“It delivered?”

“So it was claimed. According to the American, it induced a craving, and when that craving was indulged—well, the earth moved. Six, seven, eight times a night—according to him. He’s prone to exaggeration, of course. On the other hand, they tripled their prices in two months, and the clients still kept beating a path to their door. So I imagine there was some truth in his claims.”

Rowland, whose tone had been dry, gave a shrug. Gini sighed.

“That’s predictable. A drug that makes people thin, happy, and sexually successful? That just about covers every twentieth-century need.”

“We live in a secular world.” Rowland, who had never felt greatly in tune with that world, and who sensed from her tone that she was not either, turned back to look at her.

“You understand, don’t you, the kind of money that can be involved? Eventually, of course, White Doves will be copied. Other manufacturing outfits will obtain the drug, break it down, replicate it. But that takes time. What the Dutchman and the American want to do now is step up production—fast. They intend—again according to the American—to make their killing inside two years. He’s estimating they’ll clear a cool eight to ten million, at which point he’s planning to retire. He may do just that. Or the DEA, or the Dutch police, or his own heroin habit may slow him down. Meantime—if White Doves actually cause killings of a rather different kind, neither he nor his Dutch partner will lose too much sleep. As far as they’re concerned, an element of risk can enhance their product. They’re not worried about the Cassandra Morleys of this world.”

There was a silence. As he had spoken, Gini had watched his anger grow, although it was perceptible only in his eyes.

“We can’t know what caused Cassandra’s death until they complete those toxicology reports,” she said quietly. “All right, she was seen with Star last night, and he was in possession of White Doves. That may be suggestive, but it’s not proof. It’s circumstantial at best. Meantime, Mitchell definitely did take one. And he lived to tell the tale.”

“I agree. And Mitchell is—what? Five feet ten? And heavily built. I’d say he weighed at least fifteen stone, two hundred pounds. Whereas Cassandra Morley was slender, less than half his size. It could simply be a question of body size and dosage. There could be other factors—food, water intake, alcohol intake.” He paused. “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions either. But I think you can see why this story interests me—why I wanted to pursue it before any of this weekend’s events happened.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Gini—” He turned to look at her. “The right journalism can help to change things. Maybe it’s only a small alteration—to prevent one more teenager like Cassandra from dying, to close down one outlet for drugs while millions of others survive, to prevent a man like Star from peddling his products, even if it’s only for a while. But it is still change, and change for the better. Whatever you felt in Bosnia, however much your faith in your work was impaired—you must see that, surely?”