Edge by Thomas Blackthorne Page A

man, real not virtual, showed in the small screen.
        "It would be better in person, Dr Duchesne. If you could accompany me to the station, please."
        "Accompany you?"
        "I'm outside the coffee shop, on the corner. It's more discreet that way."
        Not with that ringtone, but never mind, because if she didn't obey she could be arrested on suspicion of being unhelpful to a police officer. The law had been passed after an online referendum – with knife-holders wielding four votes each – a hardline decision that was consistent with normal trends. Even before the Blade Acts, higher knife crime meant lower crime overall (perhaps for the same reason that American towns with 100% gun ownership suffered zero burglaries, an observation that continued to cause shudders), a fact whose implications came into focus when the blade generation grew up.
        "I'll be right there, officer."
        "And I'm coming with you," said Carol.
        "There's no need."
        "Sure there is. Have you any idea how dull my day was till now?"
        "I'm scared."
        "And it's OK because–" Carol clasped Suzanne's upper arm – "it will work out all right."
        A small boost but that was fine, with Suzanne needing all the help she could get.

    Inside the interrogation room, the armchair was comfortable. Suzanne sank back in it. With the big wallscreens all round, currently blank, it was like some corporate conference room. To get here, they had passed through the equally corporate-looking interior of Covent Garden Police Station, a contrast to the creamy Georgian exterior she had often walked past.
     
        "If you could keep your palms on the arms, please." The nameless officer sat across from her. "It gives clearer readings that way."
        "Readings? Oh."
        There was a wallscreen directly behind her, set to display the scanner output, assuming this worked like the movies.
        "You saw Richard Broomhall the day before yesterday, Doctor, is that right?"
        "Yes. 11 o'clock. His father wanted him to lose the hoplophobic behaviours he'd been exhibiting."
        "The son's afraid of knives?"
        "Right," said Suzanne. "He was and probably still is, because we didn't get into specific behaviour change in that session."
        "And what did take place during the session?"
        "My phone has the full recording." She started to reach for it.
        "Hands on the armrests, please."
        "Sorry. Um… I questioned Richard about his life and goals."
        "He's fourteen, is that right?"
        "Yes. You could call it the age when the adult personality begins to emerge. It's a delicate time, so the final part of operant change is what we call an 'ecology check'. For example, if I cured someone of a fear of heights, I wouldn't want them dangling one-handed off a roof."
        "And a fourteen year-old running away from home is appropriate?"
        "Of course not. It's terrible. That's sort of my point. I didn't notice any precursors to that shift, and I did check."
        "All right." The officer was stone-faced. "Did Richard give any indication of people he might know in London? Any places he might go?"
        "No indication. If you review the session recording, you'll–"
        "Thank you, I will. Any family member he might visit, anywhere?"
        "From what Richard said, there's just him and his widower father. Plus staff at the family home."
        "You've been there?"
        "Uh, no. I met Philip Broomhall in Victoria," she said. "Just the once. And the only time I met Richard was during that session."
        "In Elliptical House," said the officer.
        "Yes, that's right."
        "What about the driver?"
        "Lexa?"
        "You know her?"
        "Not before, er, beforehand. Is she under suspicion?"
        "Is there any reason she ought to be?"
        "I don't… Let me think." Closing her eyes, Suzanne was able to picture