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“Did you hear about the robbery at a jewelers on the other side of Hammersmith Bridge?” Detective Constable Ian Hartridge’s voice was excited as he leaned through the door into James’s office.

“No.” James had heard a lot of commotion earlier, but there was always something going on at the Yard, especially since the Great Train Robbery in August.

He didn’t know how many raids the department known to most Londoners as the Flying Squad—but just called the Squad inside New Scotland Yard—had carried out since the robbery took place, hunting for the thieves involved, but he knew it was in the hundreds.

“They reckon it happened in the early hours of the morning. The shop keeper came in this morning and found someone broke in, cracked the safe, and made off with over twelve thousand quid in diamonds.” Hartridge shook his head in wonder. “And listen to this, the safe cracker was found dead, shot in the head and left right there in front of the safe.”

That was interesting.

“How are they going to get anyone to work for them again if it gets around that they shot their expert?” James wondered.

“Yes!” Hartridge nodded. “That doesn’t make sense, unless the safe cracker was caught trying to slip a diamond or two into his pocket.”

James gave a slow nod. “Possible, but still a bad look. Did they get the crew?”

Hartridge shook his head. “The first anyone knew of it was when the owner let himself in and found the body and the open safe.”

“Who was the safe cracker?” James asked. He had only done a few robbery cases—he seemed to have found a niche in investigating murders—but some names were well known throughout the whole of the Met.

“Harry Fingers,” Hartridge said. “Have you heard of him?”

James gave a slow nod. “Old timer, isn’t he? I thought the rumor was he’d retired.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Hartridge said. “Maybe the crew forced him to do the job, and killed him because they couldn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut about it?”

James grinned at him. “Or maybe he had to go back on the job to save his poor mum from a life of poverty.”

Hartridge made a face. “Maybe. You never know.”

“Who’s on the case?” James asked.

“DI Layman,” Hartridge said.

“Layman’s good.” James knew full well the same couldn’t be said for a lot of officers at the Met.

“I heard Galbraith’s been assigned to assist,” Hartridge said.

James lifted his eyebrows. “Did he ask for the transfer?”

Hartridge shrugged. “Either he asked, or DI Whetford asked on his behalf.”

“Hmm.” James knew DS Galbraith was as corrupt as his boss, DI Whetford, but now that Whetford was under increased scrutiny, Galbraith was most likely looking for a bit of distance from his mentor. Moving into the Squad was probably a good way to do that.

“Pity about the Pollock case going so wrong,” Hartridge said in a tone that conveyed absolutely no pity at all. “I heard that Jimmy Vanesca managed to get out of the country before Galbraith could arrest him.”

“Vanesca must be very lucky, or very well informed,” James said.

Hartridge grimaced and they were both quiet for a moment, keeping their thoughts to themselves about who might have informed the suspected murderer that someone was on the way to arrest him.

“Anyway, I’m done with my report,” James said, breaking the silence. “Here you go.”

Hartridge took it, and slapped it against his thigh. “That means we’re caught up on paperwork.”

“It won’t last,” James said, scraping back his chair. “But while we have all our ducks in a row, I’m going to take my girl out to dinner.”

James drew up outside Gabriella’s house in the pouring rain. The weather had been threatening something nasty the whole day, and now it was delivering.