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James turned, and so did Hartridge.

A young woman stepped into the room. She was in her early twenties by the looks of things, hair and makeup perfect, wearing a sleek cashmere twin set.

“Do you mind showing the police to the door, Patricia?” Garelli asked.

“You’re here because of the attempted robbery yesterday?” Patricia asked, looking between James and Garelli. “Why are you talking to Alessandro? He doesn’t even work there anymore.”

Garelli made a sound of outrage. “Do you forget I was the victim of a robbery myself?” he asked.

Patricia blinked. “Oh. Sorry. Wrong robbery.”

James stepped up to the door and Patricia gave way, so he, Hartridge and herself all stood in the hallway.

“DS Archer,” James said, holding out his warrant card. “What other robbery are you talking about, Miss⁠—?”

“Patricia Walcroft,” she said, inclining her head. “I’m Alessandro’s sister-in-law. I live here. My parents run a jewelry manufacturers in south London and someone tried to rob them yesterday. I thought you were here about that.”

“You mentioned Mr. Garelli worked for your father at some point?” James asked, moving toward the front door, out of earshot of the Italian.

Garelli had not wanted to cooperate with them from the start, and even getting information about the man who’d attacked him seemed hard-won, so James guessed the sister-in-law was much more likely to be forthcoming.

“He did, before he branched out to his exclusive shop.” She had injected a little sarcasm into the sentence, but then she shook her head. “Actually, he’s very good. An amazing designer. I think he’ll take all the awards this year for his pieces. He was wasted in the workshop.” She shook her head at the butler who appeared by the door, and he seemed to fade into the background as she opened up for them.

“Given he was robbed, and then a few days later, an attempt was made on your parents’ firm, could someone have been following either him or staff from your workshop? Is there a lot of crossover between the two businesses?” James asked her as he stepped outside.

“Well.” Patricia tilted her chin up in surprise. “I’m in marketing at my parents’ company, and sometimes we coordinate things, and Alessandro usually sends his apprentices around to get a day’s worth of experience in the workshop before they go back to the more heady climes of an exclusive jeweler’s.”

“Thank you.” James tried not to let his feelings of excitement show. “Are your parents at the workshop today?”

“Yes, they’ve been there since the crack of dawn, installing new security measures. Although the police did actually stop the robbery, so there were no losses this time.” Patricia gave them a wave and stepped back in.

“Back to the Yard?” Hartridge asked, as they got into the car.

“Fast as you can,” James said. “If Sarah Bicton was given a tour of that manufacturing jewelers, she may well have known about the fortnightly diamond delivery.”

“You think she’s behind this whole thing?” Hartridge asked as he eased them into the traffic.

“If she isn’t, it’s a lot of coincidences,” James said. And he didn’t think there were any coincidences in policing.

“What are you writing on the envelopes?” Jerry asked.

Sarah looked up from her spot by the window, the only place that gave her enough light to see by, and studied him.

He looked so much better than he had that first night, but his skin was beginning to look a little too pale, and she guessed her own was, too, as neither of them had been allowed to go outside since they’d been taken.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she finally admitted. “I’m trying to think what is most likely to get someone to take action. I know we said before it was too dangerous, but I think the scales have tipped.”

“What about this?” Jerry asked, picking up an empty envelope from the rubbish bag and taking the stub of a pencil she’d found on the floor of the cupboard in her room. He carefully wrote something on the back.

He held it out to her.

It had a street name on it, and underneath: The post office thieves live on this street, not sure of the number. There is a skip outside. One is armed. Two hostages on top floor: Sarah Bicton and Jerry Stanford. Send help.

Sarah turned it over in her hand. “Not bad, Jerry.”

“I used to send out the messages to the air wardens during the war,” Jerry said. “Getting a lot of information across quickly was a skill.”

She should have realized there was a lot more to him than a slightly disheveled man who looked like he’d had a hard life.