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

by Ols Schaber

  Richard came closer to the door as if he was trying to look in. ‘We need to come in to check.’

  ‘I see permit?’

  ‘Hey, DS, we’ve got a smart-arse.’ He signalled for Geraldine to talk to the woman. She looked back at him blankly, about to ask him what he expected her to do.

  ‘Mrs Ghorbani, I’m DS Smith and this DCI O’Neil. We’re here to–’ Before she could finish her sentence, O’Neil had rammed the door open with his weight. The safety chain snapped and the door slammed open. Hourieh screamed as he ran past her.

  ‘Sir…’ Geraldine just managed to hold back her surprised anger. ‘Calm down, we’re only looking for your husband.’ She could empathise with her as Richard smashed his way into rooms and shouted more abuse.

  ‘Hey! Over here, DS!’ shouted Richard from one of the rooms. ‘He’s probably fucking hiding.’

  Hourieh grabbed Geraldine’s arm, her face crying out for help. More swearing, crashing and slamming noises bounced off the walls.

  Geraldine said in a low voice, ‘Where is Rebwar?’

  ‘But you are police. He work for police, no?’ Her eyes were frantic.

  ‘No, not really. OK? Look, I can’t talk, but I’ll be back, OK? Now say nothing.’

  O’Neil popped his head round the corner. ‘Has she said anything? Let me guess… he’s not here. Hasn’t seen him! Maybe we should take her in and grill her fucking foreign smug face.’

  ‘Sir, he’s out working. We need to find his Uber details to track him down.’

  ‘He’s a fucking Uber driver? Another fucking reason to send that cunt back.’

  ‘Sorry for his language,’ said Geraldine to Rebwar’s wife. ‘He’s… having a bad day.’ She was about to add that she could lodge a complaint but she had no idea of which legal framework she was standing on. Was O’Neil part of some white supremacist cell?

  ‘Does she know you?’ He looked at the woman’s hand still holding Geraldine’s.

  ‘Sir, she’s traumatised, we’ve just–’ O’Neil stormed past her, hitting the wall with his pipe and making a huge dent for good measure.

  ‘Let’s catch that cunt. Come on, DS Smith! Stop wasting my time.’

  Geraldine let him storm off. ‘I’m so sorry about this, I’ll make sure Rebwar gets treated correctly.’

  O’Neil popped his head back in. ‘You know him, don’t ya? You’ve met him. DS Smith, are you lying to me?’

  ‘Sir, I’m just making sure she won’t sue us for negligence or anything worse.’

  ‘Fuck that, DS. I’m smelling something fishy here. I think we need to bring her in for some questioning.’

  Before she could defend herself, Rebwar’s wife was handcuffed.

  ‘Let me go! I have a son. Need to pick him up. Later. Yes?’

  ‘Shut up, you Arab scum!’ He ripped the carpet off the wall. ‘Getting fucking tired of you lot talking.’

  ‘You can call a friend?’ said Geraldine.

  ‘I’m getting to the bottom of this, DS Smith. If you’re withholding any information from me there will be hell to pay.’

  Thirty-Six

  Rebwar was sitting in his cab folding and unfolding the piece of paper with the number that Brentstein had given him. He’d left him wriggling on the floor in his own pool of guilt. He wasn’t too sure what to do with the number, though he had some ideas he was mulling over. He had deactivated his tracking settings on the phone – or rather Raj had done it for him. He needed room to breathe, to let his mind roam freely, as if before a chess move. He had to prove to Geraldine and Plan B that he could find the killer. He could feel he was getting close.

  To give him a fresh perspective he decided to work a bit, take a few passengers around London. His first job was a ride to Paddington station from an office at 8 Fitzroy Street. He had parked in front of the building, watching delivery vans scurrying around with parcels, cyclists weaving around like flies, groups of suited men and women trying to find their next meetings. Two men stood by his car reading his number plate and one of them waved his phone at him.

  ‘Paddington train station? Right?’ Rebwar nodded and they entered the car. He studied the men through the rear-view mirror. Both were in their twenties and suited. One was wearing thick glasses and a trimmed beard, the other clean-cut and tanned. Rebwar was about to guess their jobs when the bearded one started talking about some building’s new design and he guessed they might have been architects or had some creative job.

  ‘Having a good day?’ said Rebwar. The bearded one was talking, and the other listening, so there wasn’t any response. As soon as he typed in the address he was off.

  ‘Are you guys architects?’ Rebwar tried again to make some conversation, they both looked at him.

  ‘Journalist,’ said the bearded one and looked down at his smartphone.

  Rebwar wanted to prod them for some conversation. ‘What do you think about the Brexit vote?’

  ‘Oh don’t get him started, mate,’ said the other one with glasses. ‘Not happening, it’s not happening, not listening.’

  ‘I can’t vote,’ said Rebwar.

  ‘We’re better off out,’ said the bearded one.

  ‘I still don’t get you, Mike. I want to be in Europe and my children too. We’ll be better off being part of Europe.’

  Mike sat up and loosened his seat belt by sliding it off his shoulder. ‘If Sir what’s his name Dyson and the bloke from JCB think we are better off out, then there must something in it. I mean all that red tape – and then we can trade with the world. They are holding us back!’

  ‘What? Some capitalist knows best? But we are stronger in the EU and, yes, there are some problems. But we need to be in the EU to negotiate and have our say. It’s madness.’

  ‘John, it’s the EU superstate creeping in. Not having that! We need our independence back. Anyway I need to make a point.’ Mike looked out of the window. ‘It won’t happen anyway but I need to make a point. I hate this Etonian government. Bunch of posh wankers.’

  Rebwar could see he had started a discussion that wasn’t going to finish by the time he’d dropped them off. His phone rang. It was Musa. This wasn’t the time so Rebwar let it ring. He needed to concentrate on the drive, he could call him back. As he approached a traffic light, a police siren bleeped behind him. The police car flashed at him; they wanted him to stop. For a split second Rebwar wanted to floor the accelerator and flee.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ said Mike.

  ‘Sure it’s routine check,’ said Rebwar as his phone rang again. It was Musa again. Rebwar decided to pick it up.

  ‘I have a train in fifteen minutes,’ Mike said. ‘We don’t have time for this.’

  ‘Dad, Dad!’ Musa sounded anxious.

  ‘Yes, son.’

  ‘It’s Mum! The police have taken her to the station. What is going on? I’m, I’m–’

  ‘Musa, don’t worry. Sure there is an easy explanation. I can’t talk now. Stay home!’ said Rebwar trying to deal with the escalating situation.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Mike said. ‘Don’t need this right now. Hey, driver, can you get us another cab?’

  ‘I’m sure it will take no time. Just a misunderstanding.’

  His two passengers opened their door but the two policemen stopped them. Rebwar had already lowered his window and one of the policemen stepped up next to Rebwar’s window. Rebwar could barely see his eyes below his cap.

  ‘Sir, I need to see some ID.’

  Rebwar took out his wallet and said, ‘Is there a problem, officer?’

  ‘Excuse me, but we have a very important train to catch,’ said John.

  ‘We need some ID from you too,’ said the officer on the other side of the car.

  ‘Look, we really don’t have time for this! I’m sure this is just some–’

  ‘ID. Now. And can you step out of the car.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I want to speak to your superiors.’

  Rebwar knew that if they had taken Hourieh then
they were after him too. There was something going on and he wasn’t intending on sticking around. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, as he waited for the policeman to make his next move. Both of his passengers were now arguing with the policemen. He floored the accelerator. The car lurched forward, throwing his passengers down into their seats.

  ‘Fuck, what the hell!’

  The car’s tyres held on desperately to the tarmac as Rebwar made a sharp left turn down a little cobbled street. He was listening to his gut. There was no idea or plan, just animal instinct telling him to run. He made another quick turn down a side street. A siren wailed behind him. The guys in the back just looked at each other, grabbing any handle they could find in the car.

  ‘Hey, are… you a terrorist?’ asked John.

  They glanced around anxiously, no doubt wondering if they should call out for help.

  Rebwar honked down a one-way street lined with parked cars and fleeing pedestrians and swerved down Clipstone Mews. He drove straight down the ramp into Clipstone Car Park, stopped by the barrier and pressed the button for a ticket. For the moment it took to dispense, his two passengers eyed him.

  ‘I’m not carrying a bomb,’ Rebwar said. This didn’t seem to reassure them. ‘I’m not a terrorist, just a refugee.’

  ‘Can we leave? We don’t want anything.’

  Rebwar drove the car through the barrier and John with the beard said, ‘Can we help? Did you sneak into this country?’

  ‘Come on, John. We can’t get involved. We’ll be accessories to the crime.’

  ‘What crime?’

  Rebwar parked the car and switched it off. ‘Guys, go and catch your train. It’s my problem but if they ask just say… say what you want.’

  Mike had already stepped out the car. ‘Come on, John!’

  ‘Here’s some money.’ John handed over some notes.

  Rebwar took them, it wasn’t the moment to be humble. As they said here, the shit had most definitely hit the fan.

  Thirty-Seven

  Geraldine watched Rebwar’s wife in the interview room behind the one-way glass. As she fidgeted with her trinkets, Geraldine could tell how worried she was and felt sorry for her. Geraldine didn’t want this. She stared at her phone and kept hesitating. She wanted to call the Squirrel to get some help to stop this getting out of hand. O’Neil was barking up the wrong tree. The door buzzed in the interview room. O’Neil hobbled in with his cast, holding a folder. He pulled out a chair and placed his thin backside on it. Then he put the folder on the table and placed his cast on it. He looked casual, cocky and angry. He leaned back and looked coldly over at Geraldine. He knew she was there and didn’t want her involved. She had asked to be in the interview. He wasn’t even recording it. What was his game?

  ‘Mrs Ghorbani, I have a file here with your details. Do you know why you are here?’

  She crossed her arms in defiance. She obviously disliked him which brought a little satisfactory giggle. Mrs Ghorbani’s sharp black eyes stared back at O’Neil.

  ‘OK, I’ll spell it out. Your husband, Mr R. Ghorbani, is a suspect in a murder investigation. Are you aware of this?’

  Her head tutted like it was an insult.

  ‘So you know this? You could be an accessory to the crime if you do. This is serious, Mrs Ghorbani!’ She looked away towards Geraldine. She was a tough cookie. Geraldine could see the spirit that had attracted Rebwar to her.

  O’Neil let his cast clonk on the table to get her attention. ‘Look, we can deport you, do you understand?’ He opened the file. ‘Do you need a translator?’

  ‘And a lawyer, I have rights, Mr…’

  ‘Mrs Ghorbani, do you mean a solicitor? This is more of an informal interview.’ He looked down at his file.

  ‘Mr?’ She waited for him to answer.

  ‘DCI O’Neil, and you need to tell me where your husband is. And where you were on the night of the tenth of March.’

  She leaned back and crossed her arms again.

  ‘No, Mr DCI O’Neil I am not answering the questions. My husband is innocent. He’s a hardworking man. And if I knew… if…’ She stopped, leaned back into her chair. And she breathed in. Geraldine breathed in too, there was a hesitation, which O’Neil spotted.

  ‘Mrs Ghorbani, this is a serious situation, and if you don’t fully co-operate with this investigation you are going to be arrested with complicity to murder. Where was your husband on the tenth of March?’

  ‘Out working in his Uber taxi. Check with company. It cannot be that difficult. You must have secretaries that do that for you?’

  For a moment O’Neil stared at her. ‘Are you hiding him?’

  She tutted. ‘You did great job breaking my home… and if I would… No, you are guessing. Where are the facts?’ For a moment Geraldine thought she was going to crack. ‘Mr DCI O’Meal, even if I did… what would I get?’

  O’Neil looked around like he had accidentally won a school wrestling trophy. ‘Mrs Ghorbani, you are not in a position to negotiate but I’m sure we would…’ O’Neil looked up.

  Geraldine’s fist clenched ready to hit the one-way glass.

  O’Neil glanced over to Geraldine and moved closer to the desk. ‘We would make sure you would be looked after. But, until you give me facts I can’t help you. Understand?’

  Mrs Ghorbani stared at O’Neil, waiting for him to say more.

  ‘Would I get a job? Have a visa? Or a plane home?’

  ‘I… I’m sure we could, Mrs…’

  ‘What will you do when you find him?’

  O’Neil looked at his cast and clenched his fist at the thought.

  Hourieh smiled. ‘You’ve met him before? I can see it in your eyes, I know the look.’

  O’Neil fingered some paperwork. ‘Mrs Ghorbani, answer the questions please.’

  ‘Say it again. Sorry I not understand. You not so clear.’

  Geraldine noticed her own smile in the glass’s reflection. O’Neil had misread Rebwar’s wife and she was enjoying the spectacle. Mrs Ghorbani was holding her own with the DCI and he wasn’t going to get anything out of her. It was the moment that Geraldine realised that Rebwar’s wife loved him. Her heart swelled and she breathed in as if surrounded by her favourite smells. She thought of Zara. Luckily for now, O’Neil was unaware that Rebwar was working for Plan B. Now Geraldine understood: O’Neil wanted revenge. Something had happened between them.

  ‘Mrs Ghorbani, if you are not willing to co-operate I am going to have to press charges.’

  ‘I not care, DCI O’Meal.’

  O’Neil got up and sloped out of the room.

  Geraldine stood outside a Costa with a takeaway coffee cup and a cigarette. It was a busy intersection with people coming and going. The sun was shining and she was enjoying the rays warming her face. She had left the station and was going to go back to Rebwar’s home alone. She had to find him and make some kind of plan, but she had no idea what. She felt like a loose cog in a gearbox. A voice called out beside her.

  ‘The mice are fleeing the ship!’

  She turned to see the Squirrel. He had found her. Even though her heart was bouncing inside her she gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘Little jumpy, aren’t you? We’ve some catching up to do. That Robin of yours has fled the nest and is causing trouble.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Geraldine, desperate for some straight answers.

  ‘We need your Robin in a cage where he ain’t going to cause any more distress. He’s become a liability. Didn’t I make it clear to ease off.’

  She dragged on the cigarette. Now she felt responsible for the mess Rebwar was in; she had encouraged him.

  ‘Didn’t I?’ With his hands in his coat pockets the Squirrel tried to make eye contact with Geraldine.

  She nodded, looking down at his shining pristine brogues. Her white trainers had been in constant use since Vasiles had gone missing. They were grey now.

  ‘Who is Richard O’Neil?’ Geraldine looked at the Squirrel’
s staring eyes and saw him bite his lower lip.

  He took a breath and looked around him. ‘We don’t know yet. You’ve met him?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s taken over. Thinks my Robin has committed the murder. His wife is in the nick and she could have spilt the beans.’

  ‘What does she know?’

  Geraldine shrugged. ‘She was bluffing. I think.’

  ‘Could the Robin have done it or is this O’Neil trying to find a scapegoat?’

  She wasn’t expecting such a question from a paper pusher; the thought sent a chill down her back.

  ‘Why do you say that, do you know something I don’t?’

  ‘Look, I know a lot of things that you don’t.’ He pointed at her. ‘So don’t push it.’

  She turned away from him and sipped her coffee. She wanted to thump the annoying prick.

  ‘Maybe you’re the suspect? How do I know that you’re not and hasn’t this case been passed on to Scotland Yard? O’Neil’s from there, isn’t he?’

  ‘You need to bring in your Robin. I have a plan.’

  She gave him a sideways glance and feared what his mouth was going to spout out.

  ‘It’s going to be a classic snatch. I have some agents that are going to come along. I’ll be running the show.’

  Her thoughts were so loud that they nearly spilled out but she lit another cigarette.

  ‘Go on, don’t let my smoking stop you.’ She looked at him, took one and then handed it to him. ‘It does wonders. Should be prescribed.’

  He grimaced at the thought. ‘Listen, you make contact with him and get him to meet you. Now this is the important bit…’

  She could see by his childish glee how much he was enjoying this. A total failed spy he was. Had probably watched every James Bond. It’s le Carré, that is where it’s at, she felt like saying to him.

  ‘You need to meet in a tube station, so we can corner him. One of our agents is a busker and he’s going to snare him.’ He stared blankly at Geraldine. ‘As he trusts you, you will take him there for a meeting. We’ll have radios and be in contact and I’ll be giving the orders.’