So he’d claimed that his niece was enthused by a book on how to read handwriting, and had exhausted her own acquaintance. DI Davis had snorted, but DDI Colthorne had laughed and offered his services, and so Davis had done the same. And Aaron had put them in as the ringers, feeling a secret desire to get Wildsmith’s opinion of his superiors. He’d thought it would be interesting, maybe even useful. That would teach him.

He knew which one was Challice’s hand; he could guess number two, the unimaginative bully, was DI Davis. He did not want to face what that meant.

He wasn’t usually a coward, but he still felt an urge not to check. To throw the envelope on the fire, pretend he never knew, keep his head down, let harm happen and make no effort to intervene.

No: that would not do. He could not ignore this, because Joel Wildsmith had proved his gifts again and again, and if Aaron ignored this warning, he didn’t deserve to keep his job.

So he opened the envelope, found the paper with a ringed 7 in the top corner and pulled it out, enough to confirm the very familiar hand.

“Hell,” he said.

***

HE HEADED STRAIGHT to Pentonville without calling. Wildsmith might be out, or occupied, but Aaron couldn’t wait. He couldn’t sit alone at home tonight, and go into work tomorrow with this in his lap.

He arrived at about half past eight. Wildsmith’s landlady made angry noises about late callers; Aaron made placatory ones and got himself allowed up. He knocked urgently on the door.

Wildsmith answered. He was wearing a frankly disreputable woollen cardigan over his shirtsleeves, and looked tousled and tired. “Oh,” he said. “Hello. Was I expecting you?”

“May I come in?”

Wildsmith stepped back to let Aaron in. The bare room was familiar enough that he had an odd sense of finding safety. He still bolted the door after him.

He turned back from that to see Wildsmith looking rather startled. “Private conversation, is it?”

“Yes,” Aaron said. “Please. I’m sorry it’s late.”

Wildsmith blinked. “Are you all right?”

“Not entirely. No.”

“Sit. I’d offer you tea but you look more like neat gin.”

“That—would be good, actually. Thanks.”

Wildsmith had a bottle of Gordon’s stashed. He poured two generous measures and handed Aaron a glass, and they took their usual seats, watching one another.

“So?” he said.

Aaron took a deep breath. “We got the results. The case, I mean. It’s been solved.”

“Oh. And?”

“It was an embezzlement case. The man who did it was number three. The one you named as the paper criminal, for the reasons you laid out. You got it exactly right. And you were right about number five too, he’s a gambler, and number eight, who does good works. You were spot on with all of it.”