Dead Tomorrow

sea.
    And suddenly he had a thought that momentarily pushed his anger to one side.
    The thought stayed with him, developing more in his mind, as he drove along the gusty road, through Rotting-dean and Kemp Town, and then along Brighton seafront.
    Back in Roy’s house, he poured himself a large whisky, then sat down in an armchair and thought some more.
    He was still shaking with anger about Ari.
    But the thought stayed with him.
    And it was there when he woke, three hours later.
    He had beenrubbish at most subjects at school, because his dad, who was either drunk or stoned, and beat up his mother, consistently told him he was no good, the way he told his two brothers and his sisters they were no good either. And Glenn had believed him. He’d spent his childhood being moved from one care home to another. Geometry was the one subject he had liked. And there was one thing he remembered from that, and it had stuck in his head all night.
    Triangulation.

61
    At nine o’clock in themorning, Ian Tilling sat at his desk in his office in Casa Ioana, in Bucharest, and enthusiastically studied the lengthy email and scanned photographs that had come in from his old mate Norman Potting. Three sets of fingerprints, three e-fit photographs, two of young males and one of a young female, and several photographs, the most interesting of which was the close-up of a primitive tattoo of the name Rares .
    It felt good to be involved in some detective work again. And with the briefing meeting about to start, it was really going to feel like the old days!
    He sipped his mug of Twinings English Breakfast tea–his elderly mother in Brighton posted him regular supplies of the tea bags, as well as Marmite and Wilkin & Sons Tiptree Medium Cut Orange Marmalade. Just about the only things he missed from England that he could not easily obtain out here.
    Seated on wooden chairs in front of his desk were two of his female social workers. Dorina was a tall twenty-three-year-old with short black hair who had come to Romania from the Republic of Moldova with her husband. Andreea was an attractive girl. She had long brown hair and was dressed in a V-neck brown jumper over a striped shirt and jeans.
    Andreea reported first, giving the general consensus that Rares was quite a posh name, and was unusual for a street kid. She opined that the tattoo was self-inflicted, which indicatedthe girl might be a Roma–or Tigani–a gypsy. She added that a Roma girl and a non-Roma boyfriend would be very uncommon.
    ‘We could put an announcement up on the main notice-board,’ Dorina said, ‘with the photographs. See if any of our homeless clients have any information who these people might be.’
    ‘Good idea,’ Tilling said. ‘I’d like you to contact all the other homeless charities. Andreea, if you could get these to the three Fara homes, please.’
    There were two Fara homes in the city and a farm out in the country, charitable institutions set up by an English couple, Michael and Jane Nicholson, which took in street kids.
    ‘I’ll do that this morning.’
    Tilling thanked her, then glanced at his watch. ‘I have a meeting at the local police station at half past nine. Can the two of you contact the placement centres in all six local authority areas?’
    ‘I already started,’ Dorina said. ‘I’m not getting a good response. I just spoke to one, but they refused to assist. They’re saying that they cannot share confidential information–and that it’s the police who should be making the enquiries and not some director of a charity.’
    Tilling thumped his desk in frustration. ‘Shit! We all know what kind of help to expect from the bloody police!’
    Dorina nodded. She knew. They all knew.
    ‘Just keep trying,’ Ian Tilling said. ‘OK?’
    She nodded.
    Tilling sent a brief email back to Norman Potting, then left the room for the short walk to Police Station No. 15. To the only police officer he knew who might be helpful. But he was not optimistic.

62
    Glenn Branson,feeling alert and wired despite his ragged night, stood in the corridor outside the briefing room, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and an All-Day Breakfast egg, bacon and sausage sandwich in the other. Members of the team were filing in through the doorway for the Wednesday morning briefing meeting.
    Bella Moy stepped past him, giving him a wry smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Healthy Eating!’ she said.
    Glenn mumbled a reply through a mouthful of his sandwich.
    Then Bella’s