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“He’s organized,” Layman admitted, sitting at Garelli’s desk. There was an inbox with open letters in it, and Layman read through them. “It looks like he buys his gems from the diamond district,” he said.

James was looking through the filing cabinet, and he lifted out a file to show Layman. “When he sells a piece, a copy of the certificate goes in here, along with who bought it and for how much.”

“Could the certificates be fake?” Hartridge asked. He was in a storeroom off the office, looking through the boxes stored there.

“They could, but they look real enough to me.” James didn’t think he’d know, either way. “We’ll have to give a few to someone at the Met who specializes in these things.”

“There’s a few consultants who my division uses to help us find out where stolen valuables might have originally come from. One works at Christies, and the other for Sotheby’s. Sometimes we need someone from the British Museum. We could take one of these certificates to them, or find someone who works out of the diamond district to take a look.” Layman pushed the last drawer in the desk closed.

“You won’t believe what’s in these boxes,” Hartridge said, and both James and Layman moved over to look into the small room.

Hartridge had a box open, and under the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, they saw neat stacks of gold and silver wire.

“There’s semi-precious stones, too.” He showed them another box that was filled with little jars of rose quartz, moonstones and other smooth polished stones.

“The pieces in the front window weren’t amethysts and garnets, though,” Layman said. “They were diamonds, pearls and sapphires.”

“He must have his precious stone stock stored somewhere more secure. Maybe even off-site.” James wondered if he had them at a bank. “The pieces in the window stay there overnight, because he was leaving for the day when he was attacked.”

“Didn’t he tell Miss Farnsworth that there was no safe?” Layman frowned. “He could have a box at a bank. But if he was working on new pieces and needed a safe place to store them, how would a bank box be any use to him after business hours? Would he be able to take them to one of those secure boxes at the diamond bourse?”

“I don’t know. He could take them home with him, and have a safe in his house. But he might also be so paranoid he lied to us and Miss Farnsworth, and there is a safe here.” James walked out of the storeroom and began to hunt for any sign of one, but there was nothing to be found.

“He’s got a safety box offsite, then.” Layman sighed. “And I need some sleep. I haven’t been home since Monday’s robbery. I’ve slept in my office on a cot the last two nights, and I think my wife might object to me doing it a third night in a row.”

“Did you find anything about Sarah Bicton in those letters?” James asked.

Layman shook his head. “No.”

“Given that’s my part of the case, and she’s nowhere to be found, I’ll stay a little longer and see what I can find,” James said. “Hartridge, can you drive DI Layman back to the Yard before you clock off? My car’s still parked outside on the street, so I’m fine to get myself home.”

“I’ll organize uniform to guard the place for tonight. Hopefully Garelli will be up to coming back soon and sorting out the security he needs.” Layman looked dead on his feet as he left via the back door, and Hartridge followed after him, looking fairly beat himself.

The bobby Layman organized to stand guard came round the back and popped his head in to say hello to James, and James told him he was welcome to use the kitchen and the facilities when he wanted a cup of tea, which was greeted with enthusiasm.

Then he got a cup of tea himself in the little galley kitchen on the other side of the office, and stood beside the filing cabinet, working his way through the hanging files for any clue as to Sarah Bicton’s involvement in this case.

He was worried that she hadn’t come forward yet and they had no idea where she was. He didn’t know her age, but if the photos in the house were taken a few years before, she was probably in her very early 20s.

There was nothing under Bicton, but he finally found a file labeled ‘Staff’ and in it were three apprenticeship forms for different students, one of which was Sarah.

James noted the name of the college she went to. He smiled, because a college would have all her details, and that was going to be huge.

There was a copy of a letter offering her a place at Garelli’s, which he guessed was the duplicate of the one in the envelope at the house.

If the college had an alternative address for Sarah, they may actually track her down tomorrow, but if not, they should have a bit more information than they had now.

As for the body in the spare room, he really wanted to find an identity for the man.

And he hoped, really, really hoped, that somewhere out there, Sarah Bicton wasn’t lying dead with a bullet in her head.

The old man took the cup of water Sarah handed him and sipped it carefully.

He still looked rough, with a split lip and swelling over his left eye, and he moved as if his ribs were either bruised or cracked. She really hoped they weren’t broken, because there was no way Robby would let him go so he could get medical help.

She told Robby she needed an old sheet to wrap his torso, and he’d actually delivered it, along with some fresh clothes and a towel.

“They’re letting you take a bath,” she told him when he handed her back the cup. “Then hopefully we can get something to eat.”