Curtain Call at the Lantern

Blackwood Tower stood on the docks it owned, forty-one storeys of glass. The lift had a marble floor and no buttons; it simply knew where you were going. On the top floor a boardroom the size of a tennis court looked out over the harbour like a man surveying a pen of sheep.

You'd read the numbers on the way up. In Britain, a fifth of all wealth sat with the richest one per cent. The bottom half owned a sliver. Sir Hugo Blackwood was not merely inside the one per cent. He was, you suspected, its unofficial chairman.

"Miss Voss." He didn't rise. "Edwin was a friend. I understand you're helping the police."

"I'm helping myself."

"Of course you are." He smiled the smile of a man who owned the room and everyone's opinion of it. "May I save you some time?"