Page 76 of Crocodile Tears

“I’ve already told you that I didn’t.”

“You had motive and opportunity.”

Alexander nodded slowly. “I know. I can see it doesn’t look good for me.”

“It doesn’t.”

Josiah folded his arms over his chest and studied his prisoner. Alexander looked deflated, the bravado of yesterday less in evidence. He seemed simply… sad. The scrubs he’d slept in were crumpled, there was a layer of dark stubble on his chin, and his hair was tousled.

“It would be easy for you to charge me and wash your hands of this entire case,” he said. “And of me.”

“That would be easy, yes, but I need to be sure before I do that.”

“You know there isn’t a jury in the land that wouldn’t find me guilty. It would be chalked up as one more glorious success for the famous Investigator Raine.”

“I don’t care about that,” Josiah said impatiently. “I need to be sure, and I’m not. I know you accidentally killed your mother, but could you murder a man in cold blood? Hold a gun to his head and pull the trigger?”

“I’ve asked myself this question before, but the answer is always no,” Alexander said. “And it would make your job so much easier if you didn’t believe me, but you do.”

Josiah snorted. “Don’t try and get inside my head, Lytton. You don’t know what I believe.”

“Is that so?” Alexander leaned forward, studying him intently. “I know that every time one of those idiots from the press calls you ‘indiehunter’, it makes you angry. I’m also pretty sure you got into a fight after you finished interrogating me last night, because you have acut on your face and you’re wearing gloves to hide the bruises on your fists.”

He paused, then added softly, gently: “And I know that yesterday was the anniversary of your husband’s death, and I think maybe that’s why you wanted to fight.”

Josiah sat there stonily, giving nothing away, but he was unsettled by Alexander’s accuracy.

“As you know so much about me, or think you do, maybe you should be the investigator.”

“I would be exceptionally bad at it.” Alexander gave a wry smile.

“What do you know about Dacre’s drug habit?” Josiah asked, changing the subject abruptly.

Alexander shrugged. “Elliot loved croc and various other recreational drugs. He spent a lot of money on them.”

“You were high on croc when you crashed that duck thirteen years ago and killed your mum.”

“Yes.” Alexander didn’t even flinch.

“Did you do croc with Elliot Dacre?”

“If he wanted me to. He was my houder; I did whatever pleased him.”

“Are you a croc addict, Alexander?” he pressed. “Were you high on croc yesterday morning? Was that why you killed Dacre?”

“Croc doesn’t give that kind of high, but I’m sure you know that.”

“What does it do, then?”

“It makes you cry.” Alexander smiled. “It makes everything hazy, and sweet, and mellow, and then it makes you weep like your heart is breaking, only you don’t feel sad. You’re about as likely to murder someone on croc as you are after drinking a strong cup of coffee.”

“And when there’s no croc? Did Elliot’s money trouble mean he couldn’t provide you with the croc you wanted? Did that make you angry? Did you kill him in a fit of rage because he controlled whether you could have croc or not?”

“No,” Alexander said flatly. “Croc’s mildly addictive – on a par with caffeine or sugar, although a bit more intense. It’s nice, but it doesn’t turn you into a homicidal maniac if you can’t have it. My turn now: Doyou miss him that much? Does the fighting make it hurt less, or do you just need the release it offers?”

“Why do you want to know?” Josiah fired back, annoyed with himself for getting drawn into this personal conversation, but somehow unable to resist.

“Because you intrigue me. What’s it like to have been so much in love that it still hurts so badly, after all this time?”

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