He reviewed the files he’d pulled up on the Terashova business, its rivals, its engagement with the authorities. Like any big trade house, they’d had run-ins with a swathe of firms – the Nomen Group, the Jazc Corporation, the Lowella Collective. Various infringements of regulations flagged up, but nothing that raised much of an eyebrow. There were significant payments to security companies, and no doubt larger payments, not recorded, to shadier outfits like the Vidora.

He had managed to track down a man who’d worked on contract providing close protection for the Terashovas. He was called Berisa Kharkev, and he worked for a private security outfit with roots throughout Havduk and the other higher-worth claves. Zidarov hadn’t initially intended to call on him, hoping that a body might turn up in the grade-eights, but Brecht was right – you had to do the legwork. Kharkev still worked for the detail, though the contract with the Combine had been terminated some time ago, which meant that he might be prepared to talk. It wasn’t clear what he might talk about, but the more Zidarov got as background, the better.

Zidarov pulled off the multilane, back down into the shade of the low-rise streets, where the jumbled habs cut the red sunlight out and everything simmered down into the familiar shadowed darkness of drain stink, body heat and engine-wash. They met in a public refec-house – one of the many in the district specialising in the old Urgeyena staples. It was quiet, and as Zidarov entered he saw Kharkev sitting alone near the ­window, ­facing the entrance, his hands under the table. A dingy bar took up space at the rear of the dining area, which was decked out cheaply in plastek and formica. Lightweight moulded statues of the primarchs and Saint Zetrova were placed at the centre of each square table. There was no piped music, thankfully. It smelled of cooking oil, cracked pepper and hard-charred meat, the pillars of Urgeyena’s artery-hardening cuisine.

Zidarov took a seat opposite Kharkev, and signalled for two jenezas.

‘Thanks for meeting,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said Kharkev. ‘Anything for the law.’

He was burly, as expected, with two raised scars on his left cheek. His hair was clipped short over a pale, thick-looking skull. He had full lips, bruised knuckles and a heavy paunch. From the way he sat, Zidarov guessed he carried a decent-sized sidearm at his belt. He was dressed smartly, with a dark jerkin tightly fitted over his barrel chest. He looked handy, with a sensible demeanour. In Zidarov’s experience, the better private firms that did major corporate work usually were – you couldn’t afford to be too overtly thuggish when commercial reputations were held at a premium.

‘So, you worked for Udmil Terashova,’ Zidarov said.

‘Mordach.’

’I thought they came as a pair.’

‘Maybe they do, in some ways. Not all the time. I was in close protection – bodyguard detachment – so I followed him around.’