Dead Tomorrow

bearded man, in a woollen hat, ragged clothes and gumboots, swigging a bottle of spirits, who had been there, sitting on the ground with his back against the wall, in this same location, in those same clothes, for as long as he could remember. He sidestepped and dropped a five lei note on to the small group of coins spread out in front of the man and received a cheery wave for his troubles.
    In the echoing silence, Tilling heard the clanking of a train’s wheels, steadily picking up speed, departing from a nearby platform, and his eyes mechanically flicked up to the departures and arrivals board. The confectionery stall was about to close for the night, but Ian persuaded its surly proprietor to allow him to purchase an armful of chocolate bars, biscuits, crisps and soft drinks, which they then lugged over, in several bulging plastic bags, to the street kids.
    He knew a few of them. A tall, thin boy of about nineteen, called Tavian, wearing his blue woollen hat with ear flaps, and military camouflage jacket over a windcheater and several layers beneath. He held a sleeping baby, wrapped up tightly in a blanket. Tavian always smiled–whether it was his nature or because he was permanently smashed on Aurolac, Tilling did not know, but suspected the latter.
    ‘I have some presents for you!’ the former English police officer said, in Romanian, holding out the bags.
    The group grabbed them, jostlingeach other to peer inside, then digging into the contents. No one thanked him.
    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 ofyou 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