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Layman had finally given them permission to look it over for evidence for their own case now that his scene of crime investigation was done.

“The stitches are a bit itchy, but otherwise fine. I’m just worried this crew is going to strike again, and some innocent bystander’s going to get seriously hurt or, God forbid, killed.” He was worried about that, but right now, thugs menacing Gabriella and her fellow residents in Notting Hill was more front of mind.

“Layman looks like he didn’t sleep, even though he did go home for a change,” Hartridge said. “I think he’s got the same concerns.” He paused. “Did you notice that Galbraith wasn’t there again today? I thought he was on Layman’s team.”

James hadn’t noticed. “You’re right. I’ll ask Layman what’s happening there, but I can only assume he’s working his street contacts.”

Unless Layman knew exactly how toxic Galbraith was and had decided to keep him where he couldn’t cause any trouble.

“What about Alessandro Garelli?” James asked. “Did you manage to find out when he’s being released from hospital?”

“They didn’t want to say. I tried to get them to put me through to him personally, but he was in with the doctor and so they wouldn’t.” Hartridge sounded frustrated. “I’ll try again later.”

“I’d like to follow up with him, see if he remembers anything else about the man who attacked him,” James said. But given how Garelli had behaved in the hospital, he wasn’t sure he’d say anything, even if he did remember.

Hartridge turned onto the street in Holborn where Harry’s office was located. It had taken them less than ten minutes to get here from New Scotland Yard.

Hartridge found a parking spot, and as they got out, James admired the little street. “Quite the cover Harry had here. A stone’s throw from various advocates’ chambers, the diamond district, and even New Scotland Yard. Hiding in plain sight, you might say.”

Hartridge consulted his notes. “One of Layman’s men said the office is above that little tea shop.”

“So nice and busy during the day for comings and goings, and nice and private at night, when no one’s at a tea shop.” James studied the set up and decided Harry Fingers had been a wily old fox.

Hartridge looked at him in surprise and then gave a nod. “Sounds ideal.”

Except Harry Fingers had let someone who didn’t play by the same gentleman thief rules in too close. And he had paid for it with his life.

They crossed the street and found the narrow stairwell to the side of the tea shop, and went up to greet the bobby Layman had stationed to guard the door.

He let them in, and James stood in the doorway and got a sense of the place.

“If we’re assuming the man who was killed in Harry’s home was known to him, and connected to him in some way, it’s more than possible that we’ll find some information about him here.”

He and Hartridge got to work, looking through the filing cabinets and drawers.

It was clear Layman’s team had taken a considerable amount of paperwork with them, and he would probably need to look at the log to see what they’d seized, but he was hopeful they’d find something in what was left.

“The safe they torched open is huge.” Hartridge stood in front of the hole in the wall.

The safe had been emptied, James assumed by the men who’d killed Harry first, and they’d taken a blow torch to the door to get it open.

Fingerprint powder was dusted all around the wall and inside the safe itself, and Hartridge crouched down to look inside. “I wonder what he had in here.”

“If it was really his main safe, probably a lot of gems,” James said. He leaned back in Harry’s office chair, a comfortable leather affair that he wished he could have for his own office. The day had started off dark, storm clouds blocking out the light, and it suddenly got even darker, and rain began a hard, staccato rhythm against the window.

James reached forward to switch on the art deco lamp on the desk, and frowned when it didn’t work.

He bent down, looking under the desk, and saw the plug had come out of the socket a little way. He slid off the chair onto his knees to the floor to push it back in.

He was tall, so he had to crouch awkwardly, and as he began to pull himself back out, hands gripping the underside of the desk, his fingers encountered a surface that wasn’t glossy wood.

It was paper-like.

He sat down properly, feeling beneath the desk and wishing he had a torch.

“Sir?” Hartridge sounded startled.

“I’m under the desk. I’ve found something.” James encountered tape and ripped it off, then set the big dark brown envelope that had been taped underneath the desk on the chair and crawled out.