Page 77 of Return Ticket

“To be honest, sir, I’ve done most of my analysis with Dr. Jandicott, given so much of this case rests on the forensics.” He lifted his hands. “It’s been more useful to carry my notes with me, and Dr. Jandicott and I have then had all the information at our fingertips.”

Whetford stopped, and James could see he’d forgotten that Dr. Jandicott was fully involved in this case. It would be difficult for him to throw James under the bus if Jandicott spoke up for him, and he knew it.

“Right, well, that’s not SOP.” He frowned down at James. “Needs to be justified.”

“I’m sure Dr. Jandicott will back me on our methods. This is a complex case and we’ve needed to be flexible.” He leaned back in his chair.

“Has Galbraith spoken to you?” Whetford ignored what James had just said, and turned to look at him, hands on the back of the chair he refused to sit in.

“I met DS Galbraith and his bagman a few minutes ago in the courtyard when I came in,” James said. “They seemed upset.”

That was an understatement. Galbraith looked frightened, and he’d been looking for someone to lash out at. James had let him know that he was not a good candidate for that.

Whetford went still, looking down at his hands, and when he lifted his gaze, his eyes were hot. “What did he say?”

“Galbraith said someone had made trouble for you, sir. I’m not sure I understood him. Something about an old case? That you’ve handed an investigation over to them to look into?”

Whetford narrowed his eyes. “Someone submitted evidence from an old case of mine to the lab, and they managed to get some new leads. Galbraith is taking over the reopened case.”

“And that’s made trouble for you?” James asked, hoping he looked confused.

Whetford was silent, and James wondered whether he’d overplayed his hand.

His plan had counted on Whetford never reading what was put in front of him by his secretary—something he suspected but couldn’t be a hundred percent sure of.

He’d slipped a request for service to the lab for signature into the pile of letters and forms in Whetford’s To Sign pile the night he’d gone in to drop off his report on the murder case.

It had been the only weak link in his plan, but as he’d already dropped the evidence off at the lab, leaving it with a number of other boxes from other detectives to be processed, the signature was merely a nice-to-have, rather than a deal breaker.

It looked as if he had got his nice-to-have.

He had put the Commissioner’s name down as the person to receive the results, as well as Whetford, on the lab form, and now that he had confirmation the lab had found something, he’d find a way to let someone in the press know, as well.

Whetford wouldn’t be shelving this quietly away. James wanted whoever he was covering for to hear about it.

“Was it you, damn it?” Whetford’s voice was suddenly low and mean.

“Did I find old evidence in a past case of yours and submit it to the lab?” James asked, as if trying to clarify. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Whetford’s face twisted. “Don’t play coy. I’m sure it was you.”

“What exactly am I supposed to have done wrong, even if I did do this?” James asked. “Which I didn’t.”

Whetford opened his mouth and then closed it. “Never mind.” He turned on his heel and walked to the door, throwing it open.

“Don’t you want my verbal report?” James called after him.

“Send me your notes within the hour.” Whetford stalked away.

James leaned back in his chair. Whetford was rattled, and Galbraith had been almost as jumpy. Not because he was on the line if whoever Whetford had protected from a murder charge decided to take action, but because if Whetford was gone, so was Galbraith’s money train.

James had known Whetford would suspect him, but he’d been very careful to keep his name off any documentation. Whetford could suspect all he liked, but he had no proof.

He wondered what the retaliation for this might be, and hoped Whetford was too busy covering his arse to be bothered with it.

He looked down at the file Hartridge had given him before Whetford had stormed his office, and flipped it open. Inside was a message from the Air Force, giving the name of the pilot who’d been issued the glove found on the scene of Mrs. Gallagher’s attack. And on the next page was the confirmation of fingerprint evidence matching a man with the same first name, but a different surname. He was on file for attacking a man in a pub, and had been given a two month sentence for assault.

“So, are Harold Blythe and Harold Linaker one and the same?” he asked, tapping the page. “My guess is yes.” He looked for an address, and saw that Linaker had given an address in Kent after he was released from prison. That had been ten years ago.

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