While the excision progressed, another task demanded equal precision.

James Harvey had seen too much. He had spoken too plainly. And though he had remained quiet since that morning in New Street, silence could not be assumed. It had to be secured.

I discussed the matter with George Palmer. He understood the stakes. We agreed that dismissal alone would not suffice. Harvey had to be demoralised — not broken, but worn down. His confidence had to be eroded. His sense of purpose, redirected.

Palmer began the work. Quietly. A word here, a hesitation there. Harvey’s reports were questioned. His judgment, second-guessed. He was passed over for assignments. Left out of briefings. The isolation was subtle, but effective.

At the same time, I began preparing his exit. I identified a warehouse in West Ham — modest, quiet, far from the city. I made inquiries. I arranged for a vacancy. Then I approached Bond. I asked him to write two letters: one enquiring about the post, the other introducing Harvey as a suitable candidate. Bond did not ask questions. He provided the letters, using his own return address. It was a small favour. It was enough.

By mid-July, the pieces were in place. The force was augmented — one inspector, five sergeants, fifty constables. The timing was deliberate. Harvey’s dismissal would be buried in the reshuffle.

He was dismissed on the first of July. No scandal. No protest. Just a quiet termination on grounds of professional instability.

On the second, I wrote to him personally. “Let sleeping dogs lie. Speak of this no more, and you may yet find peace.”

He did not reply. But he accepted the post. The reassignment was complete.