Page 5 of Crocodile Tears

“The system was shut down after the wipe; nothing’s been recorded since yesterday morning at 9.43a.m.”

“So, it could have been a straightforward twenty-four-hour wipe? The perp ordered the system to wipe the last twenty-four hours? Meaning he or she wiped the system at 9.43a.m. today?”

“Not necessarily. The killer could have asked the system to wipe any time period. In fact, if they wanted to mislead us as to when the murder took place, that’s precisely what they’d do.”

“Time of death?” Josiah shot the question at Baumann, who was still kneeling beside the corpse.

“Probably sometime between nine and ten a.m.”

“Probably?” Josiah raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not a precise art, Investigator Raine,” she replied tartly.

“That’s a shame, because I have a precise way of working. You’re new, and you don’t know that, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt on this occasion. However, you and I will get along much better when you realise that I deal in facts, not conjecture.”

Her face coloured, but her eyes shone rebelliously. “Yes, sir,” she ground out.

“So, I’ll ask again: what was the time of death? If you don’t know yet, then say so. I don’t mind that, but I don’t like guesses.”

She rocked back on her heels. “In my considered professional opinion, the victim died sometime between nine and ten a.m., sir,” she said, her tone as cold as his.

“Good. Thank you, Doctor.” Josiah turned back to Reed. “So, all these bloody holopics… are they all Dacre’s work?”

“Yup. Everything here is his.”

“His electricity bill must be huge.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think Dacre cared about that much.” Reed grinned. “He was a big name in the fashion industry, did some famousshoots for all the big titles –Vogue,Pariah,Vanity Fair. He was pretty much the world’s first holophotographer – he pioneered it as a serious art form and created some iconic images. Like this one.” He gestured at the wall to his left.

Josiah gazed at a life-sized holopic of a handsome, bare-chested young man, emerging from a circle of flames while holding an ancient-looking leather book. The holopic was smoothly rendered – you couldn’t tell where it began or ended – and it was striking, capturing one intense moment in time but hinting at a far bigger story.

“It’s calledHalo of Fire,” Reed informed him. “This holopic was a sensation when the technology was new, and is widely credited with pushing Hudson Brink into the major leagues and turning him into a star.”

“Who’s Hudson Brink?” Josiah asked, deadpan.

Reed blinked. “Uh… only the biggest movie star on the planet. Surely even you’ve heard of him?” When Josiah smirked, Reed glared at him. “Not funny, sir.”

Josiah stood in front ofHalo of Fire, examining it. It was an iconic image – he’d seen it on numerous pieces of merchandise over the years and had registered a passing appreciation for Hudson Brink’s muscular body and exquisitely chiselled jaw.

“Dacre was probably the most famous holophotographer in the world,” Reed volunteered. “He was also famous for holding big parties and being in on all the latest celebrity gossip.”

Walking slowly around the room, Josiah studied the other holopics. It felt eerie to step through them. They were only a collection of pixels generated by a light box, but they seemed so real.

He turned… and then stopped, startled, as he encountered that same holoman he’d seen when he’d first entered the room. The man walked purposefully towards him, fixing him with an intense stare. He had wavy dark hair, a stone-grey gaze, and an air of melancholy that cascaded from his shoulders like a cloak. Never taking his eyes off Josiah, he strode closer… and then walked straight through him and disappeared. Seconds later he emerged from the wall again, and this time Josiah was able to take a better look.

He looked to be in his late twenties and wore a black velvet coatwith a crimson lining that flowed out behind him as he walked. His long, slender legs were sheathed in tight black trousers and black leather boots, and his ruffled white shirt was open to halfway down his chest.

He’d emerged from the doorway of a ruined castle, striding down a few old stone steps with autumn leaves blowing around him, while in the background, a startled raven flew up into the air, its mouth opened in a soundless squawk.

The holoman came towards Josiah again, intense and unsmiling, then disappeared and emerged from the wall a split-second later in an endlessly repeating loop.

It was ridiculously melodramatic, yet somehow contrived to be fascinating and mysterious all the same. Josiah could see now why Elliot Dacre was famous.

Tearing himself away, he continued his tour around the room. The grey-eyed man featured in the majority of the holopics; this wasn’t the handsome movie star Hudson Brink of theHalo of Firepicture, who posed confidently for the camera, inviting the world to admire him. This model was far more elusive.

Josiah paused in front of one of the other holopics. The man was standing in front of the murky waters of a lost zone, snow swirling around him, settling like a silver blanket on his long black coat. His face was pinched and white, accentuating the darkness of his eyes and the sharp contours of his face. He appeared at one with his icy surroundings, unmoving, and for a second, Josiah wondered if he was a still, cleverly inserted into the moving snow-scape. But then he blinked, that one tiny movement making him appear more alive than the dizzying snowstorm gyrating around him.

Josiah could understand why the murdered photographer had been so obsessed with this particular model. He was physically arresting, with his pale skin, angular cheekbones, and full lips, but it was his eyes that fascinated; they invited the viewer in while giving nothing away. Even in those holopics where he was smiling, his eyes were blank and unreadable.

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