Lloyd's wasn't in London: where Lloyd's was, so was the city. Rhizomatic and infertile, neither deigned to spawn yet where everywhere embedded as the secret soul of the world. For almost four hundred years it had insured ships; radical genetic engineering for twenty or so.
An hour before somewhere in a ten-figures compound that was also London a designer princeling had attempted righteous patricide with well paid-for ruthlessness and brilliance. He had been betrayed by failsafes implanted before he could walk but the policy had been triggered by his first treasonous thought. Restitution would have to be made after the investigation.
Three hours later the child was being examined in an unmarked clinic-laboratory that was also London. No emotional disturbance was found, no neurological issues, no (to the investigators' unlogged surprise) psychopathic traits. He had simply learned enough about his parent-owner to make murder the only ethical choice.
Ethics was an uncommon bioengineering failure but it wasn't unknown. However God acted, if he still did, that wasn't his M.O. Two hours later a complex lattice of payouts had been disbursed, a replacement product ordered, and a thousand actuarial coefficients adjusted by a dead child's body's worth of information. Serenely satisfied by its own survival — there was only one event it would never insure because it was only one event it would not conceive of — London moved on.