His mood got worse. He ate again, knowing that it was a bad move. He felt as if the whole thing had become a weight around his neck, one that got in the way of the things he ought to be doing. If he’d had a free hand, he’d have been in more holding cells with more Vidora, getting to the bottom of where all that cell-draining equipment had been taken to. That was the important thing, the thing he’d really like to smash. Since the raid, however, it had been made clear to him that the hunt for the spoiled little rich boy was the priority, as well as restoring the balance they all professed to care about.

And on Adeard, too, Yellowsnake was likely to be right. It was hard to see why the Vidora would have wanted him to be a part of their activities, nor why they would have kidnapped or killed him if things had got ugly. Either way, it would have risked bringing unwelcome attention to them for little gain. The old nagging thought returned – that this was a sham, that Adeard was alive and well, and that Udmil had been playing them from the start for some reason that was still unclear.

The wise thing to have done would have been to keep dili­gently digging, keep playing the part. But Zidarov didn’t feel wise. He felt stretched out and irritable.

He tried to put a call into Udmil direct, and failed. He tried to get through to the main Terashova Combine enquiry desk, and got nowhere. He tried to call up the Combine’s liaison agents, the ones who handled the transfer of funds to the sanctioners, and was given the brush-off.

That made him even more irritable, so he went to his desk and tapped up Glovach, the head of the slate-crime division, the one responsible for keeping tabs on all the big legitimate corporations. He was as corrupt as they came, something that went with the territory, but an affable soul and usually helpful. He could afford to be, with the slate he made. His staff kept tabs on the movements of most of the players, something that had made him useful before, more than once.

‘Zido,’ came his voice over the iris. It sounded like he was outside. It sounded like there were waves breaking.

‘Are you at… the beach?’ Zidarov asked.

‘Just a little recreation,’ Glovach replied, smugly. ‘Invitation from the Jazc Corp. Smooths the ways.’

Zidarov bet that it did. Smoothed his personal account, too, most likely. ‘Just how much slate are Jazc splashing your way these days?’

‘More than you’ll ever see.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. Listen, I’ve got to speak to Udmil Terashova. Her people tell me she’s busy, but I need to speak to her now. Any help?’