Page 16 of Crocodile Tears

“It’s not just about function, you see, sir – it’s about their beauty, too,” Reed continued, running his fingers along the glossy paintwork. “That’s what people want these days. We’ve all lived with austerity for long enough. People want toys like holoties, and holopics, and fancy ducks that look good as well as taking them from A to B. You need to get with the times, sir.”

Alexander looked quietly amused, as if by some private joke. Deciding it was time to get the enigmatic indie back to Inquisitus and find out more about him, Josiah tightened his grasp on Alexander’s arm and pushed him onto the back seat of his AV, shutting the door behind him. When he looked up, he saw Reed was lagging behind, gazing at his holopad as he walked, his fingers racing over it.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“His name’s been bugging me,” Reed replied. “I’m sure I know him. Alexander Lytton… Oh, of course! He was all over the news a few years ago. It was a huge scandal at the time. He’s Charles Lytton’s brother.”

“Charles Lytton? The famous rower?” Josiah, like everyone else in the country, could remember precisely where he’d been when Charles Lytton had won Britain’s first Olympic gold medal since the restoration of the Games after the Rising. He glanced at Alexander, sitting in the duck, oblivious to their conversation. “This man is his brother?”

“Yup.”

“So, it seems that our indie is something of a celebrity, too, just like our victim,” Josiah said.

Reed’s expression hardened. “No, his brother is the celebrity. This guy is a nobody. He broke his brother’s spine in an AV crash a few weeks after Charles won that glorious gold at the 2082 Olympics. Alexander was driving while off his head on croc. His mum was killed in the crash, too.”

Reed’s holopad projected a picture of a happy trio of people into the air: a beautiful woman in her forties with blue eyes and golden hair; a handsome, tanned young man with a rower’s physique and a beaming smile whom Josiah recognised as Charles Lytton; and a teenaged Alexander, much slighter than his brother and dressed far more eccentrically, grinning happily for the camera. He must have acquired that elusive quality later, because he looked open and guileless in this picture.

“Trouble seems to follow him wherever he goes,” Josiah murmured as he glanced at the news report about the crash.

“Or he causes it,” Reed said darkly. “I was a huge fan of Charles Lytton. I mean, everyone was – he was such a shining hope for us all, coming out of the dark times. Then this little shit went and ruined it.”

“How old was Alexander at the time of the crash?”

“Seventeen.” Reed scrolled through the report. “His father bailed him out – all he got was a driving ban for three years and a slap on the wrist. Everyone felt he’d got away with murder – literally. He deserved far worse.”

“He was a seventeen-year-old-kid whose stupidity got his mum killed and his brother crippled for life – it’s hard to see how much worse it could have been,” Josiah pointed out.

Reed cast a hard glance at their prisoner through the duck window, and Alexander gave a sardonic smile in response, as if he knew exactly what Reed was thinking.

Josiah watched the exchange thoughtfully – there was something about Alexander Lytton that aroused people’s passions. Dacre had clearly loved him to the point of obsession, taking countless holopics of him and buying him expensive gifts, while Reed found him infuriating. Josiah could empathise – he had a similarly polarising effect on people himself.

“How old was Alexander when he was sentenced to servitude?” he asked.

Reed glanced at his holopad. “Twenty-three.”

“Christ – so young. What the hell did he do to end up on a lifetime contract?”

“Theft.” Reed glared at Alexander again. “He stole a huge amount of money – so much that even his rich daddy couldn’t save him.”

“Maybe he never got over the crash,” Josiah mused. “Perhaps he went off the rails after the accident, and that’s why he stole the money.”

“Yeah. I bet he’s our killer. It must’ve been hard for a spoilt rich kid like him to adapt to being an indie. He probably snapped and killed Dacre.”

“He’s been an IS for seven years,” Josiah pointed out. “He’s had plenty of time to adapt.”

“He’s still our most likely suspect,” Reed said doggedly.

“We’ll see.” Something told Josiah that it wasn’t going to be that simple. “Here.” He transferred the biokey to Reed. “You can drive.”

He slid into the passenger seat and studied his captive in the wing mirror. Alexander looked very different to the teenage boy in the photo with the bohemian taste in fashion. His current look was far more luxurious. He was wearing the latest designer clothes, all fitted to show off his toned body to best effect – even his soft leather boots were Brazilian Hee-Bees, which were both fashionable and ludicrously expensive. His dark, wavy hair was artfully cut, feathering around his beautiful face in the latest style. He looked like a wealthy man’s pampered pet. However, Josiah suspected that someone a good deal more interesting lurked beneath the immaculately groomed exterior.

Leaning forward in his seat and gazing vacantly out the window, Alexander either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was being studied.

Suddenly, the duck bounced sideways and swerved off the road into a lost zone, jolting Josiah out of his observations.

“We have company,” Reed said grimly.

Josiah glanced over his shoulder to see a dozen ducks chasing them. Some would be from reputable news organisations, but the rest would be social media news chasers, addicted to gossiping about real-life murders – he found them far harder to deal with. The speculation often spiralled wildly out of control when the gossipmongers got hold of it.

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