Inspector Rames

Chapter 54

We caught a tram to the Sharpes' once we were finished at the crime scene. The only seats available were at the front, near some skiving teenagers talking about illegal grinder implants. I pretended that I wasn't a police officer, instead focusing on curling and uncurling my toes as they slowly turned numb.

Alex found the national profile of William Sharpe on his tabphone, and I read it over his shoulder as we travelled. He was fifty. An accountant. Married to an ex-model of a similar age, Brittany Sharpe. He looked grumpy in his profile picture, and he wasn't even frowning -- there was just something about his cold, grey eyes.

He lived on the opposite side of the city, where the skyscrapers looked like they were made of diamonds, not dirty stone. Two huge cuboids of glass twisted around a strong steel core, offering floor-to-ceiling views. They would be privacy windows, of course: we could not see in, but everyone could see out. If they wanted to, at least. Most people in neighbourhoods like this were able to reprogram what they saw to something artificial: rolling gardens, New London skyscrapers, sandy beaches from the surface. Whatever they wanted, they could have.

It was not my world, but it was a world I had often walked in during my time as a detective. Entering the lobby, we nonchalantly bypassed several robots who wanted to know exactly what business we had there and rode a lift up to the twentieth floor.

I rang the Sharpes' doorbell. "May we come in?"

A round screen complete with a camera lens appeared in the door. It took a second to check that we weren't blocked from requesting access, and then the doorbell spoke. "Let me ask William and Brittany."

But a scraping bark of a voice was already talking. "Who is it?"

"Inspector Rames and Sergeant Sullivan, sir." I held up my warrant card. "Socrico Police."

"Make it quick. I don't have long."

The door swung open on a dark hallway decorated with abstract paintings in neon hues. William Sharpe emerged in an archway at the far end, wearing a charcoal suit that matched his expression. His gaze passed over us reprovingly. "In here."

I led us down the hall. William backed away as we approached and kept well clear when we entered the room. It was a study with a monster-sized desk standing as the centrepiece. Carved from a stunning mixture of steel and thick mahogany, it reminded me of Iberia's shoes: the leather and the exposed metal heel, the intertwined gentleness and brutality.

Steel wound around the wood of the table legs, glinting harshly in the bright lights. More rose up through the surface with jagged edges like knives, turning the whole table into something sinister. A tablet was propped up against one sharp sheet; a glass of brandy nestled beside another. William sat down and reached across for it carelessly, the blades a whisker away from the sleeve of his jacket.

Only an idiot could so boldly challenge his furniture to cut him.

The rest of the room, at least, looked less like a torture chamber. The other end of the study was occupied by two dark leather sofas, standing sedately on a fluffy rug. A woman was lounging across one with her bare ankles hooked over each other, but she looked up as we entered and stood to receive us. At forty-nine, Brittany Sharpe had plenty of laughter lines, but with full lips, high cheekbones, and rich, dark skin, she was still every inch the model.

She gave us a practised smile, flashing unnaturally white teeth. "Inspector, Sergeant, welcome. Please do have a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"We have robots for that, Brittany," William said. One slunk into the room behind him, tall and silver.

"You know I like to host." She waved a hand, her smile falling. "Send it away."