Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

Ileana turned to another girl in the group, a Romany of indeterminate age, dressed in a pink day-glo shell-suit top and shiny green bottoms, with a scarf wound around her neck.

‘Stefania,’ she said, in Romanian. ‘How are you?’

‘Not so good,’ the girl said, ripping open a packet of crisps. ‘The weather’s shitty, no? It’s a really bad time. Nobody has money to give to beggars. Where are the tourists? Christmas is coming, right? Nobody has money.’

A tall, sullen youth, with a small moustache, wearing an embroidered woollen hat, a black fleece and grimy jeans, and gripping the neck of a plastic carrier, doubtless containing Aurolac, began ranting about how the turkeys – their slang for the police – were treating them recently. Then he peered into one of the bags Stefania was holding open and pulled out a chocolate bar.

‘They don’t leave us alone. They just don’t leave us alone.’

‘I’m looking for Raluca,’ Ileana said. ‘Has anyone seen her tonight?’

The group shot each other glances. Although it was clear they knew her, they all shook their heads.

‘No,’ Stefania said. ‘We don’t know any Raluca.’

‘Come on, she was here with you last week. I spoke to her with you all!’ Ileana said.

‘What has she done wrong?’ another girl asked.

‘She’s done nothing wrong,’ Ileana reassured her. ‘We need her help. Some of you street kids are in real danger. We wanted to warn you about something.’

‘Warn us about what?’ the sullen youth with the moustache said. ‘We are always in danger. No one cares about us.’

Ian Tilling asked, ‘Have any of you been offered jobs abroad?’

The youth gave a sneering laugh. ‘We’re still here, aren’t we?’ He broke off a slab of chocolate and crammed it into his mouth. Chewing, he said, ‘You think we’d still be here if we were offered a way to get out?’

‘Who is this man?’ A strung-out-looking girl at the back of the group pointed at Ian Tilling, suspicion in her voice.

‘He’s a good friend to us all,’ Ileana said.

Andreea pulled the e-fit photographs of the three dead teenagers in Brighton out of one of her anorak pockets.

‘Can you all please look at these and see if you recognize any of them?’ she asked. ‘It is very important.’

The group passed them round, some looking carefully, some indifferently. Stefania studied them for the longest and then, pointing at the face of the dead female, queried, ‘Is that Bogdana, possibly?’

Another girl took the photograph and studied it. ‘No, I know Bogdana. We sheltered together for a year. That’s not her.’

They handed them back to Ileana.

‘Does anyone know a boy called Rares?’ Ian Tilling asked. He held up the close-up of the tattoo.

Again they all shook their heads.

Then, suddenly, Stefania stared past him. Tilling turned around and saw a girl of about fifteen, with long, dark hair, clipped up, wearing a leather jacket, a leather miniskirt and knee-length shiny black boots walking towards them, looking furious. As she got closer, he saw she had a black eye and a graze on her opposite cheek.

‘Raluca!’ Ileana said.

‘Fucker!’ Raluca said angrily, addressing all of them and none of them. ‘Do you know what this man wanted me to do in his truck? I won’t tell you. I told him to go to hell and he hit me. Then he pushed me out into the street!’

Ileana stepped away from the group, put an arm around Raluca and led her a short distance across the concourse, out of earshot of the others. She examined her eye and the graze for a moment and asked her if she wanted to go to hospital. The girl refused vigorously.

‘I need some help, Raluca,’ Ileana said.

Raluca shrugged, still brimming with anger.

‘What help? What help does anyone give me?’

‘Listen to me a minute, please, Raluca,’ Ileana implored, ignoring the comment. ‘You told me, some weeks ago, that you had heard of a woman who was offering kids jobs abroad, with an apartment? Yes?’

She shrugged again, then conceded that she had.

Ileana showed her the photographs. ‘Do you recognize any of these?’

Raluca pointed at one of the boys. ‘His face – I’ve seen him around, but I don’t know his name.’

‘This is really important, Raluca, believe me. Last week, these Romanian kids were found murdered in England. All their internal organs were taken. You must tell me what you know about this woman who offers the jobs.’

Raluca blanched. ‘I don’t know her, but – I…’ Suddenly she looked very frightened. ‘You know Simona, and Romeo, her friend?’

‘No.’

‘I saw Simona, just a couple of days ago. She was really happy. She was telling me about this woman who has offered her a job in England. She is going to go – she had a medical…’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Oh shit. You have a cigarette?’

Ileana gave her a cigarette, took one herself and pulled out her lighter.

Raluca inhaled, then blew the smoke out quickly.

‘A medical?’

‘This woman told her she needed – you know – to check on her health. To get the travel documents.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She lives with her guy, Romeo, and a group, under the street, by the heating pipe.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know exactly. I know the sector. Only that, she told me.’

‘We need to find her,’ Ileana said. ‘Will you come with us?’

‘I need money for my drugs. I don’t have time.’

‘We’ll give you money. As much as you could earn tonight. OK?’

Minutes later they were hurrying towards Ian Tilling’s car.

The Airbus was on its landing approach, steadily sinking through the clear, but bumpy sky. The seat-belt lights had just pinged on. Grace checked his seat was upright, although he hadn’t touched it during the flight. He had been concentrating on the notes a researcher had prepared for him on liver failure, and planning what he wanted to get out of his meeting, later this morning, with the German organ broker.

They were twenty-five minutes later than scheduled, due to air traffic control delays at take-off, which was a sizeable dent in the preciously short time he had here. From his window seat, he peered down. The snowy landscape looked very different from the previous time he had come here, in summer. Then it had been a flat, colourful patchwork quilt of farmland, now it was just a vast expanse of white. There must have been a recent heavy dump, he thought, because even most of the trees were covered.

The ground was looming closer, the buildings getting bigger with every second. He saw small clusters of white houses, their roofs covered in snow, then several thin copses and a small town. More clusters of houses and buildings. The light was so bright he regretted, for a moment, not bringing sunglasses.

It was strange how time changed everything. Not long ago he had come here, to Munich, with real hope that he might find Sandy, finally, after close friends had been sure they had spotted her in a park. But now all those emotions had gone, evaporated. He could honestly say to himself that he no longer had any feelings towards her. He really felt, for the first time, that he was in the final stages of laying all the complexities of his memories of her to rest. The darkness and the light.

Grace heard the clunk of the landing wheels locking beneath him and felt a sudden prick of apprehension. For the first time in so, so long, he really had something to live for. His darling Cleo. He did not think it would be possible to love a human being more than he loved her. She was with him, in his heart, in his soul, in his skin, his bones, his blood, every waking second.

The thought of anything bad happening to her was more than he could bear. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt nervous for his own safety. Nervous of something happening that might prevent them from being together. Just when they had found each other.