Page 139 of Crocodile Tears

Archive film of a teenage Alexander visiting his brother in hospital after the crash flashed up. He was thinner then – slighter and less toned. His angular cheekbones were as sharp as razors, and his grey eyes looked huge in his pale face. He pushed determinedly through the media crush outside the hospital, somehow managing to look both devastated and defiant at the same time. Beside him was a grey-haired man who looked enough like him to be his father.

“Blood tests taken at the time of the accident proved that Lytton was high on the recreational drug known as crocodile tears. Four years later, he hit the news again when he lashed out at the paparazzi during the Paralympics in Mexico, on the eve of his brother’s gold medal triumph.”

Footage of Alexander, clearly drugged off his head, lashing outfuriously at photographers and then falling down in the street, filled the screen.

“Then, just when it seemed that Lytton had turned his life around, he was found guilty of stealing a hundred and forty million pounds from his father’s company.”

Pictures of a barely recognisable Alexander being escorted into a courtroom came up. He looked gaunt, miserable, and as abjectly guilty as it was possible to look.

“He was sentenced to indentured servitude, both as punishment and to pay off the sum he had stolen. It seemed, at this point, that Alexander Lytton’s disgrace was complete.”

The report segued into footage of Alexander’s lawyer, a buffoon called Tobias Bailey, making a self-important speech on the court’s steps. Beside him, a distraught Charles Lytton sat in his wheelchair, his shoulders hunched, wiping tears from his cheeks with a handkerchief.

“Turn it off,” Alexander said abruptly. “They’ve already decided I’m guilty. I think you’re the only person on my side.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just want to do my job and find whoever killed Elliot Dacre. Now, I have to go to work. I’ll log you on to the house network – I have no objection to you going online while I’m out, although you should bear in mind I’m tracking every site you visit. What password do you want?” Josiah grabbed his holopad and gazed at Alexander expectantly.

“How about ‘indiehunter’?” Alexander suggested.

Josiah glared at him. “I don’t think so. You can use ‘Hattie’.”

“Any reason?” Alexander glanced over his shoulder.

“None. Your access is restricted to safe sites only. I’ve got an old nanopad upstairs – you can have that in case of emergencies – any calls you make will be automatically recorded.”

He ran off upstairs to retrieve the nanopad, reactivated it, and then trotted back downstairs and handed it to Alexander.

“My nym is programmed in. Call me if there’s anything I need to know.”

“How about if I’m lonely and want to chat?” Alexander asked, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Then I am definitely not your man,” Josiah retorted.

“We can work on that.” Alexander grinned flirtatiously and pocketed the nanopad.

Shouldering himself into his jacket, Josiah departed. It felt strange leaving Alexander alone in his house, but he didn’t know what else to do with his unwanted IS. He’d been driving for barely five minutes when his holopad buzzed.

“You still alive?” Reed’s familiar voice asked.

“Yup, he didn’t try to kill me in my sleep despite all your dire warnings.”

“Bet he tried to seduce you, though.”

“If he did, I manfully resisted.”

Reed’s loud laugh reverberated around the duck. “Knew it.”

“Do you have any news for me?”

“Not really. Sarah says thanks for letting me go home last night. I’m sitting here wondering what your plan is for today and what you want me to do.”

“I want you to go through every item of Dacre’s personal correspondence – emails, letters, holochats, texts – and see if you can find out who made those offers to buy Alexander.”

“You really think that’s the key to all this?”

“It’s one line of enquiry. Keep going through the data and let me know if you spot anything. I’ll be in later.”

“Where are you going?”

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