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

by Ols Schaber

The priest began with the ceremony. Rebwar avoided religion and he let the words drone out. There weren’t going to be any nuggets of information just a standard sermon on mankind’s short time on earth and what Nikki had supposedly achieved. For sure, the priest’s few kind words must have been supplied by Bijan. Rebwar looked back down the long, tree-lined pathway trying to fix a name to that pretty face. It was like an itch he couldn’t reach. He needed another cigarette to think. As the priest threw some earth onto the casket and it was lowered into the ground, Rebwar’s mind returned.

  Hourieh grabbed Bijan’s frail arm. ‘Bijan, can’t you pay Rebwar to do some investigating? Find out who this Nikki was?’

  Bijan looked at Rebwar, waiting for his reaction. It wasn’t a good idea. Why did she want to dig up more dirt? Everything was being buried. Rebwar really didn’t want to find sordid secrets about Nikki or Hourieh’s father’s past which is what Hourieh was hoping for.

  ‘She might have a daughter? I could have a half-sister.’

  ‘There was no mention in the letter or the will. I think it’s best if we leave this matter. It would be like taking rye to the city of Kerman.’4

  ‘Well, if no one wants to find the truth, I’ll do it myself and see who this whore was. Probably an English spy. That’s probably why she has no friends. Silence is not a sign of agreement. I need to know.’

  Bijan turned away from the grave and grabbed Hourieh’s arm. He breathed in deeply and looked up. ‘Hourieh, back in the day, I can say this. Nikki was a good-time girl. It was like a game and she stole all our hearts. And you know you’re lucky that your father stayed with your mother and you. But we are all flesh and blood. I know you want some revenge, but she died childless, penniless and of a broken heart. What more sadness do you want?’

  Rebwar watched Hourieh storm off. That story clearly wouldn’t wash with her. After a few steps she turned. ‘Come on, you too, Musa. You now can listen to your music.’ Musa put on his headphones and ran after her.

  ‘Come and visit me for a coffee,’ Bijan said.

  Rebwar nodded. He could see that Bijan, too, was lonely in his grief. Rebwar passed the grave which the blonde woman had tended and glanced at the headstone. From the size of it, he guessed it must have been a baby or a child. The dark black marble was as shiny as Bijan’s staircase. Fresh flowers surrounded it. The gold lettering read Laura Gibson 2014–2015. Taken too soon. Gibson’s wife. Of course. He had seen her shutting the front door when he picked him up. He took out another cigarette and lit up.

  Thirty-One

  Geraldine stepped into the morgue. The clinical smell always gave her a chill, ever since she had to visit one in Dagenham. Her uncle had been killed by a drunk driver as he stepped out of his local pub. With her mother, Geraldine had been asked to identify him. She couldn’t even remember how old she had been – it was probably not even legal – but it had linked that smell to death for her ever since. She hated it.

  Bekie had called her about the body parts they had found in the canal. Usually she could find some excuse to meet in a cafe but this time it seemed urgent. She had to come and see it with her own eyes. The room was empty and the three stainless steel tables were immaculate. It was like a prison, just with soulless white tiles and a wall of cool boxes containing bodies. Geraldine shivered.

  ‘Ah! You’re late.’

  Geraldine turned around and stopped for a moment to stare at her beauty. There was something sexy about her. Her soft floral perfume calmed Geraldine. Her olive skin looked good even in the neon lights.

  ‘Late?’

  ‘Yes. Your colleague has come and gone.’

  Geraldine tried to think. ‘But you called me?’

  ‘Yes and a man came. Said he wanted to see the body.’

  ‘Ah. And what is there to see?’

  Bekie looked puzzled. ‘He took the body – the parts anyway.’

  ‘Who did?’ Geraldine felt a little angry and stupid.

  ‘Your colleague. He asked about the body. “I want to take the Polak,” he said.’

  ‘And you just let him in and take it away like some drive-in?’

  ‘Hey, I called you out of kindness! Could have gone through the channels and paperwork. But when I saw… well…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you should leave and ask your colleague.’ Bekie turned away from her and started to walk towards her office.

  Geraldine followed her. ‘I’m sorry, please… I’m just a little shocked and morgues have bad memories for me.’

  Bekie stopped. Geraldine waited for her to say something.

  ‘You know it was strange. He didn’t even tell me his name. He did flash his badge, literally. I did ask him to sign the paperwork but he said some colleague would be coming after to sort that out. So I guessed that would be you.’

  ‘Shit! Do you have CCTV?’

  Bekie shrugged.

  Geraldine looked around for any obvious cameras but there was nothing. ‘And you said body parts?’

  ‘Yes. It was as if a surgeon had dismantled the body. Like a doll. Amazing work. And the weird thing was that all the major organs had been carefully taken out…’

  ‘Organ trafficking.’

  ‘Could be. He’d have to keep them alive. We are dealing with some sick bastard. Never seen such butchery.’

  ‘Where did you find him? Or the bits? A Polish guy, you say?’ Geraldine was trying to hold herself back. What was going on? She held onto the cold steel table.

  ‘A patrol found a refrigerated van. It had broken down.’

  ‘Any clues?’

  ‘Too early to say. Tea?’

  Geraldine wanted a drink, something strong. ‘Can you describe my so-called colleague?’

  ‘What do you mean? Isn’t he on your unit or something? I called you.’

  Geraldine’s first thought was Plan B. Were they somehow involved in this? Was someone tailing her? She felt a little anxious. ‘Tall, fat, old?’

  ‘Thin. Obviously looks after himself. Had a side parting. Tall, yeah? Oh and one arm in a cast.’

  ‘Did he leave anything, contact number?’

  ‘Do you think he was the killer?’

  They both stood there feeling the cold refrigerated air.

  ‘You must have some CCTV somewhere, how did he get in?’

  ‘He’s got a badge. That’s all you need, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. Maybe I will have that tea.’

  Bekie smiled and moved a little closer. ‘How do you take it?’

  For a moment Geraldine felt her energy bring her closer. She watched Bekie’s eyes. Dark, brown and inviting. ‘White and one sugar.’

  ‘I’m sure you taste just like that,’ said Bekie.

  For a moment Geraldine would have kissed her but she stopped. She didn’t want her, not sexually. ‘Is it instant?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Don’t have a machine.’

  ‘You know, I’ll skip it. I need to find who that man was.’

  ‘Ah, why the rush…’ Bekie’s hand grabbed Geraldine’s and she placed it on her breast. The door opened. Geraldine looked the other way and crossed her arms.

  ‘So, yes, DCI Smith, your body is in transit,’ said Bekie.

  ‘I’ll go and find it. Thanks for the call, Bekie.’

  Geraldine strode to the door. Once she got there she turned and looked back. A week before she would have jumped on Bekie, but she had to find who had taken the body.

  Thirty-Two

  Rebwar straightened his dark blue tie, did up the middle buttons of his jacket and held his breath before pressing the buzzer. An electronic jingle announced his arrival. He glanced quickly at his Casio watch: 9:08 am. Isabella opened the door. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a bun. She was wearing a dark woollen jumper and black jeans. She waited for him to say something. An awkward moment passed.

  ‘Hello.’ Rebwar had gone through the conversation in his mind. But it wasn’t flowing out.

  ‘Can I help you?’ She ha
d a beautiful smile, friendly and wearing a touch of make-up.

  ‘Yes, I’m from Help Afghanistan adoption agency.’

  ‘Oh, all right. What can I do for you?’

  He saw her hand clasp the door, ready to shut it. ‘We have an appointment. Mrs Penny?’

  Isabella smiled nervously. ‘Oh no, I think you are mistaken. You must have the wrong address.’

  ‘Is this not number eighty-seven?’

  ‘No, no this is seventy-one Devonshire Road.’

  ‘Oh, not even the right road or number.’ He smiled and took out his folder and flicked some papers. He had printed out some pages from an adoption website. He dropped some pages. ‘So this isn’t eighty-seven Singleton Road. My stupid mistake. It must be around here?’

  Isabella helped Rebwar to pick up some of the loose pages. She took one and read it. ‘So there are people who adopt Afghan children?’

  ‘Yes, yes it’s a charity. Have you heard of us? I myself am an Iranian refugee. Are you interested in Afghanistan?’

  He could see she was hesitating for a moment, her hand was on the door but her head poked out wanting to know more.

  ‘Did your husband serve there?’

  Her eyes widened and her posture straightened. ‘Y-yes. Why do you ask? How?’

  ‘I guessed. Would he be interested?’ Rebwar presented a leaflet with a child on it. He could see Isabella’s eyes focus on the picture.

  ‘Yes. But… no I can’t do–’

  ‘I served in the army in Iran.’

  She looked up like she had been in a daze. ‘Really? Sorry, where are my manners? Did you want a cup a tea? I’d like to know more about the war.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can come back.’

  Isabella motioned him in and guided him into the living room. She went off to the kitchen and he looked around the room. It faced the street and had basic furniture, clean and modern – from IKEA he guessed. He looked around for pictures of them. No sign of a baby or Gibson’s time in Afghanistan, just a picture of him with some friends travelling in an exotic jungle. The room was white with a few shades of beige, it felt very cold. Something was being mourned; happiness was missing. Even if the air fresheners made it smell of fresh cotton it was masking something else.

  ‘How do you take your tea?’

  ‘Black, please and two sugars.’

  He looked at the bookcase; it was full of romantic novels and some travel books – nothing about the military or about the Gibsons.

  ‘Oh, I should throw those books away. Such clutter.’ Isabella walked in with a jingling tray with two cups on saucers. She put it down on the coffee table and they both sat down. He was on a single light blue chair and she was on a white sofa. She was sitting on the edge of her cushion. ‘You know my husband doesn’t talk about Afghanistan. He refuses to.’

  ‘How long did he serve?’ Rebwar sipped his black tea, it was strong but the sweetness cut through the bitterness.

  ‘Oh, two terms, I think. It was before we met. He was in the Medical Corps – as a surgeon, I think. So vague.’ She giggled nervously and touched her face.

  Rebwar wasn’t sure if she had got it wrong or that Gibson had lied to him. ‘I was in the Iraq Iran war. Still don’t really talk about it. Too many bad memories.’

  ‘I can see that he dreams about it. He still has nightmares…’ Her eyes wandered over to the window.

  ‘They never really go away. Do you have children?’

  ‘No!’ she snapped back. ‘No we had a baby but lost it.’ Her eyes began to water.

  ‘I’m sorry, sounds tragic.’

  ‘Still haven’t got over it. Lawrence blames the war. We couldn’t find a donor, you know, when she was a baby. We needed a new heart for her.’ Isabella’s head bobbed down and tears began to flow.

  Rebwar took her hand to console her and grabbed some tissues from a box on the coffee table.

  ‘So your husband works as a surgeon?’ He looked around still trying to find more clues.

  ‘Oh no, he couldn’t go back after our dear Laura died. He works in the construction business. Sorry about this… I… oh this so embarrassing. I don’t even know your name.’

  Rebwar smiled. ‘You know I don’t know yours either.’

  They both chuckled.

  ‘Rebwar Ghorbani. Pleased to meet you.’ He shook her hand gently.

  ‘Isabella Gibson, I’m sorry – I feel so stupid.’

  Rebwar sipped his cup. ‘Nice tea, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you get counselling for your trauma? My husband refused.’

  ‘They didn’t have it back in Iran. I think I was lucky – lots of friends didn’t make it. Drink and drugs got them in the end. Nice place you have. Very homely.’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘I can’t take it any more. I want to move. I have tried and tried to make it work.’ More tears rolled down her cheeks. He watched the cup of tea that was balancing on her knees and was ready to catch it. ‘I’m sorry… Rebwar? It’s a bad time. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK, Isabella, I… can understand.’

  ‘Can you? Oh, I’m sorry.’

  There for a moment he felt awkward. He was lying to her. ‘I can imagine. I have a wife and a son. Not always easy.’

  ‘Yes, yes it’s not. Another cup of tea?’

  ‘I must go, I have that appointment. I should have called her.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I feel guilty. You must go.’

  Rebwar got up. He really wanted to have a nose around and get more information about her husband.

  ‘Do you have a glass of water?’

  ‘Yes of course.’ Isabella got up.

  He took the two cups and walked towards the kitchen. There were a few posters on the landing, pretty pictures of a man herding a flock of sheep. His mind wandered back to when he wanted to leave the police and seek a simple life. Herding goats had been his dream, although he still had no idea where that impulse had come from. As an orphan, he put it down to a possibility that his parents might have been Qashqai, a nomadic Iranian tribe. He frequently thought of what might have been, living off the land and not having to deal with society’s garbage.

  He walked in to an immaculate new kitchen extension. You could still smell the fresh paint. A consolation present? It faced the garden, which was overgrown, dead leaves scattered all over the lawn.

  ‘Nice kitchen.’

  ‘Oh yes, we finally managed to afford it. Lawrence got a bonus recently. From work.’

  ‘Ah, expensive, aren’t they?’ He put the two cups in the sink.

  ‘What, oh, kitchens? I think so. I don’t deal with the financials.’ She washed the cups.

  ‘Can I get some water?’

  ‘Oh yes of course! Sorry, habits.’

  ‘Are the glasses in this cupboard?’ He opened a cupboard that was below the counter by the door. He hoped to find something else. There was hard black plastic case with a green cross on it and it had a padlock on it. Next to it was big box with a defibrillator, not something you would casually keep around.

  ‘Oh, not there. It’s just my husband’s things. Some old medical stuff. Keep telling him to chuck it away.’ She smiled and twisted her hair. ‘The top cupboard on the left.’

  Rebwar grabbed a glass. He handed the glass over to her and watched her pour water. Her hand was shaking a little as she turned off the tap. She handed the glass over to him, her smile forced and nervous. He drank the water. ‘Thanks, sorry to pry, but did your husband work as surgeon in a hospital?’

  ‘Until our baby died, yes he did. He lost it. Couldn’t focus any more. The war, you see.’

  ‘Yes it’s horrible. Leaves too many scars. Look I need to go. It was nice meeting you. I’ll leave some leaflets here for you. And here is my number if you need anything.’ Rebwar wrote down his mobile number, knowing that if Lawrence Gibson found it, it would arouse some suspicion.

  ‘Isabella, nice meeting you. I am sure everything will be fine, Inshallah. Like I said, just ca
ll me if you have any questions.’

  She followed him to the front door where they said their polite goodbyes. As he stepped down the short pathway, he stopped to tie his shoelace. He looked back to see if she was looking. She wasn’t. He grabbed the black bag from the bin and walked off to the car. He didn’t find anything interesting in the rubbish bag, Lawrence was either innocent or doing a very good job of masking his trail. Those two medical boxes did offer a clue though.

  Thirty-Three

  Rebwar was having second thoughts about this case. Since he had been made to torture Stefan, it had brought back dark memories of his past, events that were locked away, safe from prying spies. Would this old man bring back more secrets? This time he had managed to use his son’s tablet to find what this Mr S. Brentstein had done. He was not a popular character but had managed to avoid jail by paying some fines.

  Rebwar wanted to break into his house and make him confess. He didn’t quite trust himself to stay in control. He felt uneasy, snappy, his anger ready to leap out. He knew the killer wasn’t too far away, but how to catch him? Who was behind that scooter chase? Who had threatened his family? The two must have been related, and here he could get a possible lead to who might be behind the organ trafficking.

  He wanted to be in the house when Mr Brentstein came back home. He wanted the element of surprise and an opportunity to snoop around. You could also get a measure of a man by his home. Rebwar had taken a few days to get to grips with his working pattern and had followed him. Brentstein was an early riser and went to visit his properties daily, as if he was paranoid that one day they wouldn’t be there. He still drove around in a 1980s Rolls-Royce. He wasn’t shy and repeatedly used his power in a hostile fashion.

  Even though Brentstein was old and frail, he still had an imposing aura about him in his dark, three-piece pinstriped suit.

  The house was on Oakleigh Avenue in Totteridge, there wasn’t a fancy alarm protecting his home, just lots of old-fashioned locks. Rebwar could open a safe, so this was well within his comfort zone. He walked casually by the high evergreen hedge onto the pebbled driveway. Brentstein had grown his garden to give him the maximum privacy and it was perfect cover from any snooping neighbours.