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“Hmm. Makes sense.”

“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 famous shoots 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 called Halo 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 of Halo 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 coat with 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 the Halo of Fire picture, 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.

“Was Dacre married?” Josiah asked, tilting his head.

“Nope.” Tapping into his holopad as he walked, Reed came over to stand beside him. “He was, once, about ten years ago, to someone called Christopher Lucas.”

“So, what happened? Did they get divorced?”

“No.” Reed’s fingers spidered across his holopad, sending reams of holodata into the air. “Christopher Lucas died six years ago in an AV accident. His duck stopped working in a lost zone, and he couldn’t get out in time. Drowned.”

“Interesting.” Josiah studied a black-and-white holopic featuring the grey-eyed model in a nude pose. He was lying on his front on a bed among rumpled white satin sheets, looking back over his shoulder with a provocative smile. The camera swooped in, capturing the sensuality of his full lips, firmly muscled shoulders, and curved buttocks, before lingering on his spread legs and the hint of darkness between his thighs. Then it repeated, the sweeping movements of the camera voyeuristically capturing every curve and plane of his perfect body.

There was something unsettling about the composition, and Josiah tried to work out what it was. The model seemed to be offering himself up on a platter, inviting you to make love to him, and yet there was a sense that no matter how close you came, he’d never allow you in.

“He used this model a lot,” Josiah observed.

“Yeah, the AI bots picked up an interview Dacre did a few months ago – haven’t had a chance to read it, yet, but the headline says this guy was his muse.”

Josiah tore his gaze away and glanced around the room, a mental image of the victim building. Elliot Dacre was wealthy and famous, and had loved his work so much he wanted to show it off on every available surface.

“Where are Dacre’s servants?” Josiah asked.

Dr Baumann looked up sharply from where she was crouched beside the body.

“He’s clearly a wealthy man, living in a huge house, but he had a live-out housekeeper who isn’t indentured, and there’s no sign of any servants,” Josiah observed. “Why not?”

Reed glanced at his holodata. “He only registered one IS – that’s all. ”

“I’m not surprised.” Josiah gestured around the luxuriously decorated and furnished room, with its colourful Japanese lacquered cabinet, expensive sofa, and designer curtains. “Our dead photographer liked objects of beauty, so I’m guessing he preferred to keep one very expensive, very beautiful servant who he could show off, rather than several functional employees to do his cooking and cleaning for him. He wouldn’t have wanted the hassle of owning the contracts of a bunch of boring indies – just one very interesting one. The question is – what would a man like Elliot Dacre find interesting?”

“How about a convicted criminal sold into indentured servitude by the courts?” Reed offered, pointing at a section of holodata hanging in the air for Josiah to read.

“A convict? Now that does make him interesting,” Josiah said.

“It also makes him bloody suspicious, if you ask me. Do you think Dacre was killed by his own indie?” Reed asked.

Josiah gave a non-committal shrug. “Well, I definitely want to speak to him.”

“I’ll bet. It’s always the serf or the spouse, isn’t it?” Reed grinned. “Didn’t you say that in a press interview once?”

“I don’t give press interviews,” Josiah replied tersely.

“Excuse me, Investigator Reed.” Dr Baumann stood up abruptly. “I object to your use of the word ‘serf’. The correct term is ‘indentured servant’, ‘IS’, or ‘indie’ if you’re being casual.”

“Sorry.” Reed held up his hands in a placatory gesture. “I understand your dislike of the word, Doctor, but it’s just slang.”

“You might feel differently if you were an IS,” Baumann retorted. “We aren’t serfs – we provide a valuable service and deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. We certainly don’t deserve to be treated as suspects automatically whenever a crime has been committed.” She cast a cold glance in Josiah’s direction.

“Of course not. Absolutely,” Reed said apologetically. “Please don’t take it personally. There’s a huge difference between your situation and this bloke we’re talking about. You’re a professional, but Dacre’s indentured servant is a convicted felon – he has no choice about who buys his contract, or what kind of service he has to provide as long as it’s legal. You might not like the term ‘serf’, but it’s not far from the truth in this case. I’m not saying it’s right,” he added hurriedly, as Baumann pursed her lips.

Josiah snorted. Baumann shot him a glare, then returned silently to her work.

“So, where is he?” Josiah asked. “Where is this one very interesting indie Dacre bought?”

Reed grinned. “You’re looking at him right now.”

“Him?” Josiah waved his hand at the holopic in front of him. “Dacre’s muse was also his indie?”

“Yup. Dacre purchased him three years ago for…” Reed whistled as he read the facts off the holodata. “Well, you said he’d be expensive, and he sure as hell was.”

“How much?”

“Only a cool hundred and sixty million pounds!”

Josiah frowned. “Are you sure? Why would anyone pay that much for one servant?”

“It’s a lifetime contract – not many of those around – so Dacre would’ve bought his services for about fifty years. The court ordered he has to serve at least seven of those before he can be released, but who would let him go after paying that much for him? He’s on an open contract, so there are no limits on the nature of his servitude, and he’s young – I suppose that has to push the price up.” Reed shrugged. “But still… a hundred and sixty million quid.”

Josiah studied the model in the holopic. His provocative smile now seemed like a challenge, as if he knew all the questions Josiah wanted to ask but had no intention of answering them.

“I have no idea how much an indie on a lifetime contract would cost, but it’s got to be a fraction of that,” Reed continued. “So, what the hell is so special about this particular indie that you’d pay so much for him?”

“Well, he is beautiful, and Dacre clearly had an eye for beauty.”

“Perhaps he has a medical degree or something?” Reed suggested. “Maybe Dacre bought him to be his personal physician or chef.”

Josiah laughed. “You don’t need to look any further than these holopics to see why Dacre paid so much for him. I don’t care how many degrees he has, or if he’s the greatest chef in the world – there’s only one reason Dacre wanted him, and that’s obvious.”

Reed made a face. “You think he was sleeping with him?”

“Possibly.” Josiah shrugged. “At the very least Dacre bought him to be his muse, but these holopics suggest an intimacy that went far beyond that.”

“I suppose so.” Reed put his head on one side and gazed at the holopic. “There’s something about him – he seems familiar, as if I should know who he is.”

“I feel the same, but I don’t know why.” Josiah frowned. “You said Dacre bought him three years ago – was that when he was first made an IS?”

“No. He was sentenced to servitude seven years ago. He’s been registered on the IS Agency database twice, so he only had one previous employer before Dacre.”

“Who?”

Reed’s fingers zipped over his holopad. “Hmm, the records are sealed, which isn’t unusual with felons. I can find out, but it’ll take a few days. I’ll have to make a request to the IS Agency direct.”

“Do it. Might not be important, but still.” Josiah shrugged. “And this expensive servant is definitely not on the premises?” He glanced around.

“Nope. I searched the entire house myself before you arrived.”

Mel entered the room, shooting them a disapproving look. “Are you still here? It’s very hard to get any work done with so many people underfoot.”

“Message received and understood.” Josiah shot her a mock salute. “I’ve seen all I need to see here anyway. Let’s go back to the command post and put together a plan for how to proceed,” he said to Reed.

Back in the tent on the front lawn, they removed their crime scene overalls, and Josiah took a swig of what was left of his now cold tea.

“The servant is clearly the first person we should find,” Reed said. “Maybe he killed Dacre and then went on the run?”

“Possibly. Pull his location off his microchip, and let’s find out where he is.” He watched as Reed consulted the IS Agency database. “Any luck? ”

“Yeah…” Reed looked confused.

“Well? Where is he?”

“Uh, according to this… he’s right outside.”

They looked at each other for a split-second, and then they both ran out of the command post.

An AV had just pulled up and parked on the opposite driveway. Unlike Josiah’s dumpy duck, this was an object of beauty. She was maroon, with sleek lines and a slanted roof. A young man climbed out, dressed in a fitted silver shirt and a pair of skin-tight LaRay jeans that left nothing to the imagination, with an expensive neo-glam leather jacket over the ensemble.

“Hey! You! Don’t move!” Reed yelled, drawing his stun gun. Their suspect froze for a second and then suddenly, without warning, he turned and fled.

“Damn it.” Reed shoved the stun gun back in its holster and set off after him.

Glancing around, Josiah saw a wrought-iron gate to his left. He jogged across the lawn and slipped through it onto a smaller side road, emerging just as the indie turned the corner – and crashed straight into him. Josiah had several inches and even more pounds on him, and the man fell down onto the pavement with a startled shout.

Josiah was busy securing his captive’s wrists behind his back when Reed arrived, breathing heavily, his dark brown skin shiny with sweat.

“What kept you?” Josiah asked, grinning as Reed flipped a finger at him.

Josiah turned his captive over and his grin faded as he found himself staring into the face of the model from the holopics. The dark hair was shorter, but the pale skin, sensuous lips, and stone-grey eyes were unmistakable.

The man stared back at Josiah intently, and they gazed at each other for a long moment, oddly transfixed. Finally, Josiah cleared his throat, shaking himself out of the strangely intimate moment, and hauled the man to his feet.

“Are you Elliot Dacre’s indentured servant?” Reed demanded.

“Yes.” Their captive moved his head so that the gold ID tag on his necklace was visible, with its expensive designer hallmark .

“What’s your name?” Josiah asked.

“Christopher,” the indie replied. He had a deep, cultured voice that went some way to explaining his high price tag. Clearly, he wasn’t just a pretty face.

“Christopher…” Josiah paused. “Reed – wasn’t Christopher the name of Dacre’s husband? The one who died in the AV drowning accident?”

Reed frowned. “You’re right, sir. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“What’s your real name?” Josiah demanded.

“That is my real name,” the indie said firmly. “Elliot had it registered on the IS Agency database, so that’s my name.”

“What was your name before you were indentured, then?” Josiah pressed. The indie looked at him searchingly, with that oddly intense gaze. “Don’t fuck with me.” Josiah jerked his head impatiently.

The man’s expression changed instantly – his eyes suddenly becoming completely blank, as if a veil had been drawn over them. Josiah blinked, startled.

“Like I said, I’m just an indentured servant, nobody important,” the indie said flatly. “You should speak to Elliot. He’ll answer your questions.”

“I’m asking you.” Josiah took out his ID and held it up. “I’m Senior Investigator Josiah Raine from the Inquisitus Investigation Agency.”

“Oh, I know who you are, indiehunter ,” the man retorted, much to Josiah’s irritation; his reputation always went before him these days.

“And this is Investigator Reed,” Josiah added. “Why did you run when he called out to you?”

“I was startled. I didn’t know who you were. Listen, whatever you think I’ve done, Elliot will be able to clear me.”

Josiah leaned in close. “Well, that might be a problem. You see, we’re here to investigate Elliot Dacre’s murder.”

The impassive mask dropped, the colour draining from the indie’s face. Either he was a brilliant actor, or he’d genuinely had no idea that Dacre was dead.

“Elliot’s been murdered?” he whispered. “Poor Elliot.” His look of shock was replaced, almost immediately, by one of realisation. “And you think I did it? ”

“Did you?”

The man met his gaze, stonily. “No, of course not.”

“What time did you leave the house, and where have you been all day?”

“I left at around nine a.m. to visit my personal trainer.”

Josiah glanced at his watch. “And that took you four hours?”

The indie hesitated. “No. I left the gym at around eleven forty-five.”

“Then where have you been for the rest of the time?” Reed demanded. “Just driving around in that fancy duck?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“For over an hour?” Josiah asked sceptically.

“Yes.”

“On your own?”

The indie sighed. “Yes.”

“Can anyone vouch for your movements?”

The indie glanced over Josiah’s shoulder as a black SUV turned the corner at the bottom of the street and disappeared. His face twisted in a strange combination of grimace and smile.

“No… nobody can vouch for me.”

Josiah had heard enough. “You’re under arrest. We’re taking you back to Inquisitus for questioning.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Now, I’ll ask you again – what’s your name? Your real name, this time – not the one Dacre gave you – that little charade died with him.”

“Alexander,” the indie said quietly, and a little smile curved at the corners of his lips, as if he was amused by some private joke. “My real name is Alexander Lytton.”