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James relaxed as well. Getting Halberd involved to force cooperation with Clubs and Vice could have led to hard feelings, but Drummley had obviously decided to accept it without rancor.
“This new drug you found them mixing up behind that gallery? LSD? It’s going to be a real headache for us.” Drummley tapped his fingers on his battered desk.
“It isn’t actually illegal as yet, is that right?” James couldn’t remember if Hartridge had checked, or whether they’d had word from Clubs and Vice. The last few days had been a blur.
Drummley blew out a breath. “Unfortunately, that is right. I’ve sent a report to the Commissioner, trying to get something to Whitehall so they can change that, but right now, anyone can go ahead and distribute it, as much as they like.”
“Looks like the heroin dealers aren’t any happier about it than you are,” James said. “And my constable says you think one of the big dealers had done a bunk or gone missing.”
Drummley nodded. “John Crane. No one’s seen either him, or his missus, anywhere for a couple of weeks.”
“Do you have probable cause to go into his house?” James asked. “Because if he’s been killed by my suspect, I’d like to know about it.”
Drummley leaned back in a black leather chair that squeaked alarmingly under his bulk. “How sure are you of that possibility?”
“My man can kill. He’s got no qualms about it. He was giving orders to a couple of thugs that my constable says your men have identified as working for Crane. And Crane is gone. It’s possible, if not downright likely, that my man has taken over in a bloody coup.”
Drummley eyed him, then glanced at the door.
James got up and closed it, sat back down.
“One of my lot’s missing,” Drummley said. “No sign of him. Around the same time Crane went dark, as well.”
James thought he knew where this was going, but didn’t want to voice it, in case he was wrong.
“He was bent.” Drummley sighed as he rubbed his cheeks. “I knew it, but didn’t ever catch him on anything I could prove.”
“Taking backhanders from Crane?” James asked.
Drummley nodded. “I think so. If someone’s gone through Crane’s organization and cleaned house, and my chap happened to be getting his orders at the time . . .”
James winced. “So he could be a victim of my suspect, too.”
They sat in silence for a minute.
“Mrs. Crane’s sister asked the Met for help locating her,” Drummley said. He pushed a piece of paper across the desk toward James. “I asked for any contact with anyone relating to the Cranes be forwarded to me. This was received yesterday morning, so it’s a bit delayed, but I can use it to go knock on the door for a welfare check.”
“Mind if I come along?” James asked.
Drummley hesitated, then gave a nod. “If your man is involved, you can tell us what to look for.”
James rose to his feet. “There’s nothing very sophisticated about him. All we need to look for is the blood.”
* * *
It seemed she had a day off.
Gabriella had gone in to work, fully expecting to be given yet another new route, but instead Mr. Greenberg had put her in a taxi and sent her home.
She could come in tomorrow, he said, but he’d give her paperwork to do, not send her out on any route—new or not.
She didn’t like it, but she could see he wouldn’t be swayed, and so she decided to use her free time to make tiramisu for Mr. Rodney and pack a bag to go stay with Mrs. Everett tomorrow, as she was getting out of hospital the following morning.
She had the taxi drop her at the Italian shop closest to her house, and while she winced at the cost of the mascarpone, she decided she didn’t care. Mr. Rodney deserved something really special.
She walked home with her shopping bags, glad of the sunshine and the clear skies. It made it seem impossible that anything bad could happen.
She turned into her street and caught sight of a constable strolling past her house. She remembered him from the night Mr. Rodney had been stabbed, and realized he must be part of the Notting Hill nick, sent to keep an eye out for Mr. Knife.