Page 4

Josiah

Josiah ushered his captive back towards his AV, followed by Reed. They passed Alexander’s duck on the way, and Reed stopped to admire the gleaming maroon bodywork.

“I wish I could afford one of these fancy ducks,” he said wistfully. “This is the Tyler Tech Destiny range. They glide across the surface of the water, graceful as a swan, rather than waddling through it like your average duck.”

Josiah grunted. “Who cares what it looks like, as long as it gets you from A to B?”

Reed shot him an incredulous look. “Oh, come on! How could you not appreciate this little beauty? Look at her. If Dacre bought a duck like this for his indie, then he was either hopelessly in love or he had money to waste. These things aren’t cheap.”

Josiah glanced at Alexander. “Did Dacre buy this AV for you?”

“Yes. He wanted me to have a duck for travelling to the gym.”

“He could have bought you any old duck for that,’ Reed exclaimed. “This is a fancy duck.”

“He liked to spoil me,” Alexander said.

“It doesn’t sound like you appreciated the gift. ”

Alexander shrugged. “It made him happy to give it to me, so I was happy to receive it.”

“Of course you were bloody well happy to receive it,” Reed said. “I don’t know anyone who doesn’t want one of these beauties except you, sir. Whoever designed this duck was a bloody genius.”

Alexander gave an odd, twisted smile that somehow managed to be both happy and sad at the same time, much to Josiah’s fascination.

“It’s not just about function, you see, sir – it’s about their beauty, too,” Reed continued, running his fingers along the glossy paintwork. “That’s what people want these days. We’ve all lived with austerity for long enough. People want toys like holoties, and holopics, and fancy ducks that look good as well as taking them from A to B. You need to get with the times, sir.”

Alexander looked quietly amused, as if by some private joke. Deciding it was time to get the enigmatic indie back to Inquisitus and find out more about him, Josiah tightened his grasp on Alexander’s arm and pushed him onto the back seat of his AV, shutting the door behind him. When he looked up, he saw Reed was lagging behind, gazing at his holopad as he walked, his fingers racing over it.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“His name’s been bugging me,” Reed replied. “I’m sure I know him. Alexander Lytton… Oh, of course! He was all over the news a few years ago. It was a huge scandal at the time. He’s Charles Lytton’s brother.”

“Charles Lytton? The famous rower?” Josiah, like everyone else in the country, could remember precisely where he’d been when Charles Lytton had won Britain’s first Olympic gold medal since the restoration of the Games after the Rising. He glanced at Alexander, sitting in the duck, oblivious to their conversation. “This man is his brother?”

“Yup.”

“So, it seems that our indie is something of a celebrity, too, just like our victim,” Josiah said.

Reed’s expression hardened. “No, his brother is the celebrity. This guy is a nobody. He broke his brother’s spine in an AV crash a few weeks after Charles won that glorious gold at the 2082 Olympics. Alexander was driving while off his head on croc. His mum was killed in the crash, too. ”

Reed’s holopad projected a picture of a happy trio of people into the air: a beautiful woman in her forties with blue eyes and golden hair; a handsome, tanned young man with a rower’s physique and a beaming smile whom Josiah recognised as Charles Lytton; and a teenaged Alexander, much slighter than his brother and dressed far more eccentrically, grinning happily for the camera. He must have acquired that elusive quality later, because he looked open and guileless in this picture.

“Trouble seems to follow him wherever he goes,” Josiah murmured as he glanced at the news report about the crash.

“Or he causes it,” Reed said darkly. “I was a huge fan of Charles Lytton. I mean, everyone was – he was such a shining hope for us all, coming out of the dark times. Then this little shit went and ruined it.”

“How old was Alexander at the time of the crash?”

“Seventeen.” Reed scrolled through the report. “His father bailed him out – all he got was a driving ban for three years and a slap on the wrist. Everyone felt he’d got away with murder – literally. He deserved far worse.”

“He was a seventeen-year-old-kid whose stupidity got his mum killed and his brother crippled for life – it’s hard to see how much worse it could have been,” Josiah pointed out.

Reed cast a hard glance at their prisoner through the duck window, and Alexander gave a sardonic smile in response, as if he knew exactly what Reed was thinking.

Josiah watched the exchange thoughtfully – there was something about Alexander Lytton that aroused people’s passions. Dacre had clearly loved him to the point of obsession, taking countless holopics of him and buying him expensive gifts, while Reed found him infuriating. Josiah could empathise – he had a similarly polarising effect on people himself.

“How old was Alexander when he was sentenced to servitude?” he asked.

Reed glanced at his holopad. “Twenty-three.”

“Christ – so young. What the hell did he do to end up on a lifetime contract? ”

“Theft.” Reed glared at Alexander again. “He stole a huge amount of money – so much that even his rich daddy couldn’t save him.”

“Maybe he never got over the crash,” Josiah mused. “Perhaps he went off the rails after the accident, and that’s why he stole the money.”

“Yeah. I bet he’s our killer. It must’ve been hard for a spoilt rich kid like him to adapt to being an indie. He probably snapped and killed Dacre.”

“He’s been an IS for seven years,” Josiah pointed out. “He’s had plenty of time to adapt.”

“He’s still our most likely suspect,” Reed said doggedly.

“We’ll see.” Something told Josiah that it wasn’t going to be that simple. “Here.” He transferred the biokey to Reed. “You can drive.”

He slid into the passenger seat and studied his captive in the wing mirror. Alexander looked very different to the teenage boy in the photo with the bohemian taste in fashion. His current look was far more luxurious. He was wearing the latest designer clothes, all fitted to show off his toned body to best effect – even his soft leather boots were Brazilian Hee-Bees, which were both fashionable and ludicrously expensive. His dark, wavy hair was artfully cut, feathering around his beautiful face in the latest style. He looked like a wealthy man’s pampered pet. However, Josiah suspected that someone a good deal more interesting lurked beneath the immaculately groomed exterior.

Leaning forward in his seat and gazing vacantly out the window, Alexander either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was being studied.

Suddenly, the duck bounced sideways and swerved off the road into a lost zone, jolting Josiah out of his observations.

“We have company,” Reed said grimly.

Josiah glanced over his shoulder to see a dozen ducks chasing them. Some would be from reputable news organisations, but the rest would be social media news chasers, addicted to gossiping about real-life murders – he found them far harder to deal with. The speculation often spiralled wildly out of control when the gossipmongers got hold of it.

“Looks like the word’s out about Dacre’s murder,” Reed said, swerving across the water and deliberately swinging from side to side, throwing up a sheet of spray.

“Dacre must have been quite a celebrity to make them chase after us like this,” Josiah said.

“Well, he was the centre of the artsy-fartsy set,” Reed pointed out. “Always throwing lavish parties and inviting the most beautiful people – plus, he had Hudson Brink on speed dial. When you know the biggest movie star on the planet, you can trade on the kudos.”

“Perhaps.” Josiah went back to gazing at his silent prisoner. “Or maybe they’re only this interested because they know we’ve arrested Alexander Lytton. He’s rather famous in his own right, after all.”

“Yeah, and there’s no way we’ll get him back to Inquisitus without this bunch of clowns taking pics and asking a bunch of damn fool questions,” Reed fumed, glaring at the pursuing ducks in the mirror.

“I told Esther I’d handle it, and I will,” Josiah said confidently.

He’d got used to dealing with both the mainstream media and social media over the past few years. First, there had been the murder of much-loved celebrity chef Emma James and his subsequent pursuit of the indentured servant who had been the only witness. Then there had been the case of the dead politician, Sir John Marcham. Both cases had caught the public imagination and propelled Josiah unwillingly into the limelight.

“Just get us back to Inquisitus in one piece, and let me deal with the hacks,” he instructed.

Even more ducks were pursuing them now, filled with people leaning out of their windows, trying to get pictures of Alexander. The water churned dangerously as successive ducks splashed through it, only narrowly missing each other in the mêlée.

Reed pushed their duck as fast as it would go, and Ghost Eye Floating City suddenly loomed on the horizon. Ghost Eye was the first, and still the biggest and most prestigious, of the new floating cities that had been built in the past few years. A huge artificial island, it provided office space for Inquisitus and various other big companies, as well as shops, restaurants, and some very expensive apartments. The old Houses of Parliament, which were now just a forlorn collection of spires and rooftops dominated by the regal melancholy of Big Ben, stood not far away, the iconic clock tower semi-submerged in the swollen Thames, its hands stuck forever at half past one.

Alexander suddenly leaned forward. “Are we going to Ghost Eye?” he asked.

“Yup – that’s where Inquisitus is based.” Josiah glanced at his prisoner. “Why? Do you know it?”

“I lived there once,” Alexander said softly.

After doing a series of flashy turns, Reed made a screeching landfall, forcing the throttle so the duck’s wheels were spinning the minute she hit solid ground. It wasn’t great for the AV, but it gave them a head start coming out of the water.

They came to a noisy halt in a parking bay outside Inquisitus just as the pursuing vehicles pulled up on the other side of the crash barrier.

Dozens of people immediately scrambled out and ran towards them, shouting questions, filming them, and firing off photographs as Josiah emerged. Opening the back door of the duck, he pulled his prisoner out, shielding him from the probing lenses with his big body.

“Hey – Investigator Raine, are the rumours true? Has Elliot Dacre been murdered?” someone called. The crowd of journalists, photographers, and social media sleuths swarmed towards him, yelling out more questions.

“Investigator Raine – who’s the prisoner?”

“Is that Dacre’s indie?”

“Is that Alexander Lytton? Oh shit – it is! It’s Alexander Lytton!”

The news surged around like floodwater, and, scenting a massive story, the group erupted.

Grabbing Alexander’s arm, Josiah propelled him towards the imposing glass doors of the Inquisitus building. The crowd swarmed around them, jostling them, and Alexander stumbled. Josiah tightened his grasp on his arm, keeping him upright. Alexander was solidly muscled, but he didn’t have his own broad shoulders or the ballast of his greater height and weight.

“Investigator Raine – did Lytton do it? Is that why you’ve arrested him? Was Elliot Dacre murdered by his own indie?” A man thrust a microphone in front of his face .

“I heard the body was mutilated – that the genitals were cut off and stuffed into Dacre’s mouth – is that true?” another demanded.

Josiah glared at them icily, wondering, not for the first time, if they made this shit up just to see his reaction. He heard Alexander take a sharp intake of breath and noticed he looked pale and shaken.

“Take him inside,” he ordered, shoving Alexander at Reed.

Then he turned and held up his hands. The crowd immediately fell silent, gathering around him.

“Yes, Elliot Dacre is dead,” he said bluntly. “We have no idea at this stage who killed him and will therefore be pursuing several lines of inquiry.”

“Can you confirm that was Alexander Lytton with you just now? Have you arrested the most notorious indie in the land?”

“The most notorious indie in the land? Seriously?” Josiah rolled his eyes.

“Did he murder Elliot Dacre?” a blonde woman asked, shoving her microphone under Josiah’s nose. “Is this yet another sordid chapter in the Alexander Lytton story?”

“Are you really expecting me to answer that?” Josiah asked contemptuously.

“Is the indie your prime suspect?” she continued, undaunted. “Have you arrested him? I mean, you’re the indiehunter – that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“I have no further comment to make at this time,” he said icily. When the woman opened her mouth to ask another question, he stared her down and she closed it again.

Another member of the mob was braver. “Isn’t this yet another case of an indentured servant murdering their houder?” he insisted, using the common colloquial term for IS employers. “Isn’t it becoming an epidemic, Investigator Raine? There have been ten such cases in the past year alone. Surely, something must be done?”

Josiah shrugged. “I’m an investigator, not a politician; I just solve the crimes I’m sent to investigate.”

“At least we’re in safe hands if the indiehunter is on the case,” the blonde woman said, smiling at him sycophantically now .

Josiah shot her a withering look, then turned and walked briskly towards the Inquisitus building.

“Make sure he doesn’t get away with it, indiehunter!” she called after him.

He paused, his shoulders tightening, then flung open the glass door and strode inside.

His boss was waiting there to greet him, in her sleek black wheelchair. Esther Lomax’s legs were thin and wasted, the result of the bullet still lodged in her spine that had ended her career in the field twenty years ago, but there was nothing wrong with her mind. She was the sharpest investigator he’d ever worked with, and she expected the absolute best from her staff.

“You’ve arrested someone already?” she asked. “I know you’re good, but I didn’t realise you’d have the case solved by the end of the day.”

“I haven’t,” he said gruffly. “He ran away when we tried to talk to him, and I want to know why. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

She blocked his way. “You’re in a bad mood, Joe. What’s the matter?”

“You’re buying indentured servants now?” he said accusingly. “Since when?”

“Ah, this is about Baumann. I should have guessed. Yes, we’ve taken her on as an IS. Her family are Dutch refugees who’ve been living in government work camps for years. Nobody wants them. Have you ever visited one of those camps, Joe? They’re awful.” She grimaced. “Baumann was a bright kid who was there through no fault of her own. I sponsored her education and was delighted to be able to offer her a position here.”

“Why not just employ her? Why put that noose around her neck?” Josiah made a sharp gesture towards his own throat.

“She’s only allowed to work here as an indie – it’s a condition of her work permit.”

“And Inquisitus gets a tax break as well?” Josiah raised an eyebrow.

Esther sighed. “Yes, Joe, we do. That’s incidental, though – if she works hard, she’ll win her freedom in five years, and then she’ll be entitled to full employment rights – so I’ve promised to offer her a contract of employment then. Does that make you feel better? ”

“No.”

She smiled at him sweetly. “Joe.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“So, we’re good?”

Josiah sighed. “Yeah. She doesn’t like me, though.”

“Baumann? Well, you are an acquired taste.” Esther grinned at him, eyes twinkling. He gave a bark of laughter. “One I acquired many years ago,” she added, leaning forward to pat his arm. “Now, tell me why that mob outside is so interested in this man you’ve arrested.”

“His name is Alexander Lytton. He caused the accident that crippled his famous brother – Charles Lytton, the Olympic rower.”

She sighed. “That’ll make it even harder to keep a lid on this, then.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you will.” She moved her wheelchair aside. “Well – what are you waiting for? Get to work.”

Alexander was sitting in the chair next to Reed’s desk when Josiah strode into the Special Investigations Department. His arms were still cuffed behind him – obviously Reed wasn’t taking any chances. He got to his feet when Josiah walked in.

“Sir, what they said about Elliot…” Alexander swallowed hard. “About his genitals being stuffed into his mouth – is that true?” He looked genuinely shaken.

“No, it isn’t true,” Josiah replied.

Alexander sat down again, looking relieved, and immediately leaned forward in his chair.

Josiah gazed at him thoughtfully. Something had been bothering him ever since they’d arrested him, and now he realised what – Alexander was holding himself strangely.

“Shall I put him in the cells or take him straight to the interview suite?” Reed asked.

“Neither – he can sit here until I’m ready. Without the cuffs,” he added, wanting to eliminate them as the reason for Alexander’s strange body language.

He entered the code to open the restraints, but his prisoner’s odd posture didn’t change when he was released .

“You’re entitled to a lawyer before we question you,” he said. “We can appoint a duty solicitor at your request.”

“No, thank you,” Alexander said firmly.

Josiah paused. Nobody had ever refused legal assistance before. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“You do realise this is a murder investigation, and you’re our number-one suspect, don’t you?”

Alexander gave a wry smile. “Yes, I realise that. Let’s just say I don’t have a huge amount of faith in lawyers. I’ll handle my own fate, thank you.”

“Strange answer, but okay.” Josiah glanced at Reed. “Make a note that he refused a lawyer and get him to sign it. Also, I can guess the answer, but I’m going to ask anyway – did Dacre have Tracker Plus on him?”

By law, all indentured servants had to be injected in their left wrists with a microchip containing their personal data, which would allow police to identify them if they were in an accident or suspected of a crime. It could also be used to track them down if they went missing or tried to run away.

If dug out from under the skin, a chip’s exposure to the air would cause it to emit a signal showing the IS’s last known location – a good place for investigation agencies and bounty hunters to start looking.

The Tracker Plus service went one better and detailed every second of an IS’s whereabouts. Tracker Plus was expensive, though, and most didn’t opt for it.

Reed shook his head. “Nope. First thing I checked. Bloody nuisance, isn’t it? It’d make our job a lot easier.”

“Not necessarily.”