Inspector Rames

Chapter 3

The tram stopped on Maxx Ackerman's street, and we emerged in another world. Cylindrical skyscrapers glistened in the artificial dawn. They were made of glass and marble, the white stone curving in elegant twists around clear walls and windows. The glass stayed blank, hiding its occupants from us with ultra-technology while offering them any view they could imagine. No matter how rich you were, the underground housing problem would not change -- but the privileged would always be privileged, because the artificial reality within their walls would give them anything they desired.

Businessmen and women were already leaving for work, the kind who wore tailored suits and six hundred-quid shoes. I assumed they were off to run their billion-pound empires...or whatever they did.

Maxx lived in the building at the end of the road, and I led the way in a little self-consciously. The lobby was white, white, white; irregular curved walls guiding people around the perimeter like a circular tunnel, with strip lights glowing down the pillars. An enormous desk stood in the centre, manned by five quirky one-eyed robots. I ignored them resolutely and found the nearest lift.

On the highest floor, we rang Maxx's doorbell. A circular screen emerged from the glass panel and displayed us.

"May we come in?" I asked.

The camera scanned us to check that we weren't blocked from requesting access.

"Let me ask Maxx," the doorbell said eventually.

There was no hiding from visitors with these systems. They knew when you were in and when you were out, and they wouldn't lie for you.

The next voice that spoke was like rich velvet. "Who is it?"

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

We held our warrant cards up to the camera, and a long silence followed. Everyone knew something bad had happened when the police came for a visit at dawn.

"Come in."

The door opened. We crossed the threshold into a minimalist hallway of cutting edge design. Glass walls gave the illusion of it being open-plan, exposing a living room being cleaned by a white-shelled robot, a kitchen of chrome counters, and a dining room with a hover-table that I knew would be capable of laying itself. Further down the hallway, the glass changed to opaque walls that concealed private rooms. The wail of a baby drifted from the back of the flat.

Maxx Ackerman emerged from a nearer doorway. He looked more like a model than a businessman, with black hair that curled over his forehead, blue eyes, and bronzed skin. His cheekbones were high and his jawline chiselled, and his dark suit clung to him in a way that suggested the rest of his body had been sculptured with equal finesse. But dark circles ringed his eyes, and when he saw us, the colour washed out of his face.

"Is it Zoe?" he asked. "She hasn't come home."

That morning, I'd looked at a young mother with a slit throat. I'd stared at violent death more times than I could count, risked my life to confront criminals or act as bait, and even risked -- and broken -- relationships in my line of duty.

But this was the worst part of my job by miles.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said. "Zoe died last night."

***

Maxx refused to call anyone to stay with him. He reasoned that his family were all at work, and anyway, the babysitter was elsewhere in the house with his daughter. And he had the robot.

The robot was bringing a tray of coffee into the living room, unasked. It set the mugs down on the glass table before us, and my mouth watered. I tried not to reach for one with too much enthusiasm, but I still managed to clash hands with Alex, who was obviously just as desperate. I snatched mine back.