Free Great North Road by Peter F. Hamilton

was received. I will prepare an appropriate message of sympathy later.”
    “Right.”
    “I’m coming down. Please have Clayton and Rebka meet me at home. And prep a lightwave ship for a trip to Earth.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    *
    Sid was watching the preliminary autopsy report slither across his iris smartcell grid. The neat tabulations on cellular decay and stomach contents were superimposed over the pasta he was twirling onto his fork. Around him the bustle of the station canteen continued apace as people took their lunch break. He ignored it completely as he put the information together in a list he could use. The body had been immersed for barely two hours, which gave them some figures on how far it could have drifted down the Tyne. Which was almost irrelevant compared to the shock that was estimated time of death: the morning of Friday the eleventh, three days ago. A North had been missing for three days and no one had called it in. That wasn’t merely suspicious, realistically it was impossible—and that was downright creepy.
    He was beginning to think it was a domestic that had gone horribly wrong. Simple scenario. Some poor girl had found the North was cheating on her (everyone knew they could never keep it in their trousers) and picked up some weird brass ornament in fury, lashing out with typical crime passionelle strength. Explaining the body dumped in the river was a little more tricky. But not impossible, especially if you assumed her family had gang connections; brothers and cousins rushing around to her place and carting the corpse away—oh, and extracting the smartcells, which was a big stretch. She’d be out of town now, having a long weekend break with witness friends and with a little help from a bytehead running up place-and-time-verifiable credit bills. So when she returned at the end of this week—why surprise, her North boyfriend was nowhere to be found. Call the police and put on a worried voice to report it. Yes, Officer, I did think it was a little odd he didn’t call while I was away, but he’s been so busy lately …
    Sid munched down some garlic bread as he reviewed the premise. It simply wouldn’t fly, no matter how much he wanted it to. Not even having family gang connections could explain away the missing stealth smartcells. And the murder weapon—the wound didn’t allow for it to simply be a handy objet d’art you picked up in a moment of rage. Which in turn left him a huge problem. Fingerblades that could ram through a rib cage to shred the heart it protected? So far the database search had found nothing that matched. Not even close. No armament manufacturer files, nothing from history. His e-i was constantly expanding the search.
    “He needs you on the sixth floor.”
    “Huh?” Sid looked up to see Jenson San standing beside the table. “Aye, man, don’t creep up on people like that.”
    “I didn’t. You were in a different universe.”
    Sid pointed at his eyes. “Autopsy results. It was a strange one, you know.”
    “No I don’t, actually. That information is case-coded. And make sure you keep it that way.”
    Sid wasn’t sure if that was a bitchslap or not. “I know my responsibilities, man.”
    “Come on. He wants you.”
    “This is my lunch break.”
    “Not anymore.”
    “I have a call code, you know.”
    Jenson San’s face remained impassive verging on contemptuous. “If the chief constable had wanted to use that he would have. Instead he found out where you were and sent me to collect you. Do you understand, Detective?”
    Punching the senior staff representative in the middle of a police canteen probably wasn’t the best idea the day after you return from suspension. Satisfying, though.
    Sid took a big bite of garlic and exhaled in Jenson San’s direction. “Lead on, then, man.”
    O’Rouke had a corner office on the sixth floor. Of course. Sid hadn’t been in it many times. He could’ve sworn it got bigger each time he did visit.
    The chief