. He had to crack this case for his family’s safety, his sanity, his honour. Failure was not an option.
Musa lit up. Rebwar swore but he could empathise with him. Musa was angry too. Now Rebwar wanted to go up and stop him smoking. A scooter drove by. Musa watched it. No reaction, it wasn’t him. It had a Deliveroo box on the back and the rider was dressed in a uniform. Rebwar stubbed out his cigarette and looked for another one. Checked his pocket for his knife. It was still there. They had been waiting for nearly an hour.
Another scooter drove by the shop. This time the rider watched Musa like a target. There was no doubt it was him, though he had a new box on his bike. Musa tapped his foot three times. It was the sign. It was on. The scooter revved up the hill towards the park. Rebwar looked into the rear-view mirror and pressed the brake pedal twice. A signal to Raj to be ready, and with the back of the bike facing Rebwar, he too flashed his brake light twice, engine running ready to go. But where had the scooter gone? Rebwar looked around, wanting to step up to get a better view and be closer to Musa. But he had to wait, he had to keep out of sight or he might be recognised.
The scooter blasted by Rebwar’s car, it had gone around and used another route to the newsagent’s. Rebwar watched it stop in front of his car. He held his breath. The man flicked the stand and dismounted. Rebwar couldn’t see his face; it was dark and he kept his helmet on. The man crossed the street to Musa. Rebwar stepped out of the car. Now he had to stick the phone on the man’s bike. He had practised on Raj’s scooter. Raj had worked out a cheap way to create a tracker, which was to use a budget smartphone and share its location with Rebwar’s phone. The method was usually used by controlling parents on their kids; Rebwar was also being tracked by Geraldine in a similar fashion.
They had spent ages trying to work out where he could hide it. These modern bikes had so many sealed plastic panels it would take too long to hide it properly. Rebwar went for the obvious easy solution, under the rear wheel arch, and had prepped the device with sticky gaffer tape. He looked across the street. The man was approaching Musa.
He quickly stuck the smartphone under the wheel arch. Where was Musa going to run? He had to get past him. He wanted to abort. It wasn’t going to work. A stupid plan. As the man got closer, a bus went by. Musa timed it just perfectly, it passed by him and he ran behind it out of sight. Ran across the street. Clever. Rebwar had a moment to smile and breathe.
For a few moments the man seemed to have lost sight of Musa and he looked around. Rebwar had to walk away, so as not to be seen. The man crossed the street towards his scooter. Musa hid behind Rebwar’s car and crouched. Raj gunned the little scooter engine. Rebwar was now across the street watching, which was all he could do. The man spotted Raj driving away; he jumped on his scooter and drove after him. It had worked. Rebwar let out a sigh of relief and ran over to find his son. Musa was crouching and shaking behind the car. Rebwar grabbed and hugged him. Musa groaned, as he squeezed his arm. Now he felt stupid, but it had worked.
Rebwar drove on to find Raj, who had hidden in a driveway. With his bulk there was no way he would outrun the chasing scooter. Once they were all reunited, Rebwar felt fully relieved. If anything had gone wrong he would have never forgiven himself. They all sat in the car watching the blue dot driving around the area. He was looking for Musa.
Rebwar took the sensible option and returned Musa home and let Raj return to his computer cave. This man wanted to cause harm. He was like a loose rabid dog. After twenty minutes the scooter left the area and drove off southeast. The DIY tracking system was still working. Rebwar set off after him. He knew he couldn’t catch him and he didn’t want to, he wanted to find his employer.
The traffic flow was its usual stop-start even though it was in the evening. Rebwar had plenty of time to think over the case. His ashtray was full but he lit another cigarette. Stefan and Ioanna didn’t have the skills to cut the body up with such precision. It had to have been done by a surgeon or a butcher. It was never easy to get rid of bodies. The blue dot was now in Southwark over the Thames in the southeast. And Rebwar still hadn’t found the motive. There were now two bodies: Vasiles’s and the one by the canal. Now this guy on this scooter wanted something from Rebwar.
The dot stopped at the end of Cathay Street, just by the river. Rebwar had a feeling he wasn’t going to stay there too long. He speeded up, his GPS told him twenty-three minutes. It must have been something important, since he had dropped his chase for Musa. This was scaffolding city, buildings being renovated, built or destroyed. All that cheap money, you couldn’t lose. Build, and people would pay stupid money for a shoebox.
He got there to find a pub called The Angel. He could have been at the world’s end, standing alone on the edge of the fast-flowing river. A lit car park lay in front of it and a dark, empty, grassy patch with the remnants of a building. It looked like it had been of some historical importance. The blue dot had driven off, but Rebwar wanted to see if there were any clues. The pub was shutting and people were leaving, some of them getting into parked cars. There was a big black van and four mini-vans – a working-class area, with tradesmen having a few pints after work. Two small vans had ladders on their roofs.
Rebwar watched the dot speed away north. Whatever had happened here was long over. He
had to follow the lead. He turned around the way he’d come and drove reluctantly off.
After an hour of driving back across London, the blue dot stopped by the RAF airfield at Northolt on the A40. Rebwar was now eighteen minutes behind his quarry. This time he had to catch him. His luck wasn’t going to hold out much longer; that tracking device was either going to fall off or be discovered.
He got closer to the blue dot; it had been stationary for long enough for him to be three minutes away. Just as he was closing in on him the dot moved. ‘Gahdideh!’1 Rebwar stopped the car to see where it was going. The dot moved again and Rebwar followed it down a small residential road lined with parked cars. There was only enough space for one car to drive down it. He could see the scooter’s headlight at the opposite end.
Rebwar drove towards the scooter – he could try and knock the guy off it. As he approached it, a call came in. The ring tone resonated over the car’s speakers. The scooter passed by and the rider’s helmet turned in Rebwar’s direction. Rebwar couldn’t see his eyes but he could tell that he suspected something. In the moment, Rebwar had accidentally picked up the call.
‘Husband, husband pick up!’
He looked in his rear-view mirror and saw that the scooter had come to a stop.
‘Husband, where are you?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m here.’ Rebwar had his eyes fixed to the mirror. Not wanting to lose the man again.
‘What did you two do? Musa is not speaking to me, he looks ill. He’s not hungry and he’s in his room.’
‘My desert flower, we went to buy something – I mean sell. Ebay sale. Look, I’m busy…’ Rebwar undid his seat belt. He had lost sight of the guy on the scooter. He needed his tracking screen back – but he was on a call.
‘Rebwar, don’t lie to me! He is supposed to be resting. Now he is in pain. He has a fever, Kheili khari.2 Rebwar don’t you know better? What have I told you? Husband, did you hear me?’
The scooter was next to him. His visor was flicked up and Rebwar could see cold steel blue eyes. The window was open enough for the man to grab Rebwar’s arm. Rebwar moved forward. Hourieh was now shouting at him. Another gloved hand tried to reach for his head, but he ducked. Rebwar drove forward and weaved to try and lose the rider. He picked up some more speed but bumped into a parked car. The alarm went off and the rider lost his grip as he got squashed between the two.
‘Are you listening? You Ahmagh.3 I am going to change the locks! I don’t want you back and I don’t care if we get sent back. I am going to call the police and tell all. Did you hear?’
Rebwar looked behind him, the rider had got up. He was stumbling but soon found his feet. He ran in the other direction, Rebwar found reverse.
‘Can we talk about this later? I ha–’
‘What are you doing? Were you listening, husband? Ahhh Ya Ka-Lib how stupid can I have been? You are seeing someone, aren’t you? That’s it! Not a convenient time. I’m–’
Rebwar dropped the call – and had lost the rider. He stopped the car and listened. A little engine revved up and drove off further down the road. Rebwar had to continue reversing to the end of the street. The phone returned to the tracking software and the blue dot was speeding off. Why was he running away? Rebwar couldn’t find an answer. For a moment Rebwar wanted to go and see where the man had been. But his lead was getting away so he went after him.
Then the dot stopped on a dual carriageway. It was the A40. Rebwar tried to pinch the screen to zoom in. Was it traffic? He decided to drive to the bridge that crossed the road. He spotted a sea of red lights; it was one of the traffic arteries to London and it was clogged. He was on the busy overpass and he looked around him for a place to park his car. The blue dot was underneath him.
He mounted a kerb just off the bridge by a lamp post and stopped the car. He got out and walked over to the bridge. In the distance over the heavy traffic he could hear some sirens. He looked down at the road; both sides were now at a standstill. Underneath was a large truck, hazard lights were flashing and people were around it. It was where the blue dot was. Had the scooter rider found the phone and thrown it away? Hit the truck? How was it still working?
A police car and an ambulance made their way through the jammed cars. Rebwar had to rescue his mobile. He looked for a way down to the truck. Off the roundabout was a road that led to the A40. He could cut across some bushes and walk down. Then he spotted a scooter wheel underneath the lorry a pool of blood next to it. The idiot! More sirens sounded and a police car drove by him. On the hard shoulder was a man throwing up. The police were starting to contain the scene.
His phone rang in the car; he could see it flashing. He went over to see who was calling. It was a mobile number that seemed strangely familiar. He hesitated and it stopped ringing. It rang again and this time he picked it up.
‘Hello.’
‘Who I am speaking to?’
He could hear the same sirens in the background – then he remembered! Why had he picked it up? He looked around like someone was standing behind him. He dropped the call, ahmagh4. It rang again. Rebwar went over to the bridge and looked down. And there was Richard O’Neil, the copper from whom he had stolen his ID. He still had a cast on his arm and was wearing a hi-vis jacket. He had found the mobile that Rebwar had taped to the scooter. Bad luck, he thought, just bad luck. Was he a traffic cop? Rebwar watched him look around. O’Neil had also worked out that the mobile he just called was close by. Rebwar had to leave. O’Neil had his number.
Twenty-Eight
Rebwar had managed to get a few moments of sleep but woke up after a nightmare, his battered stiff body sticky with sweat. It took him a few moments to focus on where he was. It was on the couch in the living room. It was 2:47 according to his Casio digital watch. Things came back to him. He coughed and sniffed. He’d been back at the front, in a ditch next to a tank. Hot, spent cases dropping next to him, bouncing on each other making music, the 100mm rifled gun sporadically lighting up the scene of endless deserted sand, followed by a shockwave. Ears ringing. Whistles rang across the line, drilling into his skull, and before he could get ready he was running to some destination. Everybody tried to huddle together in safety before groups of men exploded around him. Shards of metal, fabric, body parts, clouds of blood, earth flying everywhere.
Rebwar took the box of cigarettes, hands shaking, trying desperately to light one. He remembered being buried under sand. Hourieh’s voice. Her shouting about Musa, how he should have never gone out with him to the shops. She didn’t know he’d used him as bait but she might as well have guessed. Smashed plates, vases, shouting, crying. She wanted to go home to Teheran. Rebwar breathed in and let the smoke settle in his wheezing lungs. A river of ice cubes came pouring over him like a waterfall. A naked Geraldine next to him, feeling her stiff nipples in his back and her cold skin cooling him down.
Rebwar slapped his face and got off the couch, his tank top sticking to his body. He needed to get out of the apartment. Find fresh air, fresh ideas for this case. Who was that scooter man working for? And why would he risk trying to find Rebwar? He wasn’t a threat to him. He must have seen something – but what? Those melting ice cubes kept coming back to him. Was O’Neil involved? He’d popped up too many times to be a coincidence – and, of course, Rebwar didn’t believe in them.
It was around 4 am and Rebwar had returned to the scene of the scooter crash on the corner of Coram Street and Woburn Place. He had brought a branded sports bag and a coffee. He had parked his car in the same spot and this time stepped out of the car carefully and attentively. The streets were empty apart from a few night buses carrying drunken passengers home and taxis looking for their last jobs. Shops and restaurants were closed, shutters down, rubbish bags ready to be picked up. The city’s rumble bounced off the silent buildings. A few electrical fans whirred.
The ice was now long gone, but in between the city’s rental bikes were bits of scooter fairing. He picked them up and put them in a bag, even though what w
as left of the scooter was probably in some pound. He remembered that the scooter’s top box had snapped off. It had been filled with ice. At the time, he thought the cool box was for some ice cream delivery. He had a hunch that it was something more sinister and maybe it was still around, or the traces of it.
He looked around the little side streets that went off the main road and by a council bin was a battered black box. It was half opened and empty, so he used his torch to have a closer look inside. The box had a white layer of insulation. It was scuffed and dirty but there were some stains he recognised. He opened his sports bag and took out a spray bottle. He applied a fine mist inside the box and shone another torch onto it. It was Luminol, which he’d bought over the internet, or at least his son had done it for him. It glowed where the blood had been. He couldn’t confirm if it was animal or human but suspected the latter.
After taking the box into the car, he followed the gutter to a drain to where the river of ice had ended up. He squirted some more Luminol into the drain hoping that not all the evidence had been washed away by the rain or any council cleaners. He shone the light and at first nothing glowed. Only, when he looked deeper into the hole…
‘Hey, man, looking for a needle?’
Rebwar turned round to see a red-bearded and wrinkled face staring back at him – a strong acrid smell followed. The man’s shoes were taped up with grey gaffer tape and through his ripped jeans Rebwar spotted another pair underneath. He dropped some of the carrier bags he was carrying and crouched down to his level.
‘They’ve taken the high ground. Look! Three units coming. Bayonets at the ready.’ He laughed. ‘We’re fucked, so fucked and kiss your ass goodbye.’ His gurgling laughter continued.