Nigel almost wished he’d left the offer of this night’s work in Tom’s famous ledger for some other poor bastard. He should have known it was miserable work when Tom greeted him with a smile, as soon as he came in the pub. And all but dragged him back to his shabby cubbyhole of an office, where the big black book with its flaking spine already lay open on the desk. It was where Tom kept his offers of employment, the kind you couldn’t exactly advertise in the papers.

“Kept this one just for you, Nigel old son,” he’d said. “Right up your alley it is, and the pay’s better than anything I’ve had come in this week.”

He’d almost turned it down anyway. The pub had been warm, with a great fire and an even greater press of bodies, and the ale had been good. It always was at Tom’s, which is why Nigel drank there twice as much as anywhere else. Well, that and the fact that Tom had the best payin’ jobs, and his wife made the best sausage rolls in London.

Shoulda had a couple rolls and gone back to a warm bed, he thought now, glancing at his partner enviously, who didn’t seem bothered by the cold. The hand fondling the cudgel at his waist wasn’t even gloved, although it should have been, for more than one reason. The dark, almost black tint to the nails, which resembled claws in thickness and shape, could have benefited from concealment, even if the man didn’t need protection.

They looked like talons, Nigel thought, and repressed a shudder.

But at least the face was all right. The man was swarthy and heavily jowled, with a scruffy black beard containing the remains of his dinner. He looked human enough, closely resembling the sots staggering out of the pub. He’d been in shadow when they’d met, so Nigel had wanted to be sure.

They didn’t need anything else going wrong tonight.

“You done lookin’?” the small man asked.

“Not looking.”

“You were. They all do.”

“Sorry.”

“Just keep your mind on the job. I don’t want to be here all night.”

Nigel thought they already had been. The damp cold was threatening even the oilcloth greatcoat he wore, making him shiver. He pulled up the collar, which didn’t help, and neither did fidgeting from foot to foot.

“He’s been in there a while,” he finally said. “This won’t work if he’s drunk.”

“It’ll work perfect if he’s drunk. Better.”

He turned to look at his smaller companion. “How better?”

The man—Ronald, his name was—sent him an annoyed glance. “He won’t notice if you mung it up, will he?”

Nigel frowned. “I’m not going to mung it up. I know what I’m about.”