Read Chapter 33: The Double Agent

The booth at the Lyon’s Corner House smelled of fried bread and stale cigarette smoke. Lestrange sat opposite Arthur, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she hadn’t touched. She wore civilian clothes—a grey wool coat, no hat—and looked almost ordinary. Almost.

“You’ve done well, Mr. Phelps,” she said. “Getting out of that manor alive. Finding the ledger. Most men would have run.”

“I considered it.”

“But you came to me instead. Why?”

Arthur slid the manila envelope across the table. It was thin—just a few photocopied pages, not the ledger itself. He’d spent the morning in a print shop off the Commercial Road, paying cash, watching the copies dry.

“Page forty-seven,” he said. “The one that names your corrupt superior. I thought you’d want to see it before I hand the original over.”

Lestrange didn’t touch the envelope. Her eyes stayed on him.

“You said you wanted amnesty for you and Eddie Shaw. Full immunity. In writing.”

“That’s right.”

“And the money?”

“The money stays where it is until I have the papers signed. Then I’ll take you to it.”

She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re a cautious man, Mr. Phelps.”

“I’m a man who’s been shot at, arrested, and framed for a robbery I didn’t commit in the past three weeks. Caution is what’s kept me breathing.”

Lestrange reached under the table. Arthur tensed, but she only produced a folded document—official-looking, with a Home Office letterhead.

“Amnesty for Arthur Phelps and Edward Shaw, in exchange for full cooperation and return of stolen property.” She slid it across. “Signed. Sealed. Effective the moment you hand over the ledger and the location of the funds.”

Arthur read it. It looked genuine. It probably was—drafted by someone who believed she was clean. That was the trick, wasn’t it? The best lies wore the truth like a borrowed coat.

He put the paper down and reached into his jacket.

“The ledger’s not here,” he said. “But I’ve got something better.”

He placed a photograph on the table. Black and white, slightly grainy, taken at a distance—a man in a dark suit handing Lestrange a thick envelope in the car park behind a Finchley pub. The date stamp read six months ago.

Lestrange’s face didn’t change. That was what frightened Arthur most.

“Where did you get this?”

“You’re not the only one with informants, Inspector. Or whatever you really are.”

She set down her cup. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Phelps.”

“Am I? I know about the Baron’s payroll. I know about the account in Zurich under your mother’s maiden name. I know you weren’t hunting Victor Cole because he was a criminal—you were hunting him because he stopped paying you.”

Lestrange was quiet for a long moment. The café hummed around them—clattering cups, a baby crying two tables over, someone laughing at a joke Arthur couldn’t hear.

Then she laughed. A low, genuine sound that made his skin crawl.

“You found the wrong enemy, Mr. Phelps. The Baron was small-time. A robber with delusions of grandeur. Do you think I was satisfied with his monthly envelope? I’ve been building something larger. Something that outlives any single crew.”

She leaned forward. Her eyes were bright, almost eager.

“You’ve brought me the ledger and the location of the money. You’ve handed me amnesty papers that will clear your name. And now you’ve shown me you know enough to be dangerous.” She tilted her head. “So I’ll make you an offer. We split what’s in that warehouse. Sixty-forty. You keep breathing, Eddie keeps breathing, and whatever happened at the manor becomes an unsolved mystery that fades with time.”

Arthur stared at her. “You killed my father.”

“I didn’t. Foley did. I just—directed the traffic.” She shrugged. “Victor was becoming a liability. Too righteous. Too convinced the cause mattered more than the profit. Foley was eager to prove himself.”

Arthur’s hands were steady under the table. He counted his breaths.

“You have twenty seconds to decide,” Lestrange said. “Either we’re partners, or you’re a dead man who’s about to be found in an alley with his pockets turned out. The ledger recovered, case closed, everyone satisfied.”

He looked past her shoulder, at the café window. A green van had pulled up across the street. Three men got out. They weren’t customers.

“I’ll take the partnership,” Arthur said.

Lestrange smiled—a genuine smile this time, hungry and pleased. “Good. The warehouse in Wapping. You’ll take me there now.”

“The money’s not in Wapping anymore.”

Her smile flickered. “What?”

“I moved it this morning. After you sent word about the meeting, I got jumpy. Paranoia’s kept me alive, and someone once told me that’s a transferable skill.” He stood. “It’s in a locker at Liverpool Street Station. Key’s in my pocket. You want it, you follow me.”

Lestrange’s eyes narrowed. For a moment Arthur thought she’d call his bluff, wave to the men in the van, end it here. But she was too greedy for that. And greed, Arthur had learned, was a signalman’s best friend. Greed always ran the train straight into the points you’d set.

“Lead the way.” She stood, dropping a note on the table. “And Phelps? If you’re lying, I’ll make the Baron’s death look merciful.”

---

They walked north through Soho, then east. Lestrange’s men followed at a distance—close enough to intercept, far enough to avoid notice. Arthur kept his pace steady, hands in his pockets, heart hammering against his ribs.

Liverpool Street Station loomed ahead, its clock tower black against the overcast sky. The station was busy—mid-afternoon commuters, porters hauling trunks, a cluster of schoolchildren on a trip. Arthur led her through the main concourse, past the ticket booths, down the ramp toward the left luggage office.

“Which locker?” Lestrange asked.

“Number forty-seven. Poetic, isn’t it?”

He stopped at the row of metal lockers, pulled a key from his jacket, and fitted it into the lock. The door swung open.

Inside was a single envelope.

Lestrange reached for it. Arthur stepped back.

“Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

She tore it open. Inside was not money but a sheaf of photographs—the same images Arthur had shown her at the café, plus more. Dozens of them. Meetings with the Baron, ledger pages, bank statements, all blown up and printed in duplicate.

“There’s copies in three different post office boxes,” Arthur said. “Set to be mailed to the Times, the BBC, and Scotland Yard’s internal affairs division if I don’t cancel the standing order by midnight tonight.”

Lestrange’s face went white. Then red.

“You—”

The train came in on the platform above them, the rumble vibrating through the floor. Arthur glanced up, as if checking the departures board.

“You’ve got your evidence,” she hissed. “You’ve got my photographs. What you don’t have is any proof I killed anyone. I’ll be investigated, suspended, maybe fired.” She smiled, venomous. “But I won’t hang.”

“You won’t hang for the Baron,” Arthur agreed. “But you’ll hang for my father.”

The green van had driven around the block. It pulled up at the station’s side entrance, and Eddie Shaw hopped out of the passenger door, a thick folder under his arm. Behind him, Inspector Lestrange’s partner—the older detective who’d stood mute in the café—climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“I’ve been working for you for two years,” the partner said, stepping forward. “Waiting for the day you slipped. Phelps here gave me everything I needed to make that happen.”

Lestrange looked at Arthur. The hatred in her eyes was pure, unguarded, stripped of its professional veneer.

“You staged it,” she said. “The amnesty. The photographs. The move to the station. You knew I’d follow.”

“I knew you wanted the money more than you wanted the truth,” Arthur said. “That was always going to be your undoing.”

The partner stepped forward, produced a set of handcuffs. Lestrange didn’t resist as they clicked around her wrists. She looked at Arthur one last time.

“You think this ends it? Victor’s men are still out there. The Baron’s network is still alive. You’ve just made yourself the most wanted man in London with no one left to protect you.”

Arthur watched them lead her away. The clock tower chimed three.

“I’ve never needed protecting,” he said to no one. “I just needed time to think.”

Eddie ambled over, clapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Mate. That was bleeding beautiful. You could’ve told me the plan, though.”

“If I’d told you, you would’ve argued.”

“True.” Eddie grinned. “So what now? The money’s still in Wapping, we’re still wanted men, and the only cop who was going to clear our names is taking a ride to the cells.”

Arthur looked down at the envelope of photographs in his hand. Then at the station clock.

“Now,” he said, “we find the one honest man left in this city.”