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He was not like DI Whetford, or DS Galbraith. And he would never become like them.

“Very interesting.” Layman pulled out a notebook. “What club?”

James told him, and he gave a nod and slipped it back in his pocket. “I’ll pass this on.”

Later, as he sat next to Hartridge in his car and stared at the loading dock of the factory they were watching, James wondered what would come of it. So far, there had been no leaks, no hint of the scandal in the press, but that could change.

It was very explosive news, and someone would surely whisper it into the wrong ear soon enough.

At least the newspapers had enough fodder with the wage van theft on Saturday. And that was the Flying Squad’s media nightmare, not his.

“I meant to tell you I finally got hold of Mr. Garelli,” Hartridge said.

“Where was he?” James asked. He’d almost forgotten about the Italian jeweler, given everything else going on.

“He and his wife moved in with her parents while he recovers,” Hartridge said. “I gather they’re very well off, and have staff to make life a bit easier.”

“Right.” James lifted his brows. “And is he willing to talk?”

“He says we can come and speak to him at his in-laws tomorrow, if we really have to.” Hartridge made a face. “He was very reluctant, but I have a feeling his in-laws expect him to cooperate with us, so he’s doing it.”

James grimaced. “We probably won’t get much out of him, but I’d like to give it one more try.”

Hartridge made a sound of agreement. He leaned forward. “It looks like the workers are going to that cafe across the street for their breaks.”

James had noticed the back and forth between the factory side door and the cafe. “You want to get us some tea?” he asked.

Hartridge grinned. “I can listen to what the workers are saying while I stand in the queue.”

James pulled out some money and handed it over. “I can justify that.”

He watched Hartridge stroll to the cafe, tagging on behind a group of workers.

As soon as he disappeared inside, James looked up and down the road for any sign of the gang, but other than his own car, and a few others that had been parked along the street when they’d arrived, there was very little traffic.

Layman had managed to get another undercover police car to wait in a street nearby, for backup, but he was the only one with eyes on the target.

Layman was most likely right that the chances of a break in during daylight hours was slim.

Eventually, Hartridge stepped out of the cafe, two paper cups in hand. He looked to his left, and James saw a big van lumbering down the road toward them.

It passed the cafe and pulled into the loading bay, and Hartridge pretended total disinterest as he strolled across the street and got into the driver’s side.

“It’s a shipment of diamonds,” he said as he handed the tea to James. “The workers were all paying up as I was leaving because some of them need to get back to sort the stones for color and clarity, or some such.”

Before James could even respond, a powder blue, low-slung car roared down the street and pulled up behind the van just as two guards, who’d obviously been in the back, pushed the doors open and hopped out.

Two men jumped from the car.

“They’re armed,” Hartridge said, low and harsh. He lifted up his walkie talkie. “All units, robbery in progress at the back by the loading bay.”

James was already out of the car, running half crouched toward the back of the blue car. He had his baton this time but he knew that ‘all units’ in this case was one other car around the other side of the building.

They had not expected anything to happen so soon.

“Stop. Police.” James ran to the driver’s side of the car, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.

It was locked.