“But he can be stopped, Archie. If you help us with this, we can make sure he doesn’t go near her again.”

“If you’re talking about locking him up, he’ll just get someone else to do it. That’s how they work.”

She regarded him skeptically. “Do you really believe that? Think about it. He’s not a big player from what I hear, so why would anyone want to be involved in his business if he’s no longer of any use to them?”

Archie swallowed dryly.

“There are any number of offenses he can be charged with,” she told him, “that don’t need to include his involvement in the fire so there would be no reason for him to link you to his arrest. All we need are a few words about the drug dealing that a dozen or more others would know about, or the trafficking. It’s all known, Archie, we just need dates, times, locations. Doesn’t matter if they’re historical. It’ll take him out of circulation and make your mother safe.”

He still didn’t speak, but the fear was retreating from his stare.

“The same goes for Marcus Huxley-Browne,” Andee continued. “Your bosses, the gang members who run your uncle, aren’t interested in him anymore. As soon as it was discovered that none of their names were in the attaché case you were ordered to steal—meaning it contained no proof that they’d supplied Huxley-Browne with illegal substances—he lost all his leverage.”

Archie was looking wary again. “He’s a PC. It means he knows at least some of the bosses’ business model, and who they are. He can still do damage.”

Marcy tensed. This might not be an admission of Marcus’s involvement, but it was close.

“His knowledge gives him power,” Archie added.

Andee said, “So the order did come from Huxley-Browne?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he protested. “I don’t know who was behind it. I only know what BJ told me and he never mentioned no names.”

“If you can link Marcus Huxley-Browne to the crime you committed he will be charged and kept in prison pending trial. Can you do that?”

He shook his head. “I’m not saying he had nothing to do with it,” he told her, “but I’ve got no way of proving it. Like I said, my instructions came from BJ.”

“Did you ever make deliveries to Marcus Huxley-Browne?” she asked.

He stiffened, but ended up giving a short nod.

“To his home, or his office?”

“Mostly his office, but a couple of times to his home.”

“The one in West London?”

He nodded again and looked suddenly panicked. “Listen, I’m not telling anyone I delivered to him . . . I don’t need any more on my rap sheet . . .”