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Whetford sat down again and eyed James with dislike. “You try my patience, Archer. Get out of here.”
James left, closing the door behind him, and only then did he smile.
Whetford was diminished. He couldn’t touch James now, and he knew it.
Halberd had written him off, and was openly sidelining him, getting James to send his reports directly to him.
In fact, James wondered if Whetford was so openly corrupt that if any heat came the Yard’s way concerning police on the take, whether he wouldn’t be tossed to the wolves. Halberd would do it in the blink of an eye, if James was any judge of things.
He didn’t know if Halberd could be trusted, but right now, he was helping James by keeping Whetford off his back.
That was very useful.
It meant he could concentrate on his actual job, which is all he had ever wanted to do.
He jogged down the stairs to grab his coat and Hartridge, and found Galbraith blocking the way, leaning against his office door.
Hartridge was sitting at his desk in the small room next to his, trying to look unruffled.
“Galbraith? You here with a message from Layman?” James asked, and Galbraith moved slightly as James swept past him into his office.
“No, I’m off Layman’s team.” Galbraith propped his shoulder against the doorjamb. “Didn’t you know?”
James shrugged. “Been too busy to ask Layman about his staff allocations.”
“Well, they needed more men on the Train Robbery operation, so I was moved across.” Galbraith’s tone was slightly defensive.
“So what can I do for you? I’m afraid we’re on our way out.” James pulled on his coat, and that was the signal for Hartridge to get up himself and grab his own coat off the stand behind his desk.
Galbraith straightened. “I just want to warn you again that you best keep your speculation about me to yourself. If I find out Layman sent me out of his team because of something you told him, you best watch your back.”
“I haven’t mentioned you to Layman at all,” James said. “But if you keep getting in my way, threatening me, I might just decide to do something about it. Your best bet is to give me a wide berth, keep your head down, and then we won’t have any problems between us.”
Galbraith shook his head, took a step back, and pointed a finger at James as if it were a gun, pretended to pull the trigger, and stalked off.
“What was that?” Hartridge breathed.
“That was a man in a panic. Every change in his circumstances puts him into a spiral, wondering if it’s because he’s been found out, or watched, or whatever he’s afraid of.” James put it aside. “There’s nothing he can do but threaten, and he doesn’t even do that very well.”
Hartridge buttoned his coat. “You’re right. He looked hounded.”
“Just remember that,” James told him. “He hasn’t got any power over you, it’s the other way around.”
Hartridge gave a decisive nod. “We’re off to Harry Fingers’ house?”
“Yes. Let’s see if there’s any more useful paperwork hidden in the furniture.”
“Here’s the paper for the forgeries.” Robby dropped the big box he’d carried up the stairs with a thump.
Sarah left the post bag she was working on and crouched beside it, opening it up. She touched the sheet of paper on top, and then lifted it up and held it to the light.
“It’s good quality cotton,” she conceded. “But there’s no watermarks.”
“That’ll have to be good enough,” Robby said. “Jackman can’t get any better than that. Hopefully no one looks for a watermark.”
“No metallic thread, either,” Sarah said. “But that would be impossible unless Jackman was getting paper from the Bank of England itself.” She looked up at him. “And the ink?”
“Still working on that,” Robby said.
