Udmil Terashova was sitting in a high-backed chair, her spine straight, her hands clasped in her lap. She was thin, tall and dark, with her hair pulled back in a tight bun from a tight face. Her dress hugged her figure and had a floor-length hem. It was black, with a faint sheen, and edged with white lace. Zidarov’s detectors failed to pick up any concealed weapons or augmetics, but that didn’t mean much, since she could certainly have afforded kit capable of staying hidden. As it was, though, she looked like a very severe, very rich and very reserved woman.

‘Probator,’ she said, not rising. ‘Take a seat.’

‘Nice place you have here,’ said Zidarov, settling into a sofa opposite her. The upholstery was harder than he’d expected, and he shifted to get comfortable.

‘You think so?’ She made it sound as if the idea had genuinely never occurred to her. ‘I do not get to spend much time in it.’

Her body hardly moved as she spoke. Her hands were held rigid. Only her lips seemed animated, and her eyes, which were dark and beady and seemed to belong to a much younger woman. Perhaps they did.

‘If this place was mine, I’d spend as much time as I could here,’ Zidarov said. ‘I might move a few more families in, too.’

Udmil looked unamused. ‘Then you’d be liable for the cleaning, too. And the security. Now, charming as all this is…’

‘You put in a report of a missing citizen,’ Zidarov said.

‘Yes. My son, Adeard.’

Zidarov activated his iris to record the conversation, and took out a slim dataslate for backup notes. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘Anything unusual?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘What did you discuss?’

‘What we always discussed. The business.’

‘It’s doing well, I hear.’

‘We get by.’

She gave almost nothing away. It was very hard to read what she felt about the situation – perhaps she felt nothing, or perhaps the rigid exterior was a professional screen, masking a deeper level of concern. It was an unusual step for a woman like this, to involve the city’s enforcers at all – she would no doubt have access to her own means of investigation.

Zidarov shuffled again on the seat, still trying to get comfortable. ‘Can you give me a physical description? In a format my analysers can replicate?’

‘I’ll send over picts and biodata. He is twenty-nine standard years old. Tall, white-blond hair, clear complexion, no major reconstructive work or augmentations. I am told that he is considered attractive.’

‘Most mothers think the same of their sons.’

She shrugged. ‘He worked for me. For the Combine. He reported to his father directly, too. We oversee operations jointly, as you might expect.’

Zidarov had no idea how a major dynastic conglomerate operated, and so would have expected very little. ‘Mordach Terashova,’ he offered, checking. ‘His father.’

‘Yes, my husband,’ she added, sardonically.