Dead Tomorrow

them. He held up his placard with the innocuous words JACKSON PARTY on it.
    One of the girls–really very sexy-looking, slender with long dark hair–raised a hand and waved at him.
    ‘You had a good flight?’ he asked in Romanian, as a greeting.
    ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Great!’
    ‘Welcome to England.’
    ‘Yeah,’ she said again. ‘Great.’
    ‘Great!’ her companion added.
    The relief on their faces was palpable.
    Twenty minutes later, Cosmescu sat in the front passenger seat of the tired, brown E-Class Mercedes. Grubby little buck-toothed Grigore drove. He didn’t actually have a hunchback, but he looked like a hunchback. He squatted over the wheel, in one of his cheap beige suits, with his greasy hair, beaky nose and eyes more on the mirror than the road ahead, shooting quick, lascivious glances at every opportunity at the two girls who were seated in the back.
    Cosmescu had worked with Grigore for five years and still he knew virtually nothing about the weirdo little creature. The man always turned up on time, did the pick-ups and the drop-offs, but rarely spoke–and that was fine with Cosmescu. If you got into conversation, then you had at some point to talk about yourself. He did not want to talk about himself to anyone. That wasn’t smart. The less anyone knew about you, the more anonymous you could be. And the more anonymous you were, the safer you were. The sef had instilled that in him.
    Grigore was good at fixingthings. He could turn his hand to just about anything, from plumbing to electrics to damp-proofing, which meant he could deal with all the shit, all the leaking pipes and blocked toilets and loose floorboards and busted blinds, and everything else that could go wrong in the four brothels Cosmescu looked after in the city. Which meant that Cosmescu did not have to worry about gossiping tradesmen. Once a week he allowed Grigore to take his pick of any girl, for an hour. That and the generous pay packet were more than enough to secure Grigore’s undying loyalty.
    Which meant there was one less headache for him. He was still thinking about the bodies. About the fuck-up. About Jim Towers. It had been stupid, killing him. But it would have been a lot more stupid to have let him live, all cosied up to the police, with the knowledge he had. Towers had been up to something–maybe he just had a bad conscience, but he could have been planning blackmail. Like in gambling, you had to balance your risks. A small one against a larger one.
    He turned and looked at the girls. The one on the left, Anca, she was nice. Her companion, Nusha, had a harder face, her nose was a little big. But both of them were young, seventeen, eighteen maximum. They were OK, they would do fine. He wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed.
    And he didn’t intend to.
    Cosmescu turnedthe privacy key and the lift ascended nonstop from the underground car park of his apartment block, behind the Metropole Hotel. The two girls stood with him, with their cheap luggage, in silence.
    Then Anca asked, ‘When do we start work?’
    ‘You start now,’ he said.
    She raised a finger. ‘We go to the bar?’
    He looked at her sparkly necklace. Smelled her sweet perfume, and her companion’s, which was even sweeter. He stared down her neckline. Good tits. Her friend had even better ones, which made up for her face. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, knowing that almost certainly they would both smoke. He was right. Each accepted one.
    Before he had a chance to click his lighter–his timing, as ever, perfect–the lift stopped and the doors opened.
    Now they would be focusing on their unlit cigarettes more than anything else. Keeping them tantalized, he stepped forward into his apartment, then held the door until they had pulled their suitcases, containing their life’s possessions, clear.
    As they walked along the carpeted landing, he showed each her room. Single rooms. Divide and rule. That strategy always worked. Then he went into Anca’s room and picked up her plastic handbag.
    ‘Hey!’ she said.
    Ignoring her, he removed her passport and then all the cash from her purse.
    ‘What you do?’ she demanded angrily.
    He produced his lighter and finally lit her cigarette. ‘You know how much money you owe? How many thousands, for your journey and your passport? When you have repaid my boss, then you may have your passport.’
    He went out and repeated the scenario with Nusha.
    A few minutes later, the twogirls walked