Inspector Rames

Chapter 18

Ronan Lewis had divorced Kristina Nixon five years ago. According to his national profile, he was an architect, and he'd taken his degree at Bright Light University. Kristina had graduated the same year as him, and so I assumed they'd met there.

Bright Light wasn't the only city university, or even the most prestigious -- that title went to the institute that took the city's name. But Socrico University only offered academic subjects, and it was geared towards the cleverest people in the country. Bright Light, among a few others, provided education for everyone who didn't make the cut.

Architecture was a struggling profession when no city had enough space carved out of the earth to expand, and the struggle showed in Ronan's choice of neighbourhood. At seven o'clock, Alex and I waded through a sea of rubbish to reach his building, where we were forced to climb the stairs to the fourth floor because the lift was out of service. Alex took them two at a time as if that was easier for his long legs. I straggled after him, panting.

We emerged in a narrow corridor where rude drawings had been scribbled beneath peeling patches of wallpaper. Alex rang Ronan's doorbell. The camera in the wood took a long time to unveil itself.

"May we come in?" I asked.

Nothing happened for a good ten seconds. Eventually, a crackled voice moaned, "Let me ask Ronan."

"That needs replacing," Alex muttered as we readied our warrant cards. "It wouldn't even cost much."

I smiled.

"What?" His mouth quirked upwards at one corner.

"Sometimes I wonder how you put up with me, Mr Technology."

He smiled properly. "You do, at least, keep your gadgets up to date."

A distorted voice suddenly emerged from the camera. "Who is it?"

"Inspector Rames and Sergeant Sullivan," I said. "Socrico Police."

We held our warrant cards up so that Ronan could look at them -- or try to. The camera wasn't capturing us very well. Unless Ronan was getting a better version inside, he wouldn't be able to see the details on our cards at all. I couldn't.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened with a long creak. Alex glared at it.

We walked straight into an open plan kitchen and living room, although both were so tiny that it seems better to say we entered a cramped living room with two rows of counters tacked on the end. A couple of blue sofas had been squashed against the opposite walls, and a coffee table stood between them, littered with papers. We took one step over the linoleum floor to Ronan Lewis. Laney and a family liaison officer drew away from him.

"Thank you," I said as they squeezed past us. 

Kristina's death had clearly hit Ronan hard, despite their divorce. He was sitting on one of the tattered sofas, bent over and pale-faced.

I stopped in front of him. "We're sorry for your loss."

Ronan looked up, running a hand over the back of his short, dark hair. He was dressed in a cheap suit and checked shirt, rumpled as if he'd slept in them. Although I knew he was thirty-one, he looked at least a decade older. His face was heavily lined, especially around his bloodshot eyes.

We sat down on the other sofa. If it hadn't been for the lack of a breeze, the flat would have been just as cold as the outside world. I buried my hands in my pockets. "First of all, a routine question. Where were you at five o'clock this morning?"

Ronan cast his eyes over the barren room as if he was registering its contents for the first time in a while. His gaze rested on the papers covering the coffee table. "Here. I was working on a project into the early hours. I passed out on the sofa."