Page 33 of Crocodile Tears

“Maybe your smarts only extend so far,” Josiah hazarded. “Maybe you got greedy and couldn’t wait to be free, because you couldn’t bear to be an IS for another second. Perhaps you were afraid your houder would take you to another show, and that you’d have to endure another beating. Or maybe you were scared that Elliot Dacre would change his mind and make a new will to replace this one.” He gestured at the holodoc still hanging in the air.

“And maybe you’re grasping at straws,” Alexander shot back. “You’re not wrong about everything: I do look a little like Christopher, and Elliot did want me to be him. Poor Elliot – he really wanted me to love him.”

“And did you?” Josiah asked.

“You can buy many things,” Alexander said quietly. “Elliot bought my body, my attention, and my service, but you can’t buy love, sir. Even The Beatles knew that.” He grinned.

Sitting back in his chair, Josiah felt irrationally annoyed by the Beatles reference. Very few people listened to Pre-R rock these days, and it was irritating that Alexander was one of them; he didn’t want to have anything in common with this man.

“You’re used to getting your own way, though, aren’t you?” he challenged. “Sure, you might be an IS, but all your life you’ve used your looks to manipulate people into doing exactly what you want. Poor, stupid Elliot Dacre – he must have been easy pickings for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Alexander raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that, exactly?”

“A spoilt rich kid who got expelled from three schools, who used Daddy’s money to buy drugs, and who killed his mother and paralysed his famous brother by driving while sky-high on croc.”

Josiah had always been good at wielding a killer blow in an interrogation, and he was sure this one would open up a chink in the IS’s impassive armour, so he was surprised when Alexander didn’t react.

“Oh, you know me very well, then.” Alexander shrugged. “And I know all about you, too, Investigator Raine.”

“Is that so?” Josiah crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yes. I’ve read quite a few articles about you. The media is as fascinated by you as they are by me, although in a very different way. First, there was your relentless pursuit of the IS who went on the run after witnessing the murder of that celebrity chef. Then you solved the mystery of Sir John Marcham’s murder and – surprise! – found that his IS was the culprit. You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself, and the media loves you.”

That was true. Josiah thought the press interest in him had died down lately, but this new case would no doubt dredge it up again.

Alexander leaned forward, putting his hands on the table.

“I’ve read all about the indiehunter – the grief-stricken investigator, dedicated to tracking down the evil indies who kill their poor houders. According to the press, you never got over the murder of your husband several years ago. Remind me, again – how did he die? Wasn’t he stabbed by an indentured servant on the run? No wonder you hate us all so much.”

Josiah returned Dacre’s holopad to his pocket in icy silence, then picked up his own device and rose to his feet.

“Reed’s right,” he said, looking down on Alexander coldly. “We’ve got enough to convict you on this evidence alone. There’s no need to continue this charade any further.” He strode towards the door.

“I’m sure there’s more to your story than those bare facts,” Alexander said softly behind him. “And there’s more to mine, too. Shall we make a deal?”

“And what’s that?” Josiah turned, his hand on the door. “Youconfess to killing Elliot Dacre, and I forget all about you and go home?”

“No.” Alexander gave a wry smile. “Although I can see why you’d like that. No, I suggest that we stop viewing each other as the people we’ve read about. I won’t view you as the sad, obsessed loner, hunting down indies to avenge the love of your life. In return, I ask you to see more to me than the spoilt rich kid who killed his mum, paralysed his heroic big brother, and then committed a fraud so scandalous that even his own father disowned him.”

“And why should I do that?” Josiah asked stonily.

“Because you said you only deal in facts, but I don’t think that’s true.” Alexander leaned forward, speaking in a sharp, urgent tone.

Josiah blinked, startled, because he suddenly looked like someone completely different.

“We are more than the sum of our facts,” Alexander stated firmly. “And those facts can themselves be deceiving – but I think that you already know that, ‘indiehunter’.”

Chapter Six

DECEMBER 2083

Alex

The club was a grungy place, popular with the arty student set that Alex hung with. He stared into his drink, trying to block out the steady thrum of techno-thrash music and hear what Bax was yelling at him.

Marlon Baxter was studying fashion, as anyone could have guessed by looking at him. With his long, flowing blond hair, almond-shaped green eyes, golden skin, and bee-stung lips, he was also the undisputed leader of the gay crowd at Oxford, and everyone wanted to sleep with him – except Alex.

“So, do you have your eye on anyone, sweetie?” Bax asked, taking a deep pull on his vape and blowing out a cloud of bright pink smoke.

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