'Yes, I am.' I'd watched Irene Elliott do exactly that only forty-eight hours previously. Easy wasn't the word. After the virus run, it had been like asking a concert total body dancer to encore with stretching exercises. I'd barely had time to smoke a cigarette while she did it. 'But why would anyone bother? A distractor, to tinsel me off course, assuming of course that some wrong turn would have me sniffing around the ruins of a derelict Richmond mall in the first place. Come on, Bancroft, get real. The fact I was out there in the first place proves the validity of that footage. And in any case, those images aren't the basis for anything. They just confirm what I'd already worked out, which is that you killed yourself to avoid viral contamination of your remote stack.'