Page 32
Chapter Twenty-Five
OCTOBER 2095
Josiah
Alexander’s personal trainer, D’Angelo Clarke, was a muscular guy in his mid-thirties.
“Yeah, Chris was here that morning,” he told Josiah over a fruit smoothie in the gym’s café.
“His name is Alexander,” Josiah corrected.
It bothered him that all these people called Alexander by the name forced on him by his houder. It denied him his identity on a fundamental level, as if the real Alexander Lytton didn’t even exist. Maybe he didn’t. Elliot Dacre had bought a pretty party boy to parade around to his friends, do drugs with, have sex with, and act as his muse. From what Josiah could tell, Alexander had done a good job of being “Christopher” for the past few years.
“I keep seeing that on the news, but I knew him as Chris.” D’Angelo shrugged.
“Hadn’t you heard of Alexander Lytton? He was quite notorious.”
“Yeah, but all that shit went down years ago. He was introduced to me as Christopher. His face was a bit familiar, but I didn’t know he was that Lytton bloke with the famous brother.”
Which was reasonable enough. For the first few years of his servitude Alexander had disappeared off the radar, and the media’s attention span was short.
Since Dacre had acquired his contract three years ago, he’d been to various celebrity events and appeared in dozens of holopics, but always as Christopher Dacre. Most people wouldn’t have connected the dots.
“Did you ever meet Elliot Dacre?” he asked.
“A few times, yeah. He hired me in the first place – he wanted the best for Chris, and that’s me.” D’Angelo grinned. “Sometimes he’d drop Chris off or pick him up. But mostly Chris came here alone.”
“What was your impression of Alexander?”
“He was okay. Didn’t say much, but he was easy to train. He did everything I said – no bitching, y’know? If I told him to do some exercises or stretches between sessions, he always did ’em, which is kinda weird.” D’Angelo shrugged.
“Why is it weird?”
“I dunno. I s’pose cos I never felt he liked any of it, y’know? He totally listened to me, but not because he had personal goals he wanted to achieve, or because he liked the exercise. Seemed to be just because his houder wanted him ripped – so he got himself ripped.”
“Did you set him the yoga exercises?”
D’Angelo gave him a blank look. “Yoga? He never mentioned doin’ no yoga, man.”
“Every morning, apparently.”
“Never said nothin’ to me about it.”
“So, you didn’t teach him that?”
“Nope. Ain’t my thing.”
“Okay. Let’s talk about the day of the murder: Was Alexander agitated or upset when he came to his training session?”
“Nah. He was exactly the same as always – respectful, quiet, and—” D’Angelo stopped abruptly and leaned in close, speaking in a low voice. “Y’know, I never really took to the guy. He was hard to get to know. He was polite and spoke nice, and I often thought I should have liked him more, but I didn’t.”
“Any reason why?”
D’Angelo paused, considering that. “I specialise in training up ISs for wealthy clients, and mostly they’re total shits. Nearly all of them are Quarter-rats – you know, Quarrie scum.”
“I know what it means,” said Josiah curtly.
“You know the type, then – sneaky shits, always on the take. Chris wasn’t like that, so I kinda thought I should like him, but I never did. At least the rats don’t hide how shitty they are. They’re honest, in their own way, and you know where you stand with them, but I never felt that way about Chris.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Well, sometimes I’d spook myself by coming up behind him when he was concentrating on the weights and his mind was elsewhere, and for a second it was like seeing a stranger staring back. I didn’t know who the hell he was, man. Used to creep me out.”
“I know the feeling,” Josiah murmured.
“So, if you’re asking me if he could’a killed Mr Dacre and then driven to his session with me and gone through with it, cold as ice, then I have to tell you, man – yeah, I think he could.”
“I see.”
That tallied with what both Dacre’s solicitor and the housekeeper had said, and also with Josiah’s own experience.
“Can you confirm the time he was here on that day?”
“Nah – but we’ll have the security footage.”
D’Angelo led him downstairs to a back office and left him alone to watch the recording.
Alexander arrived at 9.15a.m. on the day of the murder, wearing the outfit he’d been dressed in when he was arrested, his face expressionless as he checked in.
He disappeared from view as he went into the men’s changing room, but emerged a few minutes later in his kit and ran up the stairs to the gym.
Two hours later he ran back down, covered in sweat. Fifteen minutes after that, he came out of the changing room with damp hair, wearing the clothes he’d arrived in and carrying his gym bag. Then he left.
There was nothing that didn’t match with Alexander’s testimony. There was a seventy-five-minute gap between him leaving the gym and arriving back at Dacre’s house – a journey of fifteen minutes – but Alexander had said he liked to drive around when he had the opportunity.
After leaving the gym, Josiah put in a call to Reed. “The route Alexander told us he took after he left the gym – do we have any CCTV footage to back that up?”
“Some of it. We don’t have CCTV of the entire route, so there’s no visuals of him for about thirty minutes of his journey. However, we know Dacre was already dead by then. He was killed either before Alexander left the house or within an hour and a half of him leaving, because that’s when the housekeeper arrived. Why?”
“Just making sure we’ve checked out his alibi completely.”
“Okay. Are you coming back to the office now? Only, there’s something here you really need to see…”
The press was still outside when Josiah returned to Inquisitus. He pushed his way through, ignoring their frantic questions.
He found Reed, Esther, and Mel all gathered around Reed’s desk, looking at a padded yellow envelope.
“What are you all staring at? Is it a bomb?” he demanded, taking off his jacket.
“No – more like a smoking gun,” Esther replied. “And it’s addressed to you.”
“To me?” He reached out to pick up the envelope, only to find his way blocked by Esther’s wheelchair.
“Not so fast, Joe. It arrived in the morning’s post. It’s been through our usual vetting procedure, and we found this.”
She nodded at Mel, who projected a holoimage of the envelope into the air, showing the clear outline of a gun inside.
“We’re treating it as evidence, obviously,” Mel said, raising her latex-clad hands. Opening the envelope gingerly, she removed the gun and examined it. “Pre-R Walther P99, serial number filed off.”
“Is there anything else?” Josiah pulled on his own set of gloves and fished out a small lightbox from the envelope.
He clicked on it and a holovid immediately filled the air, showing himself escorting Alexander into the Inquisitus building on the day he’d arrested him. The date was visible at the top of the image .
“Clearly downloaded from a news site,” Josiah observed.
“So, this is likely to be the gun used in Dacre’s murder?” Reed suggested.
“We’ll soon find out,” Mel said. “I’ll take it to the ballistics lab, and they can run some tests.”
“What about the envelope it came in – any clues?” Josiah held it up to the light. “There’s a standard tracking chip on it. Mel – find out where it was posted. Take the lightbox, too. I don’t think you’ll find prints on anything, but it’s worth a try. I need anything you can get off it.”
She nodded and bounced away, humming happily to herself.
“What the hell does it mean?” Reed asked. “Why would Dacre’s killer send us the murder weapon, if that’s what it is?”
“Not just the murder weapon – also a holovid from a news site,” Esther said. “Which means Alexander Lytton didn’t send it. He was in our custody all day yesterday. He never left our sight, which means…”
“That Dacre’s killer is trying to clear Alexander’s name without implicating themselves,” Josiah said slowly. “The gun is Pre-R, so we can probably rule out a professional hit. Nobody who did this for a living would choose a firearm like this. Someone picked it up on the black market, probably in the Quarterlands; it’s unlikely we’ll be able to trace its origins.”
“We can try,” Esther said firmly.
“Of course – I’ll get one of my confidential informants on it immediately, but Pre-R guns are two a penny out there.”
“I wonder if this was a spur of the moment thing, maybe an impulse decision – giving the killer enough time to buy this weapon but not think the consequences through,” Esther suggested.
“What makes you say that?” Josiah asked.
“Well, let’s suppose that whoever killed Dacre waited until Alexander left for his gym session and then went to the house. Dacre let him or her in – we know that. They killed him, wiped the data from the house system, and then took off. They covered their tracks pretty well, but they hadn’t anticipated that Alexander would be arrested. That wasn’t their plan, so they’ve been panicking since it hit the news. They came up with this – send us the gun, wiped clean of any evidence that could lead back to the shooter, and wait for us to release him.”
“Why not let Alexander take the rap for it?” Josiah questioned. “Why do they care if he’s charged with Elliot’s murder? Doesn’t it get them off the hook?”
“Guilt?” Reed suggested.
“Not necessarily.” Josiah grabbed his holopad and checked back over his notes. “Dacre’s solicitor, Isaac Juniper, said that Dacre had received two offers to buy Alexander’s contract recently but turned them down. Supposing one of those prospective purchasers didn’t want to take no for an answer?”
“With Dacre dead, Alexander would go into the probate system and then his contract would be put back on the market for sale,” Esther said slowly.
“The murderer didn’t want Alexander to be our prime suspect, so they set up this holopic to arrive here today and make it clear it couldn’t have been him,” Josiah said. “You know, I don’t think Dacre’s murder was a hasty decision at all. In fact, I think it was carefully planned.”
“There is another possibility,” Reed ventured quietly. Josiah and Esther both turned to look at him.
“Alexander killed Dacre, then changed out of his bloodstained clothes, shoved them in a plastic bag with the gun, and took them to the gym. He did his regular session and then left – and during the missing time where we can’t account for his movements, he gave them to an accomplice. Alexander anticipated he’d be the prime suspect, so he arranged for the accomplice to send us the gun and date-stamped holoimage while he was safely locked up in custody.”
“That relies on Alexander knowing someone who would risk a hell of a lot for him,” Josiah stated flatly.
“Yeah, but if someone else shot Dacre in order to buy Alexander, then they also risked a hell of a lot for him,” Reed pointed out. “One way or another, someone out there clearly likes him.”
“Or wants him – which isn’t quite the same thing,” Josiah retorted.
“It’s hard to prove either hypothesis without more information,” Esther said. “Let’s hope that gun talks to us. I want to know the minute we have any more information.” She spun her wheelchair around and wheeled away.
Josiah turned back to Reed. “We need to find out who wanted to buy Alexander’s contract and why.”
Reed made a face. “Look, sir, I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think that my accomplice theory makes more sense than your lone gunman idea.”
“You just don’t want to believe Alexander is innocent.”
“And you don’t want to believe he’s guilty.”
They glared at each other for a moment. Then Josiah nodded. “We’ll investigate both theories. Either way, we’re looking for someone else – instead of Alexander, or in addition to him. If we go with the accomplice hypothesis – who would Alexander trust to cover for him?”
“And if we go with your thwarted-buyer supposition – who would want Alexander so much that they’d kill for him?” Reed asked.
Josiah thought back to the news report he’d watched with Alexander earlier. “I can think of someone who fits both profiles,” he said. “Do we have blood spatter analysis of the crime scene?”
“Not yet – I’m expecting it later today or tomorrow. Why?”
“I want to find out if the killer was sitting or standing when he shot Dacre.”
“Sitting?” Reed queried, puzzled.
“In a wheelchair.”
“Charles Lytton?” Reed looked outraged. “You think our national hero murdered Elliot Dacre?”
“I saw him on the news this morning – he’s had treatment and is walking again, but he looked pretty shaky on his feet and clearly still needs his wheelchair occasionally, so it’s worth investigating the blood spatter, in case it gives us clues.”
“Yeah, but… Charles Lytton?” Reed asked, shaking his head.
“Why not? He was close to his brother – there’s footage of Charles sobbing after Alexander’s trial. There was an embargo on Alexander being set free or bought by a family member for the first seven years of his servitude, but that expired in June – around the time Elliot Dacre started getting offers to buy him.”
He paced the room, thinking out loud. “Supposing Charles Lytton has been waiting until he could get his brother back, biding his time, saving his money? Then, the seven years are up, and he goes to buy Alexander with the intention of freeing him – but Dacre refuses to sell.”
Reed gave a reluctant nod. “Okay. That’s possible. I’ll call the lab and ask them to speed up those results.”
“Good.”
“Even if Charles Lytton didn’t pull the trigger, he could be the accomplice,” Reed suggested. “Alexander could have killed Dacre and then taken the gun to Charles, who was tasked with sending it in the post to us.”
“Yeah, that’s possible, too.” Josiah grabbed his jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“To talk to Charles Lytton. While I’m gone, find out more about where that gun was posted, what time, and if there’s any CCTV footage to show who posted it. Also – dig into Dacre’s correspondence and see if you can find out who offered to buy Alexander.”
“Will do. Be careful, sir. I know you’re sceptical about how the press are portraying Lytton, but they might not be wrong.”
“You mean the whole ‘Raine versus Lytton’ thing, like we’re in a boxing match or a chess game?” Josiah snorted. “It’s ludicrous.”
“Maybe not,” Reed warned. “Alexander Lytton has a first-class degree from Oxford – he’s clever. Maybe he planned this whole thing from the beginning. He does seem to know a hell of a lot about you.”
“He’s clever, but he’s not omniscient – how on earth would he have known in advance that I’d be assigned to this case?”
“With all due respect, sir, you’re precisely who everyone would expect to be given this case. I know you’ve never sought it out, but you’re the most famous investigator in the country, and this is exactly the kind of case that you’re known for.”
“You think he’s playing me to that degree? That he set this whole thing up, studied me, and then killed Dacre in the belief he could outsmart me in the investigation? You really think he’s that cunning?”
“I don’t know, because I can’t get a read on him, and I don’t think you can, either – hell, I don’t think anyone can – and that makes me suspicious. ”
“We’ll see.”
“He’s an indie on a lifetime contract, with nothing to lose and plenty of time on his hands to plot a murder,” Reed called after him as Josiah strode from the room.
Before visiting Charles Lytton, he decided to meet with one of his confidential informants to get that ball rolling. Mahmoud was a small, sad-faced man with a droopy moustache. They met in a dingy, rundown area next to a lost zone at the edge of Old London.
The usual contingent of lost souls were hanging around, silently drifting, most of them high on croc with tears running down their cheeks.
Josiah threw them some cash cards, coded only to allow them to buy food, and waved them away, so he could talk to Mahmoud in private. He showed his CI a holopic of the gun.
“You want me to find a specific gun in the Quarterlands?” Mahmoud looked at him as if he’d gone senile. “Quarter-rats buy and sell Pre-R weapons all the time. You know that, Inspector Indiehunter, sir.”
“Yeah, but I’m not talking about the usual suspects here, Mahmoud. I’m talking about someone different – someone new, or unusual, or particularly desperate – probably looking to buy in the past week or so.”
Mahmoud scratched his moustache thoughtfully and gazed out over the murky grey water. “It’s a big ask.”
“Yeah, but you have a network of spies in every Quarrie ghetto in New or Old London. Ask them what they know – isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”
He handed Mahmoud a fully loaded Inquisitus cash card and turned up his collar against the thin sheen of rain that was starting to fall.
“I’ll ask around. No promises, though,” Mahmoud said, pocketing the card. “This is not one of the easiest jobs you’ve ever given me, Inspector Indiehunter.”
“Raine. My name is Investigator Raine. ”
“I know – I just like winding you up.” Mahmoud gave him a lopsided grin and then disappeared into the misty drizzle.
Josiah didn’t hold out much hope that Mahmoud would be successful, but he was more optimistic about the next focus of his investigation. He wasn’t sure if that was because he genuinely thought Charles Lytton was a suspect, or if he relished the opportunity to find out more about Alexander – maybe both.
He didn’t call ahead to warn Charles that he was on his way. He risked a wasted journey, but he wanted the element of surprise. He was in luck, though; he recognised Charles’s duck from the news report earlier, parked on the front drive of the old country house where he lived.
The press was gathered at the end of the drive; several camera flashes went off as he pulled up in front of them.
Two burly security guards on the gate had clearly been hired to keep the media away from the house in order to avoid a repeat of the previous day, when Charles had been waylaid. There was a shocked silence as Josiah presented his ID, and then the guards waved him up to the house.
He was expecting a liveried IS to open the front door, but instead Charles Lytton greeted him in person, standing, although holding on to a walker.
“Come in, come in. Sorry about all the clowns outside,” he said cheerily. “What a business this is.”
“You obviously know why I’m here,” Josiah said, studying the erstwhile national hero.
Charles had given up competitive rowing a few years ago, and since then his burly physique had turned to fat. His blond-brown hair was thinning on top, his former good looks having faded into a genteel homeliness. His smile was still charming, though, with a sunny quality that was instantly disarming.
“Yes… well, I mean, not why you’re here precisely, but obviously it’s to do with my brother. How is he?” Charles asked anxiously. “I saw you with him on the news. Is he okay? How is he holding up?”
“He’s fine, as far as I can tell.” Josiah gave a tight smile. “He’s being treated well. ”
“He didn’t do this,” Charles said firmly. “He didn’t kill that poor man.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He couldn’t. It’s not in his nature.”
Josiah was delighted to find someone with a clear idea of Alexander’s character, as it had eluded everybody else he’d spoken to.
“I have some more questions for you, if that’s okay?”
“Yes, of course. This way… the drawing room is warmest – we’ve had some damp problems, and the other rooms are on the chilly side.”
He walked stiffly, his gait awkward, and he had to hold on to his walker for assistance. He wasn’t a promising candidate for a murder requiring both the element of surprise and the need for a quick getaway.
Josiah followed him into a big room that had a shabby, neglected appearance and was badly in need of redecoration.
“Ignore my father – he’s taking his usual after-lunch nap.”
Charles nodded in the direction of an armchair in front of a large bay window, where a grey-haired man sat, his knees covered by a blanket and his eyes closed, snoring softly. He looked old and fragile, but Josiah could see a faded remnant of a once handsome man in his features.
“He’s had a couple of strokes, and he sleeps a lot now. He’s perfectly compos mentis and all that, but he needs a stick to walk and can’t go far without having to sit down. I’ve told him he should borrow one of my old wheelchairs, but he refuses – he’s a stubborn old bugger. I haven’t told him about this business with Alex, yet. I was hoping it would blow over. It’s all over the news, of course, so I suppose he’ll find out before long. Take a seat, please.” Charles waved his hand at a threadbare sofa.
“Do you want a cup of tea or coffee? We don’t have any servants these days, but I can make you something.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Charles sank down on the sofa with a deep sigh. “Ah, it’s good to sit.”
“I must say, I’m surprised to see you walking. You were in a wheelchair until fairly recently, I believe,” Josiah said .
“Yes!” Charles beamed. “It’s been a long journey, but I’m getting a little better all the time. I still need the wheelchair a lot of the time, to be honest, but I walk where I can, to build up my muscle tone. I wanted to be a little further along before announcing it to the press, but I suppose it’s all out in the open now with them camped outside.” He gave a little laugh, as if that didn’t bother him much.
“Not that it’s a secret, just that it’s been a long time since I won any medals, and the press aren’t as interested in me as they once were, so nobody has noticed until now. Right – you have some questions for me. Go ahead – I’m all ears.”
“When did you last have contact with your brother?”
“Ah, well, that’s what those reporter fellows asked, and my answer remains the same – I haven’t seen him since he was sentenced to servitude.”
“That’s not quite what I asked.” Josiah watched Charles frown as he pondered that; he clearly wasn’t as bright as his brother.
“Oh! Right – yes, I see. Well, the answer is the same – I haven’t had any contact with Alex since that day – nothing at all.” He gave a sad smile. “I do miss him, terribly.”
“I can understand that. He’s your brother, after all.”
“Well, quite.”
“You must be a very forgiving person,” Josiah mused. “I’ve read your family history – Alexander was driving under the influence of drugs on the day you suffered your terrible accident.” He gestured at Charles’s walker. “Your brother’s actions ruined your life, and yet you forgave him.” He sat back, trying to get the measure of the man.
“Well, yes, but Alex is my little brother. I love him. I was four years old when he was born, and I adored him from the minute I first saw him.” Charles smiled fondly.
“We were close growing up; he was always so naughty, and I used to get him out of trouble. I couldn’t hate him if I tried. Besides, it wouldn’t help – it just eats you up inside. Forgiveness is the better path in the long run, wouldn’t you say?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t forgive easily,” Josiah replied tautly.
“Oh. Right. No.” Charles looked down at his hands. Clearly, he knew Josiah’s history, as most people did. It made Josiah long for the days when he could get on with his job anonymously, without his past getting in the way.
“You must know that the seven-year sentence imposed by the court came to an end in June,” he said. “So, if his houder didn’t mind losing a hundred and sixty million pounds, then Alexander could be freed now.”
“Are those seven years up already? I knew it must be sometime this year, of course.” Charles looked flustered.
“So, I was wondering – did you make Elliot Dacre an offer to buy Alexander now that he’s served his sentence?”
Charles stared at his knees for a long time. When he looked up, Josiah was startled by his guilty expression.
“No, I didn’t,” Charles said in an agonised voice. “I should have. I promised him I would, only, well, at first, the end of his sentence seemed very distant. I thought I had plenty of time to get the money together. I was earning well, and there was always Lytton AV. I thought the business might recover, and then I could get part of the money from Dad. But then Dad had his stroke, and the business had to be sold off, and it was in so much debt that we didn’t make a penny.” He gazed despondently out of the window.
“So, you’re saying you didn’t make an offer to buy him?”
“Hmm?” Charles tore his gaze away from the unkempt garden outside. “Oh, no, I didn’t. I feel terrible about it, but we simply don’t have the money.”
Josiah gazed at him steadily. Charles, clearly sensing judgement, flushed.
“I wanted to walk again,” he admitted suddenly. “Medical treatment for my kind of spinal cord injury isn’t cheap.”
“No. I’d imagine not.” The National Health Service was long gone, the distant memory of a bygone age. Access to decent medical insurance was one of the main reasons people sold themselves into indentured servitude.
“Do you blame me?” Charles whispered pathetically. “I just wanted it so badly. ”
Josiah sighed. Did he blame him for choosing his mobility over his brother’s freedom, especially given Alexander’s crimes? It was a tough call.
“I wish there’d been more money, but as you can see…” Charles waved his hand at the rundown room, with its peeling wallpaper.
“We used to have dozens of indentured servants, but we couldn’t afford to keep feeding them and pay for their medical insurance, so they had to go. I do okay with my commentating work and after-dinner speeches, but I have to pay for the upkeep of this place, and medical expenses for my father and myself, and so on.”
“Why not sell the house to pay for Alexander’s freedom?”
“Well, I would in an instant, of course, but Dad owns the house, not me, and he won’t hear of it. It’s his family home; the Lyttons have lived here for generations. He wouldn’t do it, anyway – he’s never forgiven Alex for what he did. Besides…” Charles sighed. “Look, the truth is that the house is mortgaged up to the hilt, and even if it wasn’t, we still wouldn’t have the money to buy Alex back. He’s far too expensive.”
“I see.” Josiah studied Charles thoughtfully. “I’m sure you won’t mind me taking a look at your bank accounts and mortgage statements to verify that?”
“Of course not. In fact, you can see them while you’re here.” Charles took out his holopad and zapped the files over.
It certainly seemed that he was telling the truth. He had a little under ￡2 million in various accounts – nowhere near enough to buy an indie as pricey as Alexander. The mortgage statement showed they’d have a modest sum left over if they sold The Orchard – but again, nowhere near enough to buy Alexander.
“What happened?” Josiah asked. “Your family was once so rich – your father owned a major AV company, and you were the nation’s hero.”
Charles’s face creased into another of those beautiful smiles. “Well, thank you, but being a national hero isn’t quite as lucrative as you might think. After Alex’s disgrace, Dad went into a decline, the business failed, and everything fell apart. ”
“Mr Lytton – could you tell me where you were all day on Tuesday?” Josiah asked suddenly, hoping to catch him off guard.
Charles blinked. “Uh… I was promoting a new product line for my sponsors at the Waterlooville Boat Show all day. There were plenty of witnesses.”
“And what about yesterday – did you leave the house at all?”
“I tried.” Charles gave a rueful smile. “But there were dozens of reporters outside, and I was worried about leaving Dad all alone in the house, so I came back inside and hired the security guards. I do hope I won’t need them for long – they are rather expensive.”
“So, you didn’t leave the house all day?”
“Only when I tried to go out to my duck.”
“You didn’t post anything, either, or arrange a parcel collection?”
“Uh, no.” Charles looked puzzled. “What would I have posted?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Josiah was sure the reporters outside had been there since the news about Alexander’s arrest first broke, so if anyone had arrived or left, they’d know. He’d easily be able to verify Charles’s statement on his way out.
“And your father? Where was he on both those days?”
“Dad?” Charles looked at him incredulously. “I can’t remember the last time he left the house, Investigator Raine. He can’t get anywhere by himself, and we can’t afford to employ anyone to help us out these days. As you can see, I’m in no position to help him.” He gestured at his walker.
“Tell me about Alexander,” Josiah requested. “Tell me what he’s like.”
Charles gave a fond smile. “He’s a sweet soul. A little lost, but misunderstood. He’s artistic, sensitive, kind, and loyal to a fault. He can be a little sharp-tongued, on occasion, I’ll admit – I always thought he was too clever for his own good – but he’s an artist at heart. He’s a good person.”
Josiah nodded slowly. That was an interesting take on his enigmatic IS. “Very well. Thank you for your time. I think that’s everything.” He stood up.
“Investigator Raine.” Charles put a hand on his arm. “Is Alex really okay?” His blue eyes were swimming with tears .
“He’s…” Josiah paused. “You know, I have no idea. He’s not an easy man to read.”
“Do you think he killed Elliot Dacre?”
“You said you were sure he wasn’t capable of it.” Josiah rocked back on his heels and studied Charles keenly.
“He isn’t. He was devastated by what he did to my father, you know, and theft isn’t anywhere near as bad as murder.”
“You haven’t seen him in seven years – he could have changed in that time.”
“Not that much. I’ll never believe my little brother could murder anyone.”
“Do we have a visitor?” a croaky voice interrupted suddenly. Josiah looked over to see that Noah Lytton had woken up.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. I was just leaving,” he said politely.
“Not on my account, please. We don’t have many visitors these days.” Noah moved his blanket aside and got to his feet, shakily.
Now he was awake, Josiah could see traces of Alexander in his grey eyes and fine bone structure, different to his older son’s blunter features, which favoured his mother more.
“He really was just leaving, Dad,” Charles said hurriedly, walking stiffly towards the door and gesturing that Josiah should follow.
Josiah didn’t care about upsetting any Lytton family sensitivities; he was here to solve a murder, and he intended to ask whatever impertinent questions were necessary.
“My name is Josiah Raine,” he said, holding out his hand but not making any move to walk towards the sick man.
“Your face seems familiar… do I know you?”
Noah grabbed his walking stick and leaned heavily on it as he shuffled across the room to shake Josiah’s hand – Charles had been telling the truth about his lack of mobility.
“I’m a senior investigator with Inquisitus.”
Noah’s expression soured. “Does this have something to do with all the people outside? Charles won’t tell me what’s going on, but I’ve been through this before, more than once. Bloody media parasites! What do they want this time? Haven’t we given them enough entertainment over the years? ”
“It’s about your son – Alexander.”
Noah’s face froze in shock, then darkened. “I don’t have a son by that name,” he said stiffly. “I only have one son, and he’s over there.”
“Please, Dad, let’s not start this up again,” Charles beseeched.
“So, you haven’t been in communication with Alexander recently?”
“No, I bloody well haven’t. I told the court years ago that I’d disowned him – he’s dead to me. I haven’t seen him since and good riddance.”
He was breathing heavily and suddenly lurched as one of his legs gave way. Josiah grabbed him under one arm to stop him falling.
Noah Lytton was thin and frail, and it was easy for him to take the old man’s weight and guide him onto a nearby chair. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, then, sir.”
“If Alex is involved, that explains why the press are outside,” Noah said angrily. “They can’t keep away from that boy. What’s he done this time, hmm? Stolen his houder’s money? Escaped abroad? Murdered someone?”
Josiah was silent.
Noah glanced up at him – despite his physical frailty, Josiah could tell that he was still mentally sharp.
“Murdered someone?” Noah repeated, looking genuinely shocked. “Really? That’s why you’re here, Mr whatever-your-name-is?”
“Investigator Raine.”
“Oh, I know you now – I’ve read about you – you’re that indiehunter fellow.” Noah gave him a disapproving glare. “Never did like the look of you, or that name you earned for yourself. Did you give any of those poor bastards you caught a decent chance, hmm? Prejudiced – that’s what you are.”
“I’m just doing my job, sir.”
“‘Just doing my job’ – the age-old excuse of oppressors everywhere.” Noah scowled. “In my day, you didn’t hear of all these crimes being committed by indentured servants. We treated them well, because it was our duty. Now, suddenly, they’re being demonised in the press, called ‘serfs’, and people like you are making the public fear and hate them. Indiehunter.” He snarled the epithet.
Josiah smiled. “You know, under different circumstances I might actually like you, sir. However, right now I have a murder to solve, and you seemed shocked when I suggested Alexander might be responsible. Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
Noah hunched his shoulders and looked away.
“Sir?” Josiah pressed.
“Oh, who knows what that boy is capable of. I’m only his father – what would I know?” He caught himself and jerked his head irritably. “Was his father, once… not anymore. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He shook his head repeatedly, muttering under his breath.
“Very well, sir. I’m sorry, once again, for disturbing you.” Josiah turned to follow Charles out of the room.
“I remember a little boy who could paint like an angel,” Noah said softly, behind him.
Josiah turned back to see a faraway look in Noah’s eyes.
“Just a few, fine strokes of his brush on the paper – so deft, such lightness of touch.” Noah held one shaking hand in the air as if visualising it in his mind’s eye.
“He could see things I never saw. I’d look at a table, or a duck, and see a lump of wood or metal, but he could see their beauty and convey it perfectly in his art. It was a gift, such a gift, but it all went to waste. Murder?” The older man looked sadly at Josiah. “Maybe if he wasn’t able to see that beauty anymore, if all he saw was ugliness instead, well, maybe then he could murder someone, but I hate to think what he’s become if that’s the case, Mr Raine.”
“Thank you, sir,” Josiah said softly.
The light drizzle of earlier had given way to a storm, and it was pouring with rain as he left the house. A quick conversation with the waiting press confirmed Charles’s alibi. Then he ran back to his duck and decided to wait for the downpour to pass.
A brief search of the Waterlooville Boat Show brought up a holovid of Charles Lytton demonstrating a product at 9.10a.m. and again at 11.30a.m. on the day of the murder. There was no way he could have driven from there to Dacre’s house, shot him, and driven back again.
Neither could he have left The Orchard to post the gun the following day without the press seeing him, and nobody had visited the house to collect a package, either .
Charles Lytton couldn’t be the murderer or the murderer’s accomplice, and it would have done him no good to kill Elliot Dacre anyway, as he didn’t have the money to buy Alexander.
Josiah had wondered if Noah Lytton was a possible suspect, but quickly dismissed the notion. There was no way that frail old man had made the journey to Dacre’s house, and he certainly hadn’t been responsible for posting the gun.
So, if neither Charles nor Noah Lytton had made an offer to buy Alexander, then who had? Josiah was sure that question was at the heart of this case; if he could answer it, then he would find his murderer.
At that moment, Reed called. “Ballistics confirm that the gun was definitely the one used to kill Dacre.”
“As we expected.” Josiah rolled his neck from side to side until it made a satisfying click.
“And the blood spatter report’s back, too. The pattern indicates that both Dacre and his assailant were standing when Dacre was shot. The shooter was probably around the same height as Dacre – maybe a bit taller – so Charles Lytton probably isn’t our guy.”
“Yeah, I’ve already figured that out,” Josiah said wearily.
“Any idea who is?”
“When I know, you’ll know. Did you get anything off that envelope?”
“No prints, as expected, but I’m still following up on precisely where and when it was posted.”
“Keep me informed.” Josiah ended the call.
He took the little silver box out of his jacket, wanting a chocolate fix, and then remembered he hadn’t yet refilled it. To his surprise, it made a little rustling noise, so he flipped open the lid and found two dark chocolates nestled inside.
He stared at them, wondering if he’d put them there and forgotten – and then he recalled leaving Alexander alone for a few minutes while he’d gone upstairs to find his old nanopad. He’d left his jacket hanging over the back of a chair, and Alexander had clearly taken advantage of the moment to refill his chocolate stash.
Who exactly was Alexander Lytton? The tortured genius, the spoilt bad boy, the smart player trying to beat him in a game of wits, or the perfect servant, trying his best to please his new houder with a gift of chocolate?
He put one of the chocolates in his mouth and let it slowly melt while he tried to work out which Alexander was the real one. Maybe they all were.
He needed to have another chat with his elusive IS. The storm had passed and it was getting late – it was time to head for home.
As he drove, he mulled over everything he’d learned during the day. By the time he arrived, he had a whole list of questions he wanted to put to Alexander – and this time he had no intention of being fobbed off by the indie’s evasive answers.
He parked his duck in the garage beside Peter’s gleaming red car, jogged into the house, and threw open the living room door.
“Alexander! You and I need to…”
He stopped dead in his tracks. The room was warm and cosy. The nanofire he rarely used was flickering invitingly, and the lounge was gently lit by two glowing turquoise lamps he’d never seen before. There were several cerise scatter cushions on the sofa and a fleece throw in the same shade hung neatly over it, complementing the colours of the lamps. Music was playing softly in the background and a delicious scent was wafting enticingly from the kitchen.
“You wanted me, sir?” Alexander appeared in the doorway, dressed in a pair of jeans and a soft blue sweatshirt, with nothing on his feet. His hair was gelled and glistened in the soft lamplight, framing his face in soft waves.
“Uh…” Josiah glanced around. “What have you done to my house?”
“Well, it was already tidy, so there wasn’t much clearing up to do, but maybe it was a little cold and formal, sir.” Alexander stepped into the room.
“So, I reprogrammed a few things, and ordered some items online and got them delivered this afternoon, along with the ingredients for dinner.”
Josiah ran his fingers over the throw on the back of the sofa and discovered it was exquisitely soft. His new IS had good taste .
“Don’t worry, I didn’t spend a fortune. I’ve sent the receipts to your nym. Would you like a snack before dinner, sir?”
Alexander brought over a tray containing a glass of Coke and a bowl of nuts. “You’ve had a long day, and I’m sure you want to relax. I didn’t know when to expect you home, so I prepared a casserole and have it on a low heat; it’s ready whenever you are.”
He put the tray down on a side table. “Let me take your jacket, sir,” he said, putting his hands on Josiah’s shoulders.
Josiah was too stunned to resist as Alexander removed his jacket and hung it over a nearby chair. Then he returned and knelt at his feet.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Removing your shoes, sir, so you can relax. You don’t seem to own any slippers, so I ordered these online.” Alexander gestured at an elegant leather pair nearby. “I thought they were your style, sir.” He started pulling on Josiah’s shoelaces.
Josiah finally came to and moved his foot away. “Stop,” he barked.
Alexander gave him a questioning look.
“Get up,” he ordered.
Alexander obeyed instantly.
“What the fuck are you playing at, Lytton?”
“I’m your IS, sir. Your comfort and convenience are my primary concern.”
“We both know that’s bullshit. You’re only temporary, and all this” – Josiah gestured at the room – “isn’t who you are.”
“I’m your IS, so that makes it precisely who I am,” Alexander said firmly.
“No, you’re the indie the personal trainer never liked, the solicitor never trusted, and the housekeeper didn’t warm to. You’re the notorious felon the press wants to crucify, who even my own data tech believes committed a brutal murder a couple of days ago. You’re also the kid your brother adored from the minute you were born, and the son your father still grieves for, even after all this time.”
Alexander stood, frozen to the spot, his eyes wide with shock. Then he gave a curt nod. “What other people think of me is none of my business,” he said. “I can’t control it. I can only control my own actions. ”
He waved a hand at the room. “I wanted to do something nice for you. You work hard and deserve an indie who looks after you.”
“Oh, stop it, for fuck’s sake,” Josiah snapped. “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, Lytton, but I do know you’re hiding something.”
“Everyone is hiding something,” Alexander retorted. “Even you. Especially you.”
Josiah’s jaw tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’re the investigator the press worships for beliefs you not only don’t hold but I suspect you actively despise. You live alone in a place so sad and sterile nobody could call it a home, and yet it was once a warm and happy place. You’re not the only one who spent his day investigating.”
Alexander clicked a light box and a nanopic immediately sprang up on the sideboard. Josiah remembered Peter taking it after a long hike, when they’d returned home tired, muddy, and happy. Hattie was sitting by the fire at his feet, gazing up at him, her tongue lolling, and Peter had his arm around Josiah’s shoulders, beaming at him as he took the pic.
He barely recognised himself – he looked so relaxed and happy, wearing a stupid baseball cap and grinning inanely at the camera.
“Where did you find that?” he demanded.
“It was in one of the boxes in the wardrobe in my bedroom. I found it when I was unpacking my clothes. Why do you keep it hidden away? Why not have it out on display, where you can see it?”
“It’s none of your damn business.”
“Maybe that’s how I feel, too, knowing you’re poking around in my life.”
“I’m not a murder suspect!”
“And I didn’t kill anyone!”
They gazed at each other in a silent stalemate before Alexander finally broke the tension. “You went to see my family, didn’t you?” His voice shook a little as he spoke. “How were they?”
Josiah thought of those two pathetic men sharing that threadbare old house and decided he couldn’t tell Alexander that .
“Your brother didn’t make an offer to buy your contract,” he said instead. Alexander’s eyes flashed with a raw, unexpected pain.
“You thought he had, didn’t you? Maybe you even thought you were protecting him, because he killed Dacre, but he didn’t. He doesn’t have anywhere near enough money to buy you, because he prioritised regaining the use of his legs over you, and although he feels guilty about that, I don’t think he’s losing any sleep over it. Your father is in no position to help, either, in case you were wondering.”
It was one of those rare times when he caught a glimpse of something real and honest in Alexander’s eyes – there was no hiding how genuinely upset he was.
“Charles didn’t make an offer to buy me out of servitude?”
“No, he didn’t. He didn’t even know your seven years were up.”
“Then who was the oth—?” Alexander broke off abruptly.
It was the first real chink Josiah had seen in his armour, and he pressed home the advantage. “You knew there’d been two offers to buy your contract since June, didn’t you?”
Alexander shrugged. “Elliot mentioned it.”
“You knew, and you thought you knew the identity of them both, so now you’re confused because Charles isn’t one of them. That means you know who the other bidder was.”
Alexander gave a wry smile, and his mask was back in place. “It sounds like you have it all worked out, Investigator Raine.”
Josiah sighed. “I’m trying to help you. I don’t believe you killed Elliot Dacre, but I think you’re protecting whoever did. Maybe you thought that person was your brother. Now you know it isn’t, you need to tell me who else it could be.”
“You’ve met my brother, Investigator Raine,” Alexander said wearily. “Do you really think he’s capable of murder?”
Josiah thought of good-natured, ineffectual Charles Lytton, with that easy, empty smile. “No,” he admitted.
“Then why would I be protecting him from a crime nobody could ever believe he’d commit?”
“It’s been seven years. People change. Now, tell me who else wanted to buy your contract.”
Alexander stood there in silence, unmoving .
“I can’t help you if you won’t trust me.”
“Oh, and I really can’t think of any reason not to trust you, indiehunter .”
“Fine.” Josiah rocked back on his heels. “Then I’m going to re-tread every step you’ve ever taken and find out precisely who you are. You can try and hide behind that infuriating mask you wear, but I’m an excellent investigator, Alexander – you can’t hide from me forever.”