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Josiah
Beauty… is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in the dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon – Oscar Wilde
Josiah polished the car until he could see his reflection in her shining red bodywork. For an old lady approaching her hundredth birthday, she was still in perfect condition.
There was no trace of Peter’s blood, although it had once saturated the interior – he’d scrubbed it clean so ferociously seven years ago that the best forensic scientists in the world wouldn’t find a single drop if they looked now.
He paused and helped himself to a chocolate from the box on the work bench, then stood back and studied the car as a passionfruit cream melted silkily on his tongue. He didn’t much care for Pre-Rising cars, but even he had to admit that this one had a certain charm. Maybe it was the hours he spent polishing her on this day every year, or maybe it was simply because Peter had loved her so much.
He instructed the house to play some Pre-R rock even older than the car and then returned to his work, singing along with tuneless gusto to The Beatles as he lovingly rubbed in more polish .
“All this fuss over a car you don’t even bloody well like.” He could imagine how Peter would have rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, she looks pretty, but she’s a useless piece of junk.” He grinned, visualising Peter’s outrage at his baby being insulted.
“You could sell her. It’s not like you ever drive her.”
“Hah! If I sold her, then what the hell would I do with myself on this day every year?”
His holopad buzzed, and he muted the music, curtly answering the call.
His boss’s face popped up as a disembodied hologram in the garage. Esther Lomax, the director of Inquisitus Investigation Agency, was in her late fifties, with cropped white hair and shrewd dark eyes.
“Hi, Joe – how’s it going?” she asked, with that pitying expression he hated; it was another reason he always booked this day off work every year.
“Fine,” he said brusquely. “You don’t need to check up on me, you know.”
“I know better than that.” She gave a wry smile. “That’s not why I’m calling. Look, I’m sorry to intrude, but we’ve been notified of a homicide that I don’t trust to any other investigator.”
He glanced at the car, feeling oddly relieved. “What’s the case?”
“A photographer called Elliot Dacre. He was something of a celebrity, very high profile, which is why I want you on it.”
Frowning, he attacked a small smudge on the passenger door with his cloth. “Is there such a thing as a celebrity photographer?”
“This one was, apparently. He was friends with movie stars, and he went to every big party going.”
Josiah grunted. “I know the type.”
“The press will be all over this, so we need a clean investigation with no leaks to social media or the news sites. We can’t afford to lose control of this one.”
One of the other teams had slipped up on a recent case, and the headlines were still haunting Inquisitus several months later. There were other investigation agencies snapping at their heels, all eager to win the government’s homicide contract – Inquisitus couldn’t afford another cock-up .
“Will you take the case? You’re my best investigator, Joe – it has to be you.”
It wasn’t false flattery; Josiah’s reputation meant he could name his price. Other IAs had made him better offers over the years, but Esther had earned his loyalty.
“Who’s on my team?” he asked, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.
“I’ve sent them to the crime scene already: Cameron Reed leading data; Melanie Hamilton leading forensics; and our new pathologist, Sofie Baumann.”
Josiah looked up sharply. “What happened to Doctor Lane?”
“He retired. I did ask you to his retirement do, but…”
“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-submerged buildings 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 .
“Of course – you freak!”
“Bless you, sir!”
“Too late for that.” Josiah grinned, setting down the tray.
Reed took two gulps of coffee and then let out a heartfelt sigh. His broken nose and square body gave him a misleadingly intimidating appearance as he was a geek who was most at ease hunched over a computer screen. He was wearing a black suit with one of those appalling holoties that were all the rage these days. The strip of fabric around his neck changed colour and pattern randomly throughout the day; Josiah winced as it turned from dark red to bright blue. Reed followed his gaze and laughed.
“Sorry, sir – I forgot you found them offensive.”
“It’s an eyesore. Whatever happened to good taste?”
“Not all of us have the gift, sir.” Reed cast a glance at Josiah’s elegant attire. “Or, you know, actually care.” He gave a little wink.
“So, where’s our dead body?” Josiah cut to the chase, eager to get started.
Reed finished his coffee and was immediately business-like. “In the lounge. Let’s suit up, and I’ll take you there.”
They pulled on their crime scene overalls, then walked up to the house.
“Victim is an adult male, mid-fifties,” Reed said, taking Josiah into a large, airy room. “No witnesses, no sign of forced entry.”
Suddenly, without warning, a man appeared out of nowhere and charged towards them. Josiah ducked, instinctively… but the man disappeared as soon as he’d come, leaving Josiah breathless, his heart pounding.
“What the hell…?” He looked around and saw Reed trying hard not to laugh.
“Lifelike, aren’t they?” Reed grinned. “Don’t worry – we all ducked for that one. Wait for it… here he comes again.”
The man appeared again, but Josiah was ready for him this time. He caught a glimpse of a hauntingly beautiful face and blank grey eyes, then the man strode through him, the image dissipating around him as the pixels broke up in mid-air .
“That’s a holopic? But it’s so real.” This was nothing like the images generated by his holopad; it was far more polished and lifelike.
“Yup. If you don’t like my tie, you really won’t like this bloke’s idea of art.” Reed grimaced. “Elliot Dacre was a holophotographer, hence the extensive collection.”
He waved his hand, and Josiah saw dozens of other holopics emanating from light boxes on the walls. Josiah was familiar with smartwalls, but this was a completely different tech.
Smartwalls were electronic walls, essentially huge screens with added functionality, but these images were three-dimensional and moved around the room. They were the most lifelike holopics he’d ever seen; only the faint flickering around the edges betrayed them. Some were to scale and others were much smaller, but the sheer number of them was disturbing.
“Bloody hell,” Josiah exclaimed. “I thought smartwalls were bad enough – all those tedious images of beaches and meadows – but this is even worse! How many holopics did this guy have? It’s like the place is full of ghosts.”
He dragged his attention away from the restlessly moving images towards the corpse, which was lying in front of an elegant cream-coloured couch.
Dacre’s body was splayed in an undignified position: laid on his back, his legs spread wide, and his dressing gown had fallen open to reveal that he was naked underneath. Blood from the bullet wound in his head had seeped into the plush cream carpet around him, staining it red. His eyes and mouth were open, giving him a surprised look that might have been comical in different circumstances.
A petite blonde woman glanced up from where she was kneeling beside the body. In marked contrast to the starstruck young policeman guarding the command post, she gave him a hard stare and then jerked her head in a grudging nod.
Smiling tightly at her in return, he said, “Welcome to my team, Doctor Baumann. I wasn’t sure what you like to drink, so I brought you a latte.”
“Thank you, but I’ve already had coffee,” she said curtly, standing up. That was when he noticed her necklace. Slim and nondescript, the chain had a tag hanging from it engraved with a number.
“Since when has Inquisitus employed indentured servants?” he asked sharply.
Baumann stiffened. “You’d better take that up with Director Lomax,” she retorted. That explained her cool manner: indentured servants generally didn’t like him, with good reason. “Do you object to me?” she demanded.
“No, I object to Inquisitus buying your contract.”
They glared at each other.
“Ooh – did someone by any chance bring me a hot chocolate?” A large woman with bouncy dark curls squashed into her crime scene cap appeared in the doorway, her cheerful smile breaking through the chilly atmosphere.
“You wanted a hot chocolate? Damn it – I thought you’d prefer a coffee,” he said. Her face fell, and he grinned. “One hot chocolate waiting for you in the command post, Mel.”
“Thank you, sir dear.” The forensics tech gave him a cheeky mock salute. “I knew you wouldn’t forget a fellow chocoholic.”
“Anything to report, Mel?” he called as she turned to go.
“I know I work miracles, but I’ve only been here an hour. Give me a bloody chance.” She disappeared with a wave of her hand.
“Who found the body?” he asked, turning back to Reed.
“Housekeeper – Chantal Boucher,” Reed replied, glancing at the data hovering in the air above his holopad. “She’s not an indentured servant. She lives out, but she’s registered on the house’s biokey, so she didn’t need anyone to let her in. She arrived at 10.30a.m. as usual and found him. Didn’t touch or move him, and called the police straight away. Body was still warm when they arrived. They did a full sweep of the house, but there was nobody else here. I checked before you arrived, just to be sure.”
“And where is Ms Boucher?”
“I sent her home. She was in a complete state.”
“I’ll need to interview her.”
“I’ve arranged for her to be brought in to Inquisitus at 9a.m. tomorrow. Hopefully, she’ll have recovered by then. ”
“I would have preferred to speak to her today,” Josiah said sharply.
“No, you really wouldn’t – you wouldn’t have got anything sensible from her with all that wailing, and you don’t exactly have the kind of manner that little old ladies respond to, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
“Are you saying I frighten people?” Josiah glared at him.
“Just a bit. You’re doing it right now,” Reed returned pointedly. “Ms Boucher is hardly a flight risk, anyway. You should have seen her. She’s at least sixty and a tiny little thing – I really doubt she murdered Elliot Dacre.”
“Okay – but send a duck to bring her here first thing tomorrow morning. I want to talk to her at the crime scene, not at Inquisitus.”
Reed raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly protocol, sir.”
“She’s the housekeeper, so she knows this place inside out. I want to walk through precisely how everything looked when she arrived this morning – it might help shake out some details she’ll forget if we interview her at Inquisitus. I’ll get her ferried back in to see you later, so you can record an official statement.”
He turned his attention to the corpse. The dead man’s face was almost as white as his dressing gown, and his lifeless eyes stared back at him. “Murder weapon?” he queried.
“No sign of it,” Reed replied. “So, I think we can rule out suicide, unless he shot himself in the head and then someone else waltzed off with the gun.”
“Any house cameras?” Josiah glanced around. Most houses had them, embedded in their smartwalls.
“Plenty.”
“Good.”
“But all the data on them has been wiped for the past twenty-four hours,” Reed added. “It was never going to be that easy, was it?” He winked. “I checked the house system – it’s all been erased.”
“By whom? What’s the biosig?”
“By Dacre.”
“What?” Josiah stared at him. “The dead man wiped his own house system?”
“Well, he might not have been alive when he did it,” Reed offered. “ It’s easy enough to get a retina scan off him.” He gestured at the corpse, with its wide-open eyes.
“What time were they wiped?”
“That info has been erased, too,” Reed told him. “Most likely by the killer.”