by Ols Schaber
There was a side gate that led to the garden, secured only by a small padlock which took Rebwar less than a minute to pick. He walked down the side of the house and into the back garden, which was a long grassy carpet dotted with sculptures of naked women. He was half curious about going up to them to have a closer look. They looked cheap and fake.
There was a conservatory extension at the back of Brentstein’s faux mansion house. Rebwar had a peek inside. The furniture was partially covered up with white sheets. It was sad inside, no sign of a soul living there. He took a moment to have a cigarette before going into the house. After a few short puffs he went to work on the lock. He was a little surprised by how easy it was to open it; it was old and worn and the cylinder gave way quickly. For some reason, Brentstein must have felt that no one would dare go into the garden. As the conservatory door squeaked open, the air felt stuffy and musty. Rebwar listened for any sounds.
The house was filled with a mixture of old antique and cheap 1970s furniture. Brentstein had quite obviously collected it from other people’s houses. Dotted around were family pictures and, on closer inspection, they seemed to be random families. Brentstein featured in none of them. Something else he had stolen? Rebwar stopped by the stairs and thought for moment about going up them, but decided against it. This place was freaking him out. It was soulless and sad. He made his way to the study instead. That had a view of the driveway and was filled with a pile of newspapers. He took a closer look and noticed that a lot of them were opened at the death notices. Brentstein had circled the ones he was interested in.
Rebwar sat down in the high-backed leather chair behind the desk and looked out of the window. It was only then that he realised how dense the grey sky was. It sucked all the colours out of the day. For a moment he wanted to light up a cigarette but that would give away his presence but then again, if Brentstein smelled the smoke that might make him angry. So he lit up. It would set the right tone for the confrontation.
Rebwar stared into his cigarette pack; there was one left. The remnants of the others were crushed in a mound on a tea saucer. He now wished he’d brought a few more packs with him. The sound of crushing gravel made him look out of the window. Salomon Brentstein was driving his brown Rolls into the driveway. Rebwar took out the last cigarette and slid it under his nose to smell the tobacco; he was going to relish this encounter. The front door locks clicked and the door scraped open, footsteps tapped over the stone slabs and the door shut. Brentstein stopped and sniffed the air.
‘What in the hell, Elana? Is that you?’ Brentstein stepped towards the study and his eyes bulged at the sight of Rebwar. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Rebwar and I have some questions for you.’
‘You! You can’t smoke in my house. And what are you doing in my chair?’ His face had turned crimson. ‘I am calling the police.’
‘I won’t take too much of your pathetic time.’
‘This is an invasion of my property.’ Brentstein reached for his breast pocket. Rebwar got up and approached him, until he could smell his cheap cologne, a woody mustard smell.
‘I’m just here to ask you a question! Put that phone away.’ Rebwar held Brentstein’s hand. Brentstein struggled to push him away but was too frail to do anything. Rebwar swung him around and pushed him down into his office chair. Salomon slumped into it, looking empty and helpless. For a little moment, Rebwar felt sorry for him. He watched Brentstein and saw how age withers you away as a rock crumbles in the desert. Rebwar took Brentstein’s phone away from him and ripped the cord from the landline.
‘It’s a simple question… where did you get that kidney?’
Brentstein’s light blue bloodshot eyes looked back at him with a hint of fear.
‘I need to know.’
‘A kidney? You have the wrong place.’
‘Don’t you lie to me like you do to your old ladies. Yes, I know you, Salomon Joseph Brentstein.’
Brentstein stared at him like he was hoping he was bluffing, Rebwar held his stare as a predator would with its prey.
‘I… I called a number… it’s a secret number. Do you need it?’
Rebwar unclenched his fists; he had been ready to take it to the next level.
‘Here… here! You can have it. Please… I did no wrong.’ He fumbled into the piles of papers and newspapers. ‘It’s here somewhere.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘It’s… it’s an organisation. No names.’ He brought out a piece of paper with a mobile number and handed it to Rebwar.
‘So what happens?’ Rebwar lit his last cigarette as if it was a reward.
‘I… they just take some details from you and you have to give them a lot of cash. Please leave now, I am old and you have what you need.’
‘Not so quick, my friend. You have more to answer to. You stole my friend’s mother’s house and you are going to give it back to her.’
‘What? He sent you… I mean who?’
‘You first,’ said Rebwar, wondering who he was thinking about.
‘The rabbi.’
Rebwar smiled at the thought he would go that low. ‘It’s the old lady from Rurall Crescent and you’re going to give them all back. All!’ Brentstein was about to plead with Rebwar, but Rebwar slapped him before he could talk. ‘You thief! You know in my country we would cut your hands off for what you have done.’
‘No, not that. Please… I’ll do what I can.’
Rebwar slapped him again. This time a trickle of blood fell from his nose and his hands trembled. ‘Yes I’ll do whatever you want.’ He used his shaking hands to cover his head from another slap. Rebwar felt another wave of pity at the sight of the helpless old man. He did it well and now understood how he managed to win over people’s trust.
‘Is it money you want? I have some in my safe. You can have it. But please don’t hit me.’ For a moment Rebwar thought that the money could come in useful and no one would really miss it, but that would bring him to the same level as Brentstein.
‘No. What you need is another heart, a heart that has pity and charity. I am going to come back. Like a biblical plague. I am going to return to check on you, check if you have honoured your word.’ Rebwar turned and made his way to the door, he had got what he wanted. He stood there thinking.
‘And you know that kidney?’ He walked back into the study. ‘It was stolen too, from a man who is now dead. His name was Vasiles Konstantine, a Romanian.’
Brentstein put his hands over his ears as if he wanted to hear no more. Rebwar found a photo of Vasiles on his phone and showed it to him. ‘Look, look! He was murdered, how does that feel having a murdered man’s body parts inside you.’
Brentstein bent double and groaned with horror at knowing what had been put inside him.
‘He was a builder. Married, probably wanted a family and – you took that away.’
‘No, no I didn’t. It wasn’t me. No you’re lying. It’s not true. It’s like all of you, liars and cheats coming to this country and taking it away.’ He scratched his body as if his insides wanted to escape. ‘You’re just a low-life liar, telling me infidel stories. I’ll tell on you, you’ll see justice.’
Rebwar felt his anger return from that dark place and he was tempted to let it flow back. He wanted to hit harder, wanted to take his shoe off and hit him, wanted to spit on him, wanted to make him feel small and insignificant, wanted him to feel the suffering he had inflicted on his victims. Brentstein was now on the floor, his shirt half undone with his manic scratching. Rebwar could see his blue veins through his paper-thin skin. Brentstein’s eyes were lost in the denial of what Rebwar had just told him. Rebwar stepped back, breathing in the rage that was trying to rush out. His fists clenched, and he took a few more steps to the door. The job was done, he told himself. Done.
Thirty-Four
‘Have you got that bank statement I asked for?’
Geraldine looked up from her little cramped cubicle. It was in the middle of a large
open-plan office. The dividers made sure you could only really see people’s heads. It was on the eleventh floor of the Empress State Building in Earl’s Court, a new build with shiny glass and curved metal. They had still managed to keep the concrete grey. Her space was filled with spilling files. She felt like she was on one of these TV reality shows, no one really knowing anybody; they were just faces with badge numbers. In front of her was DS Blonde with a stern chiselled face that had no give, no nonsense and no humour. As Geraldine was treated like a temp, she was regularly assigned to other random cases – this one was a suspected murder in a block of flats in Notting Hill. Geraldine and DS Blonde already hated each other and the DS was pulling rank every opportunity she could get. ‘Don’t tell me it’s coming, or you need more time or I’ll report you.’
Without a word, Geraldine pulled out a file from under one of the towering piles and handed it to her.
‘Ah, right… OK.’ DS Blonde opened it and checked it, probably thinking it was for someone else. ‘OK, yes. That’ll do for now.’ She walked off and Geraldine muttered under her breath. ‘A thanks would be nice – cow.’
She flicked her screen back on. She was doing some of her own digging about the site manager Lawrence Gibson. Rebwar had a feeling he was hiding something but his profile didn’t match up to that of the potential killer. He didn’t have any medical training. She was comparing his various CVs she had found online and checking their authenticity. It was so easy to fabricate facts, no one really properly checked them out. She picked up the phone and called Coventry University. She was looking for his application.
‘Yes, I’ll hold.’ Geraldine pulled her hair as she waited for an answer.
‘You’re lucky, miss, as we have just digitised our archive. It’s all meta tagged. Very clever. It used to be all by term years and alphabetical.’
‘Have you found him?’
‘Yes I have. Shall I make a copy and send it by post?’
‘Can you email it?’ She tapped the rubber of the pencil on her pad.
‘No, we haven’t got that set up, we can only print.’
‘Ah, you couldn’t photograph it with your phone and send it to me?’
‘Sorry, do what?’
One step forward, two back. ‘OK, then post it to me. But can you just see what he put down as his army training?’ She could hear over the phone the man reading the text.
‘It says he served in Afghanistan in the Medical Corps.’
‘Say that again. Actually, don’t. But can you send it first class now and let me know which unit?’
‘The 4th Armoured Medical Regiment, and he served for one tour.’
‘Thanks. That is a great help, and thank you again.’ She put the phone down, twirled her seat around in her excitement and picked it up again. Geraldine held it with head and shoulder while she looked for the number of his unit on the internet. A few clicks and she found the department and number to call for war records.
‘You’re looking for a Lawrence Gibson, do you have his rank?… No? OK.’
She was put on hold and some military band music came on which made her smile. After what felt like a whole Trooping of the Colour, he came back on.
‘He was dishonourably discharged.’
‘Really? Can you say why?’
‘No I can’t. You will need a warrant if you want more.’ The phone went dead.
‘Are you Geraldine?’ She looked up at a tall thin man with a cast on his left arm looking down into her cubicle. ‘I’m DCI O’Neil. You can call me Rich.’
She held out her hand to say hello. He grabbed it and squeezed it like a vice. Geraldine immediately mistrusted ‘Rich’, from his shifty looks around him. His cold stare made judgements, and he had already made his mind up about her.
‘Right, so I hear you’re free. Free like a bird. Right, I need you to come along with me.’
For a moment she was going to protest, but she quickly decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Resigned, she stood up and took her bomber jacket off the back of her chair.
‘It’s that case your unit passed on. We have a suspect and we have some intel on where he is.’
She levelled up to his fast-paced walk, which was a struggle for her short legs. ‘Who’s the suspect?’ She looked at his face, waiting for an answer, while dodging the corners of desks as she followed him out of the office. ‘A guy called Rebwar. He’s a refugee from Iran.’
Geraldine stopped.
‘What? What’s the problem? Forgotten something?’
She couldn’t make a scene. ‘Yes. Go ahead – I’ll catch up.’ She ran back to her desk but didn’t really know what to do. Should she contact the Squirrel? She felt her heart race and her mind couldn’t think straight. Felt powerless as she couldn’t contact or call anyone for help. She looked around and took out her phone, loaded the tracking app. No blue dot came up, she let out a sigh of relief. Rebwar had switched his tracker off. But she knew it was only a matter of time till they found him.
‘Hey, Geraldine! Get a fucking move on!’ shouted O’Neil from the door.
Thirty-Five
Geraldine was now a temp and Richard O’Neil had randomly chosen her to help him. She was like a discarded tennis ball that any dog could come around and play with. O’Neil used his fob to unlock an unmarked Ford Fiesta and ordered her to get in. For a moment, Geraldine was going to offer to drive, but he was already revving the engine and using his right arm to put it into gear. The cast wasn’t stopping him. By the time she shut the door they were already moving.
‘DS, what do you know about Rebwar Ghorbani?’
Geraldine felt like it was a trick question. Had he been sent by Plan B? First rule of Plan B was not to talk about it. ‘Nothing. Sir.’
‘OK. Well I’ll get you up to speed. He’s the suspect for the murder of Stefan Lupei and the disappearance of Vasiles and Ioanna Konstantine. You’ve heard of them?’
‘A bit, sir. Had the case moved to another department.’
‘Right, DS. We’re going to see Ghorbani’s wife and if we’re lucky he’ll be there.’ O’Neil sped through the busy streets of London, squeezing himself into any gap he could find. Geraldine was starting to feel a little queasy, she wasn’t sure if it was O’Neil’s driving or her nerves.
‘Who is the suspect, sir?’
‘An Iranian refugee. Here illegally. And that dirty Arab is going back. Not having him stay in our posh jails. He can rot in one of their own.’
Geraldine was desperate to warn Rebwar. What if he was at home? He would recognise her. Would he keep quiet? O’Neil’s driving was making her a little sick and she opened the window to let some London air in, hoping it would help somehow.
‘This Rebwar has got an army medical background. For sure he’s cut those poor fuckers up like Saddam’s butcher.’ O’Neil looked at Geraldine for a reaction.
‘That’s Iraq, sir. He’s from Iran and where did you find that out? Is there any mention of organ smuggling?’ Geraldine stared at O’Neil, looking for some confirmation on what he was saying. Why was he so interested in this case and was he also in on it?
O’Neil shrugged his shoulders. ‘Iran, Iraq, it’s all sand to me and…why do you say that?’
‘I thought I heard that from someone, sir.’
The car’s engine screamed and gears crunched as O’Neil tried to change gears with his cast.
‘It’s not in the file, but whatever we can charge him with, we will. That sand-dancing raghead is going down – not having him commit murders on our soil. And, you know, the more we can send back the better.’
He honked for the car beside him to let him through but as soon as he noticed that the driver was an Asian, more verbal abuse came spouting out of his mouth. Geraldine slid a little lower into her seat.
‘The suspect, if there, needs to be taken down hard. He’s army trained. We restrain him first and then ask questions. I’ve got a baseball bat in the back and don’t worry if this is a little out of the protocol, if yo
u know what I mean.’ He accelerated hard.
Geraldine was desperately trying to think of ways to stop Rebwar’s arrest. ‘Sir, respectfully, shouldn’t we ask for backup?’
‘That’s exactly what we don’t need. Stealth. Don’t want any of these scum to see us coming.’ He stopped the car in front of a council high rise and he looked up. ‘It’s too good for them.’ He got out and went to the back of the car.
Geraldine looked around; there were a few people about. Most of them kids on skateboards, more of a typical mix than the hotbeds of refugees that O’Neil was obsessed by. The tower was one of those 1960s social experiments. She estimated that there were over twenty floors. There were three towers stranded in an otherwise affluent North London neighbourhood. O’Neil handed her a stab vest and the baseball bat. He had a cap and a metal tube and some dark sunglasses, which made him looked more like a hooligan than a police officer.
‘Come on. Fifth floor.’ He marched in. The kids had spotted them and were already taking photos with their mobiles. It felt like a set-up. This wasn’t under the radar. She was sure they were going to upload their photos onto social media.
‘What about those kids?’
O’Neil looked back. ‘More evidence for us.’ He walked into the building.
After taking the dirty-smelling stairs they arrived at a battered blue door. O’Neil nodded at Geraldine and rang the buzzer. Geraldine felt nauseous as they waited. She heard some shuffling.
‘Who is it?’ asked a woman behind the door.
‘It’s the police!’ shouted Richard. ‘Open up! We are here for Mr Ghorbani!’
A lock clicked open and the door slid back on its safety catch. The woman’s dark eyes stared back at them.
‘He not here.’
‘Are you Mrs Ghorbani? Is your husband at home?’
‘No, he at work.’