The warehouse was exactly as Harold Pierce had described it—a three-story brick building near the Birmingham docks, weathered and anonymous, the kind of structure that existed in every industrial city without attracting notice or interest.
Chandler had chosen well. In 1918, it would have been perfect for storing stolen weapons. Now, empty of tenants and awaiting new occupants, it was perfect for searching.
Jimmy and John Shelby approached on a Tuesday evening, dressed as building inspectors with forged credentials that would pass casual scrutiny.
Tommy had obtained keys through the property management company, another layer of misdirection ensuring Chandler wouldn't know his warehouse had been compromised.
"You really think there's evidence in there after seven years?" John asked as they unlocked the side entrance. "If I were a criminal, I'd have burned anything incriminating long ago."
"Most criminals would," Jimmy agreed, pulling out his electric torch. "But Chandler isn't most criminals. He's arrogant. He bought the building where he committed his crimes because he thinks he's untouchable. Men like that keep trophies, evidence, proof of their cleverness. It's a form of narcissism."
The interior smelled of dust and old textile fibers. The first floor was open space—loading docks, storage areas, nothing of interest.
The second floor contained offices that the textile company had used, desks and filing cabinets left behind in the hasty departure.
The third floor was smaller, divided into private rooms that had likely been storage or management offices during the war.
"We'll start at the top and work down," Jimmy said, consulting the diagram Pierce had sketched. "The ledger, if it exists, would be in the third-floor office Chandler used. Northeast corner, window overlooking the docks."
They climbed to the third floor and found the office easily—exactly where Pierce had indicated. It was empty now except for a desk, a filing cabinet, and walls that had once held maps and schedules.
Jimmy examined everything methodically while John kept watch at the stairs.
The desk drawers were empty. The filing cabinet contained nothing but dust and dead insects. The walls showed marks where things had hung but revealed nothing when Jimmy examined them closely.
An hour of searching produced exactly nothing useful.
"Maybe he did destroy the evidence," John suggested. "Or maybe your informant was wrong about the ledger existing."
"He's not wrong." Jimmy stood in the center of the office, trying to think like Chandler. "If you're keeping records of criminal activity—detailed enough to track profits and losses but incriminating enough to hang you—where do you hide them?"
"Somewhere not in an obvious office, obviously."
Jimmy smiled despite his frustration. "Exactly. Not in the office. But close to it. Somewhere you can access easily but others wouldn't think to look."
He examined the floor, then the walls more carefully. "Pierce said Chandler was paranoid. Smart paranoid, the kind that plans for contingencies."
It took another hour of searching, but Jimmy finally found it—a loose floorboard beneath where the desk had originally stood, based on indentations in the dust.
Beneath the board was a shallow cavity, and in that cavity was a leather-bound notebook wrapped in oilcloth.
Jimmy pulled it out with hands that shook slightly. The oilcloth was dry and intact, the notebook preserved despite years of hiding. He unwrapped it carefully and opened to the first page.
R.C. Private Accounts - 1916-1918
Robert Chandler's handwriting. Dates, quantities, prices. A meticulous record of every weapon stolen, every sale conducted, every pound earned from treason and theft.
"Christ," John breathed, looking over Jimmy's shoulder. "That's it. That's everything we need."
"Not just everything we need," Jimmy said quietly, turning pages. "Everything Mary discovered. This is what got her killed—these numbers, these records. She found discrepancies in the factory reports, and this ledger is the other side of that equation."
He photographed every page with the camera Tommy had provided, careful documentation that would prove the ledger's contents even if the original disappeared.
Then he wrapped it back in the oilcloth and returned it to its hiding place beneath the floorboards.
"We're not taking it?" John asked, surprised.
"Not yet. If it disappears, Chandler knows someone was here. He'll destroy other evidence, warn potential witnesses, make our job harder."
Jimmy replaced the floorboard carefully. "Better to leave it where it is until we're ready to move. When the time comes, we'll know it exists and exactly where to find it."
They left the warehouse as carefully as they'd entered, relocking doors, leaving no trace of their visit.
As they walked back through the darkening streets toward Small Heath, John glanced at Jimmy with new respect.
"That was good work. Patient work. Most people would have grabbed the ledger and run."
"Most people aren't thinking three moves ahead," Jimmy replied. "We have proof now, but proof isn't enough. We need strategy, timing, the right moment to deploy what we know. That's what makes the difference between revenge and justice."
"Is there a difference?"
"Revenge is personal satisfaction. Justice is systematic destruction." Jimmy lit a cigarette, his hands finally steady again. "I want justice."
---
They reported back to Tommy that evening, spreading the photographs across his desk.
The ledger's contents were damning—hundreds of rifles sold over two years, buyers from Ireland and Russia and parts unknown, profits totaling over £18,000.
More than enough to buy respectability, bribe officials, and murder a nineteen-year-old girl who threatened to expose it all.
"This is good," Tommy said, studying the photographs. "Very good. With this and Pierce's testimony, we can destroy Chandler. The question is how. We can't just hand this to police—it's stolen evidence from an illegal search. Won't hold up in any court."
"I don't want courts," Jimmy said. "Courts failed Mary in 1917. I want something better. I want to destroy Chandler's reputation so thoroughly that he loses everything—his position, his respectability, his future. I want him alive but ruined."
"Public exposure, then. But we need corroboration. The ledger alone isn't enough—people will say it's forged, that the Shelbys manufactured evidence against a political enemy."
Tommy lit a cigarette. "We need witnesses. People who'll testify to Chandler's crimes publicly."
"Pierce will testify if pressed. And there's the Russian buyer—Dmitri Volkov. Have you made inquiries about him?"
"I have." Tommy pulled out another file. "Volkov is in Walton Prison, serving fifteen years for arms trafficking. He's been contacted by my people, and he's interested in a deal. Testify against Chandler in exchange for having his sentence reduced through—"
Tommy smiled slightly. "—carefully applied pressure to the right officials."
"Can you make that happen?"
"I can make anything happen if I want it badly enough." Tommy closed the file. "But here's the complication. Volkov has conditions. He wants immunity from prosecution for the weapons purchases from Chandler. He wants protection after release. And he wants £500."
Jimmy winced. "That's expensive."
"Destroying a city councilman is always expensive. The question is whether it's worth the cost."
"It is," Jimmy said without hesitation. "For Mary. It's worth it."
"Then we'll arrange it. I'll handle the prison contacts and the political pressure. You prepare the case—documentation, timeline, witness statements. Make it ironclad so when we expose Chandler, there's no room for doubt."
Over the next week, Jimmy worked obsessively. He compiled every piece of evidence into a comprehensive dossier: the ledger photographs, Pierce's testimony, Volkov's pending statement, factory records showing the discrepancies Mary had discovered, police reports from her "accident," documentation of Chandler's suspiciously rapid rise to wealth after the war.
It was a masterpiece of investigation and organization. Any solicitor would be proud of such thorough preparation. Any prosecutor would salivate at such complete evidence.
But Jimmy wasn't presenting this to a court. He was preparing to destroy a man's life through exposure and shame, outside any legal system.
The irony wasn't lost on him—the disbarred clerk who'd once believed in law and justice was now operating as judge, jury, and executioner armed with nothing but paper and ink.
He worked late into the nights, alone in his office above Morrison's, surrounded by documents and cigarette smoke.
Mrs. Price brought food and tea and worried observations, but Jimmy barely noticed. The investigation consumed him, drove him, became the only thing that mattered.
On the eighth day, everything changed.
---
Jimmy was at his desk in the Shelby offices, reviewing the final dossier, when a boy ran in from the street—one of the lookouts the Shelbys employed to watch for trouble. He was breathless and terrified.
"Mr. Shelby! There's coppers coming. Lots of them. And they've got warrants."
Tommy stood immediately. "How many?"
"Twenty, maybe more. Led by Inspector Morrison. They're three streets away and moving fast."
"Everyone out the back," Tommy ordered calmly. "Take nothing suspicious. Move."
The office erupted into controlled chaos. Soldiers grabbing ledgers and weapons, family members heading for exits, everyone moving with the practiced efficiency of people who'd evacuated before.
Jimmy stood frozen at his desk, staring at his meticulously organized evidence against Chandler.
"Mr. Cartwright," Polly said sharply. "Move. Now."
"The files," Jimmy said. "The Chandler investigation. If the police find it—"
"Leave it. We'll get it later."
"No." Jimmy started gathering papers frantically. "This is three months of work. This is everything we need to destroy him. I can't leave it."
Tommy appeared at his side. "You have thirty seconds. Take what you can carry and go."
Jimmy grabbed the most important documents—the ledger photographs, witness statements, the core evidence. He shoved them into his briefcase with shaking hands, abandoned the rest, and followed Tommy toward the back exit.
They were halfway down the back stairs when the police burst through the front entrance. Jimmy heard Inspector Morrison's voice—loud, authoritative, conducting a search he clearly expected to be fruitful.
The Shelbys scattered through Small Heath's maze of alleys and back streets, practiced at disappearing when necessary.
Jimmy found himself with John and two soldiers, running through narrow passages between buildings, over fences, through yards where dogs barked and women shouted.
His solicitor training hadn't prepared him for this—for running from police like a common criminal, for feeling his heart pound with fear of capture.
They emerged twenty minutes later near the Garrison, breathless and disheveled. John grinned despite the circumstances.
"Welcome to the exciting life of the Peaky Blinders, professor. Not all paperwork and clever solutions, is it?"
"What happened?" Jimmy demanded. "Why did Morrison raid us? We've been careful. No major violations, nothing that would warrant that kind of response."
"Someone tipped them off," John said grimly. "Question is who."
They regrouped at Tommy's house an hour later. The entire family and key soldiers gathered in the sitting room while lookouts watched for police.
Tommy stood by the fireplace, his expression carved from ice.
"The raid was targeted," he reported. "They went straight for the betting shop records, the office files, anything that would prove illegal gambling operations. Inspector Morrison told the constables he had reliable information about the extent of our operations. Someone gave him detailed intelligence."
"Billy Kitchen?" Arthur suggested immediately.
"Can't be," Jimmy said. "Kitchen is dead—officially and in reality. He's in Glasgow with a new identity. He has no reason to betray us and every reason to stay quiet."
"Unless he's not dead," Polly said quietly. "Unless your clever plan to fake his death actually just gave him freedom to betray us from a distance."
Jimmy's stomach dropped. "He wouldn't. I helped him. I saved his son's life."
"And he might have decided that helping him once wasn't enough," Tommy said. "That he needed insurance, protection, a way to ensure we'd never come after him. So he made a deal with Section D—information about our operations in exchange for permanent safety."
"You don't know that," Jimmy protested, but doubt was already creeping in. "It could be anyone. Another traitor. A careless soldier. A coincidence."
"I don't believe in coincidence," Tommy said. "Not when a man we thought dead suddenly seems to be providing information from beyond the grave."
The accusation hung in the air, unspoken but clear. Jimmy's mercy toward Billy Kitchen—his insistence on finding a solution that didn't require killing—might have just put the entire Shelby organization at risk.
"We need proof," Jimmy said desperately. "Before we assume Kitchen betrayed us, we need actual evidence. Let me investigate. Let me verify—"
"There's no time for investigation," Tommy interrupted. "The police have our records. They'll be building a case against us right now. We need to move fast—destroy evidence, intimidate witnesses, do everything necessary to prevent charges from sticking. And that means I need you focused on the immediate problem, not defending a decision you're not sure about yourself."
Jimmy wanted to argue, but Tommy was right. He wasn't sure. The doubt was already there, poisoning his confidence.
Had Kitchen betrayed them? Was the fake death just a way to gain freedom to turn informant without immediate consequences?
Or was this someone else entirely, and Jimmy was being blamed for a betrayal that had nothing to do with his mercy?
"What do you need me to do?" Jimmy asked quietly.
"Review what the police took. Figure out what they can prove, what they can't, what witnesses they might have. Then start preparing our defense—not for court yet, but contingencies. Documents that disprove their case, alibis that can't be broken, alternative explanations for suspicious activity."
Tommy met his eyes. "And while you're doing that, think about Billy Kitchen. Think about whether your mercy created this problem."
---
The next seventy-two hours were a blur of defensive work. Jimmy abandoned the Chandler investigation entirely and focused on protecting the Shelbys from Morrison's raid.
He reviewed police reports, analyzed what documents had been seized, identified weak points in the potential case against them.
It was like his first weeks working for the Shelbys, but in reverse—instead of attacking problems, he was defending against them. Instead of finding leverage to destroy enemies, he was eliminating leverage enemies could use against his family.
His family. When had he started thinking of them that way?
He worked from his private office, not wanting to risk returning to the Shelby premises while police attention was high.
Mrs. Price brought meals and news from her network—the police were indeed building a case, inspecting records, interviewing potential witnesses. Morrison was personally leading the investigation, unusually aggressive for a typically cautious inspector.
On the third night, Jimmy received a message that made his blood run cold. It was delivered by one of the street boys, a folded note with no signature:
We need to talk. I have information about the raid. Meet me at the warehouse tomorrow midnight. Come alone. —B.K.
Billy Kitchen. Alive, communicating, asking for a meeting.
Jimmy stared at the note for a long time. This could be a trap. Kitchen could be working with Section D or the police, luring Jimmy into an arrest or worse.
Or it could be genuine—Kitchen reaching out with information that could help, trying to prove he hadn't betrayed them.
Either way, Jimmy had to go. He needed to know the truth. Needed to understand whether his mercy had been rewarded with betrayal or if he was being blamed for someone else's crime.
He told no one about the meeting. Didn't inform Tommy or Arthur or Polly. This was his responsibility, his decision, his potential mistake to fix.
If Kitchen had betrayed them, Jimmy would handle it. If someone was trying to frame Kitchen, Jimmy would discover that too.
He spent the next day preparing—not for violence, but for revelation. Whatever truth waited at that warehouse, he would face it with open eyes.
The night before the meeting, he sat in his office and wrote two letters. One to Mrs. Price, thanking her for everything and apologizing for whatever trouble his choices might have caused.
One to Tommy, explaining that if something happened to him, the Chandler evidence was complete and could be deployed without him.
Just in case.
Just in case his mercy had been a mistake and he was about to pay for it.
---
The warehouse was dark when Jimmy arrived at quarter to midnight, carrying nothing but his notebook and the revolver he still hadn't learned to use properly.
The building loomed against the night sky, its windows like empty eyes, its silence oppressive.
He entered through the same side door he'd used with John, the lock still easy to pick from their previous visit. Inside, the darkness was absolute except for his electric torch.
The beam cut through shadows as he climbed to the third floor, to the office where Chandler's ledger waited beneath the floorboards.
A figure stood by the window, silhouetted against the faint light from the docks. Jimmy's hand went to the revolver, then stopped as the figure turned.
Billy Kitchen looked thinner, more haunted, like a man who hadn't slept properly since fleeing Birmingham. But he was alive, and he held no weapons, and his expression was desperate rather than threatening.
"You came," Billy said quietly. "I wasn't sure you would."
"Your note said you had information about the raid. I need to know if you betrayed us." Jimmy kept his distance, kept his options open. "Tell me the truth, Billy. Did you go back to Section D after I helped you escape? Did you trade Shelby information for protection?"
"No." Billy's voice was firm, desperate. "I swear to God, no. I've been in Glasgow. I haven't contacted Section D or anyone from Birmingham. I've been Thomas Bennett, textile worker, visiting my son at the sanatorium. Exactly like you told me to be."
"Then how do you know about the raid?"
"Because Section D came to me two days ago." Billy moved closer, and Jimmy could see he was telling the truth—this was a terrified man, not a betrayer.
"They found me. I don't know how, but they found Thomas Bennett and figured out he was Billy Kitchen. They threatened to expose me, to take Samuel away, unless I provided more information about the Shelbys."
"And did you?"
"I gave them old information. Stuff that was already public or things that couldn't hurt anyone anymore. I tried to stall, tried to buy time to warn you."
Billy pulled out papers. "But they were already planning the raid. They didn't need my information—they had someone else feeding them intelligence. Someone inside the Shelbys, still operational, still providing current information."
Jimmy felt cold understanding wash over him. "There's another traitor."
"Yes. And they're using my existence as cover. Section D knows I'm alive—they found me somehow—and they're making it look like the leaks are coming from me so you'll waste time hunting a ghost while the real traitor stays hidden."
Billy handed over the papers. "I wrote down everything I know. Every question they asked, every piece of information they wanted. Maybe you can figure out who's really feeding them intelligence."
Jimmy scanned the documents by torchlight. Billy was right—the questions Section D had asked were about recent operations, current plans, information Billy couldn't possibly have known from his position in Glasgow.
Someone with access to current Shelby business was the source.
"Who else knows you're alive?" Jimmy asked.
"Just you and whoever helped you fake my death. And apparently Section D, though I don't know how they found me."
Billy's voice shook. "I kept your secret, Mr. Cartwright. I stayed dead like you told me to. But they found me anyway, and now they're using me to hide the real traitor."
Jimmy believed him. The fear in Billy's eyes was genuine, the desperation authentic. This wasn't a man who'd chosen betrayal—this was a man trapped by circumstances and trying to do the right thing despite impossible odds.
"Go back to Glasgow," Jimmy said finally. "Protect your son. I'll handle Section D and the real traitor. But Billy—you need to disappear better this time. Change cities, change names again if necessary. They found you once; they'll find you again if you're not careful."
"I will. I promise." Billy extended his hand. "Thank you for believing me. For not assuming I'd betrayed you after everything you did for me."
Jimmy shook his hand. "I make mistakes, Billy. But I try not to make the same one twice. When I showed you mercy, I believed you could be trusted. I still believe that. Now prove me right by staying dead and keeping your son safe."
After Billy left, Jimmy sat in the dark warehouse office and processed what he'd learned.
There was another traitor. Someone currently active. Someone with access to recent information. Someone skilled enough to avoid detection while Jimmy had been focused on defending Billy's fake death.
The Billy Kitchen situation hadn't been a mistake after all. It had been a distraction.
Someone had used the discovery of one traitor to hide the existence of another. And while Jimmy had been busy helping Billy escape and then doubting that decision, the real traitor had continued feeding information to Section D.
Clever. Ruthless. Exactly the kind of misdirection Jimmy himself might have employed.
He climbed down from the office and retrieved Chandler's ledger from its hiding place. The investigation couldn't wait anymore. The traitor would have to be dealt with, yes, but destroying Chandler took priority.
He'd waited three months, compiled perfect evidence, prepared an ironclad case.
It was time to act.
He wrapped the ledger carefully in his coat and walked out of the warehouse into the Birmingham night.
Tomorrow he would tell Tommy everything—about Billy's survival, about Section D finding him, about the real traitor still lurking inside Shelby operations.
But tonight, he carried proof of Robert Chandler's crimes. Proof that Mary had been right. Proof that justice was possible even when courts and police failed.
The endgame was beginning.
The complications had been revealed.
And Jimmy Cartwright—damaged, compromised, no longer neutral but perhaps finally free—was ready to finish what he'd started.
For Mary. For justice. For himself.
The ghost was done waiting.
It was time for the reckoning.