Page 148 of Crocodile Tears

“I want to find out if the killer was sitting or standing when he shot Dacre.”

“Sitting?” Reed queried, puzzled.

“In a wheelchair.”

“Charles Lytton?” Reed looked outraged. “You think our national hero murdered Elliot Dacre?”

“I saw him on the news this morning – he’s had treatment and is walking again, but he looked pretty shaky on his feet and clearly still needs his wheelchair occasionally, so it’s worth investigating the blood spatter, in case it gives us clues.”

“Yeah, but… Charles Lytton?” Reed asked, shaking his head.

“Why not? He was close to his brother – there’s footage of Charles sobbing after Alexander’s trial. There was an embargo on Alexander being set free or bought by a family member for the first seven years of his servitude, but that expired in June – around the time Elliot Dacre started getting offers to buy him.”

He paced the room, thinking out loud. “Supposing Charles Lyttonhas been waiting until he could get his brother back, biding his time, saving his money? Then, the seven years are up, and he goes to buy Alexander with the intention of freeing him – but Dacre refuses to sell.”

Reed gave a reluctant nod. “Okay. That’s possible. I’ll call the lab and ask them to speed up those results.”

“Good.”

“Even if Charles Lytton didn’t pull the trigger, he could be the accomplice,” Reed suggested. “Alexander could have killed Dacre and then taken the gun to Charles, who was tasked with sending it in the post to us.”

“Yeah, that’s possible, too.” Josiah grabbed his jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to Charles Lytton. While I’m gone, find out more about where that gun was posted, what time, and if there’s any CCTV footage to show who posted it. Also – dig into Dacre’s correspondence and see if you can find out who offered to buy Alexander.”

“Will do. Be careful, sir. I know you’re sceptical about how the press are portraying Lytton, but they might not be wrong.”

“You mean the whole ‘Raine versus Lytton’ thing, like we’re in a boxing match or a chess game?” Josiah snorted. “It’s ludicrous.”

“Maybe not,” Reed warned. “Alexander Lytton has a first-class degree from Oxford – he’s clever. Maybe he planned this whole thing from the beginning. He does seem to know a hell of a lot about you.”

“He’s clever, but he’s not omniscient – how on earth would he have known in advance that I’d be assigned to this case?”

“With all due respect, sir, you’re precisely who everyone would expect to be given this case. I know you’ve never sought it out, but you’re the most famous investigator in the country, and this is exactly the kind of case that you’re known for.”

“You think he’s playing me to that degree? That he set this whole thing up, studied me, and then killed Dacre in the belief he could outsmart me in the investigation? You really think he’s that cunning?”

“I don’t know, because I can’t get a read on him, and I don’t think you can, either – hell, I don’t think anyone can – and that makes me suspicious.”

“We’ll see.”

“He’s an indie on a lifetime contract, with nothing to lose and plenty of time on his hands to plot a murder,” Reed called after him as Josiah strode from the room.

Before visiting Charles Lytton, he decided to meet with one of his confidential informants to get that ball rolling. Mahmoud was a small, sad-faced man with a droopy moustache. They met in a dingy, rundown area next to a lost zone at the edge of Old London.

The usual contingent of lost souls were hanging around, silently drifting, most of them high on croc with tears running down their cheeks.

Josiah threw them some cash cards, coded only to allow them to buy food, and waved them away, so he could talk to Mahmoud in private. He showed his CI a holopic of the gun.

“You want me to find a specific gun in the Quarterlands?” Mahmoud looked at him as if he’d gone senile. “Quarter-rats buy and sell Pre-R weapons all the time. You know that, Inspector Indiehunter, sir.”

“Yeah, but I’m not talking about the usual suspects here, Mahmoud. I’m talking about someone different – someone new, or unusual, or particularly desperate – probably looking to buy in the past week or so.”

Mahmoud scratched his moustache thoughtfully and gazed out over the murky grey water. “It’s a big ask.”

“Yeah, but you have a network of spies in every Quarrie ghetto in New or Old London. Ask them what they know – isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”

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