I did not act immediately.

The breach had been precise. The documents taken were deliberate. Whoever had entered the study knew what they were looking for. That narrowed the field. But it did not name the intruder.

I spent the next few days tracing what remained of Harvey. His dismissal had been quiet. His reassignment, quieter still. But people move. Records fade. And silence, once broken, does not always stay buried.

I began with the last known address: 60 Tower Hamlets Road. It took time. The name had faded from the rolls. The post had changed hands. But the house remained. I arrived just after dusk. I did not knock. I did not announce myself. I watched.

The windows were lit, but not warmly. The curtains were drawn. The garden was untended. No sign of Harvey’s family. No sign of Harvey.

A stranger moved inside — younger, leaner, deliberate. He carried papers. He worked late. He did not speak to neighbours. He did not leave the house.

I returned the next evening. And the one after that. The pattern held.

This was not Harvey. But he was not random. He was there for a reason.

And I intended to find out why.