Page 2 of Crocodile Tears

“I don’t like parties.” Josiah remembered now. He hadn’t particularly liked Lane, either, but the man had been competent.

“No, we know that, Joe.” Esther rolled her eyes. “Give Baumann a chance – she’s good.”

“Hmm.” Josiah gave the passenger seat mirror a cursory wipe.

“So, will you do it? You know I wouldn’t ask – today of all days – if it wasn’t important.” She glanced at the gleaming car over his shoulder.

He thought about spending the rest of the day locked up in the garage with only the car, a box of chocolates, and Peter’s ghost for company.

“Fine,” he found himself saying. “Send over the data.”

“Thank you.” Esther shot him a relieved smile then disappeared.

When he glanced at his holopad, the file was already there; Esther had clearly banked on the fact he wouldn’t refuse.

He ran upstairs to change – he wasn’t about to turn up at a crime scene looking unprofessional, even on his day off. He teamed a sharply cut silver-grey suit with a lilac shirt and a grey waistcoat, plus a purple silk tie, fastened into place with an elegant clip.

He tucked his wedding ring, which he wore on a chain around his neck, safely out of sight beneath his shirt. Then he took a step back to study himself in the mirror.

“Dandy,”he heard Peter comment dryly.

“Slob,” he riposted automatically.

At six foot five, with broad shoulders and a heavy frame, he filled out the suit. His short blond hair accentuated his blunt features,making his startling blue eyes stand out. Peter had once characterised his wide jaw as “stubborn”, which still made Josiah laugh because he’d never met anyone more stubborn than Peter.

He winced as he tucked his shirt into his trousers to find the waistband a little tight – maybe he should cut back on the chocolates.

Satisfied that he looked professional, he returned to the garage. Ignoring the shining red car he’d been polishing all morning, he climbed into his far more practical amphibious vehicle instead. The AV was domed and ugly compared to the sleek Pre-R Jag, but far more practical for driving across the flooded city.

Sixty years ago, a chain of underwater earthquakes had ripped the world apart, triggering a wave of devastating tsunamis and torrential storms, causing flood barriers to fail all over the planet. Sea temperatures had risen, vastly accelerating climate change and ice-cap melt, and in less than a decade the oceans had reached catastrophic levels, swallowing huge chunks of land.

Some low-lying countries, like the Netherlands, had been lost completely, while many iconic cities like New York and Venice had been swallowed whole.

The centre of London was completely submerged; only the outlying suburbs, where Josiah lived, had survived. The modest three-bedroomed Edwardian terrace house he now called home had belonged to Peter; Josiah could still remember how astonished he’d been to discover that anyone could have so much space all to themselves. It was the height of luxury compared to where he came from.

It was a bright day, and the sun shimmered on the water as Josiah plunged his AV into a lost zone – an area that had once held homes, shops, and offices but had long since been lost to the rising waters.

His journey took him past old church spires and the roofs of high-rise tower blocks that poked up eerily through the water, casting dark reflections on the mud-grey surface. The AV made short work of the journey, effortlessly chugging away until he reached dry land again; there was a reason why AVs were nicknamed “ducks”.

The Rising had threatened to send the human race back to the dark ages, but somehow civilisation had clung on. Only now, decades later, had the world begun to bounce back, but the semi-submergedbuildings in the lost zones were a constant reminder of the past as they crumbled slowly into the water.

He stopped at a café and bought a large tea for himself, a black coffee with four sugars for Reed, and a hot chocolate for Hamilton. Because he didn’t know Baumann, he opted for what he hoped was a safe latte.

“That’ll be £403,” the barista said with a perky smile, handing him the tray.

A couple of Quarterlanders were begging outside as he left, the familiar stench of raw sewage clinging to their clothes. They always haunted the drylands next to lost zones and probably lived in the remains of the high-rises he’d passed earlier. Josiah flipped them each a cash card and then climbed back into his duck.

The crime scene was a big house in the heart of Crystal Palace, one of the most expensive areas of New London. This neighbourhood had a sense of energy, optimism, and hope that had been missing from Josiah’s austere childhood. Once a suburb of the sprawling metropolis, and built on one of the highest hills of Old London, it was now a trendy part of the new city, teeming with bars, cafes, and art galleries.

A black Inquisitus AV van was blocking the driveway, so Josiah parked across the street. Taking his tray of drinks, he slung his kit bag over his shoulder and went straight to the command post – a tent that had been erected on the front lawn – guarded by a single uniformed policeman. Investigation work had been outsourced to independent agencies after the Rising, but the government still required the police to initiate investigations, guard crime scenes, and offer liaison. Josiah waved his ID at the constable, who straightened in awed recognition, quickly standing aside to allow him into the tent.

A stocky man met him there. “Good afternoon, sir. Good to be working with you again.”

“Likewise, Reed.” Josiah shot the man a genuine smile. Cameron Reed was an excellent data tech, who he’d worked with on many previous cases. He and his team of nerds were fast and efficient, and expertly provided Josiah with all the information he required.

“Coffee?” Josiah held out the tray.

“Four sugars?’ Reed asked as he took his cup.

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