Looking Good Dead

industrial-sized, bare elevator up to the floor above. ‘Decreasing in East Forties and East Dogger,’ he informed Mick Brown, who was standing there to greet him as the doors opened, wearing a grey Prada tracksuit and white loafers.
    The Albanian had never heard the UK shipping forecast. He had no idea what the Weatherman was on about, and didn’t care. He chewed a piece of gum for some moments with his mouth open, revealing mostof his tiny, white incisors to the Weatherman, staring at him, taking in his limp expression, his limp hair, his limp white shirt, beige trousers, his clumsy grey shoes. He was checking for signs of a weapon, not that he thought the weird Mr Frost would be capable of carrying one, but it was something he was paid to do, so he checked all the same.
    Frost had no muscles; he looked weak. It was going to be easy to kill this one when the time came. But no sport either. The Albanian preferred fighters; it was good to knock someone about a little while they were trying to knock you back, especially women. ‘Mobile?’ he said in his guttural accent.
    ‘I didn’t bring it.’
    ‘Left? In car or office?’
    ‘Office,’ he lied. ‘That’s what I was told.’
    Directly opposite the elevator was a solid-looking door with a security keypad and a closed-circuit camera. The Albanian pulled a card from his pocket, pressed it to the pad, then pushed open the door, beckoning the Weatherman to follow.
    Instantly, as he entered, Frost smelled the familiar reek of stale cigar smoke. They went into a small, stark, windowless room, cheaply carpeted wall to wall. It was furnished with an old metal desk that looked like it had come from a closing-down sale, a swivel chair, a wall-mounted plasma television on which a football match was showing, and five monitors, one showing outside the office door, the other four giving 360-degree coverage of the exterior of the building.
    ‘You wait.’ The Albanian walked to the rear of the office, opened another door, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Moments later the Weatherman heard raised voices. Venner was shouting, but the sound was too muffled to hear what was being said.
    He stared at the television screen. It was lunchtime, another reason he was irritated, the second lunchtime this week he had been summoned by Venner. Staring at the floor, fixating on a tiny piece of silver foil trapped in the carpet fibres, he wondered how to pluck up the courage to tell him that he didn’t want to work for him any more. Then he glanced up at the screen, wishing it was Star Trek instead of football. Star Trek gave him courage, inspiration. He imagined himself as several of the characters, from time to time. Boldly going . . .
    ‘Hrmmm,’ The Man Who Was Not Timid said, clearing his throatand his mind, thinking, wondering again how to pluck up the courage. Carl Venner was not going to be happy—
    Then his thread was interrupted by the sound of Venner’s door opening and the voice of the fat man yelling in his squeaky Louisiana drawl, ‘Just get the fucking little bitch outta my sight – she fucking bit me, fucking bitch!’
    Moments later a small, frightened-looking girl staggered out of the room, wearing a bewildered expression. She had eastern European features, long brown hair and a slim figure, and wore vivid lipstick that was badly smudged. She was dressed in tarty shoes, a low-cut top and a miniskirt so short it was barely street-legal. Under her right eye was a fresh weal which looked set to come out as a shiner; her left cheek had an equally fresh blow which had broken the skin and was drizzling blood. There were large bruises running the length of both her arms.
    The Weatherman reckoned she was not a day older than twelve.
    She caught his eye for a moment as if pleading for help, but he just looked away, searching for that bit of silver foil on the carpet, feeling bad about her but helpless, and even more determined to tell Venner to stick it, except of course he hadn’t been paid yet.
    The Albanian spoke sharply to the girl in a language the Weatherman did not understand. The girl answered Mr Brown back in a raised voice, feisty for her young years, looked back at the Weatherman again, desperately, but he was staring at the carpet and muttering silently to himself.
    Then the Weatherman felt an arm around his shoulders, and smelled the sour reek of cigar smoke combined with body odour, only slightly masked with Comme des Garçons ‘Homme’