‘So I’ve got to play for dance lessons for people who are too good for a gramophone after . . . What time is it?’
‘It was showing five past eight on the clock on Mrs C’s mantelpiece when I left.’
‘After less than three hours’ kip, then. This better be over quick so I can get my head down this afternoon or I’ll end up face down in my traps tray.’
The two men lapsed into silence as the van chugged through the London streets. The journey to Victoria Embankment only took another ten minutes, but by the time they arrived at Scotland Yard, they were both asleep.
The door opened and slammed against the side of the van.
‘Wakey, wakey,’ said Constable Grine. ‘We’re ’ere.’
They struggled out on to the street and followed Grine into the turreted red-brick building.
‘Yes?’ said the bored sergeant behind the counter in the entrance hall.
‘It’s me, Sarge,’ said Grine.
The sergeant looked up. ‘So it is, lad, so it is. I thought you was out on a job for the Super.’
‘I was,’ said Grine, proudly. ‘I’ve got ’em.’
The sergeant looked the two musicians up and down.
‘They don’t look like bank robbers to me,’ he said.
Grine frowned in puzzlement. ‘They’re not. Not so far as I know, anyway.’
‘Then what did you bring ’em in here for? Superintendent Nicholls wants the two suspects for the Midland Bank job. I wondered why they wasn’t in handcuffs.’
‘I fetched these two for Superintendent Sunderland,’ said Grine. ‘Not Nicholls.’ This conversation wasn’t going at all the way he had expected.
‘Sunderland?’ It wasn’t going the way the sergeant had expected, either. ‘Sunderland up on the third floor?’
‘That’s right, Sarge. Sent me out first thing.’
‘But he’s on secondment to the War Office. What does he want with these two loafers?’
‘Oi,’ said Skins. ‘Less of the loafer.’
‘You look like you was dragged out of bed,’ said the sergeant.
‘I was.’
‘There you are, then. Loafer. The rest of us was at work.’
‘And where were you at four this morning while I was at work?’ said Skins. The conversation definitely wasn’t conforming to his own modest expectations, either.
‘Four in the morning, eh? What are you, then?’
‘A musician.’
‘Jazz?’ said the sergeant, suspiciously.
Skins nodded.
The sergeant sneered. ‘Even worse. Bleedin’ racket. I liked you better when you was a loafer.’
‘Now, Sergeant,’ said Dunn in his silkiest tones. ‘Let’s not all get off on the wrong foot here. You don’t like musicians, my colleague here doesn’t like being called a loafer, poor Constable Grimes here—’
‘Grine,’ said the other three men in unison.
‘Poor Constable Grine here,’ continued Dunn, ‘has been sent on an errand for a senior officer. Why don’t you sign us in or whatever it is you do, and we can go and see this Superintendent Sunderland. You and my colleague can stop getting on each other’s wick, Grine can complete his task, Sunderland can tell us what it is he wants us for, and then I can get back to my bed. I’ve had three hours’ sleep and I’m due back at work at seven this evening. It might be a “bleedin’ racket”, but they only pay us if we’re awake to make it.’
The sergeant looked him up and down again. He didn’t like being told what to do, especially by civilians, but he was forced to concede that the tall man was talking sense, even if he was a musician wanted for questioning by a superintendent seconded to the War Office.
He recorded their details in the logbook and sent them with Grine to the third floor.
Grine led them up more flights of stairs than Skins thought acceptable for first thing in the morning, and along a long, linoleum-floored corridor. He stopped at a door whose sign proclaimed it to be the entrance to the office of ‘Detective Superintendent O N Sunderland.’ He knocked smartly on the glass panel.
‘Yes,’ called a voice from inside.
Grine opened the door a fraction and leaned in.
‘I’ve got the two men you wanted to see, sir,’ he said.
‘Have you, indeed?’ said the unseen voice. ‘Thank you very much. Send them in, please, Constable.’
Grine threw open the door and ushered the two musicians into the office.
Sitting behind the desk was a slim man who appeared to be in his late fifties. His thinning grey hair was neatly trimmed and his eyes were bright behind his round, wire-framed spectacles. His dark grey lounge suit was well cut and immaculately pressed, his silk tie perfectly knotted. He took off his glasses and stood to greet his visitors.
‘Skins,’ he said warmly. ‘Dunn. Do come in. How marvellous to see you.’
Slightly puzzled, Skins and Dunn entered the room and shook the superintendent’s hand.
‘Sit down, please. Tea? Bring a tea tray, Constable, would you. And see if you can scare up any biscuits.’
Grine closed the door behind him.
‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ said Skins. ‘Before the war. Down in Gloucestershire. When Wally Holloway copped it at that party. You were Inspector Sunderland then.’
‘That’s it,’ said Sunderland. ‘Must be, what, seventeen years ago now? I’m glad you remembered.’
‘I’m not likely to forget our trumpeter being bumped off. I mean, we’ve had some savage reviews over the years, but no one else has been so disappointed that they killed one of us.’
Sunderland laughed. ‘I should think it sticks in the mind, yes.’
‘Oh,’ said Dunn, who had been struggling to recall. ‘Littleton Cotterell. You’re Lady Hardcastle’s pal. I remember now.’
‘That’s it. I used to be with Bristol CID, but I moved up here after the war. You’ve . . . you’ve changed a lot.’
‘Seventeen years, a world war, and being married to an American heiress will do that to a man,’ said Skins. ‘We were just kids when you met us.’
‘I suppose you were, yes. You always seemed so self-assured.’
‘Cocky.’
‘A little,’ said Sunderland with a smile. ‘I confess I assumed you were older than you were.’
‘We used to get that a lot,’ said Skins. ‘But you can hardly blame us for being a bit lippy. One of our mates had just copped it. That was a bit of a “rum do”, as the officers used to say.’
‘Wasn’t it just? Rum do’s seem to follow Lady Hardcastle around, though. Do you see much of her these days?’
‘Her mate Flo and my wife are best pals. Have been for years. You know how it is when someone saves your life.’
‘Really?’ said Sunderland.
‘Long story. But they write every week. Phone calls, too. Expensive blimmin’ phone calls. So we see her and Lady H whenever they’re in town – Lady H’s brother and his family live in London. She claims she’s getting too old for nightclubs. Makes a great show of how Flo has to drag her along, but they always have a great time. They’re good company. The band loves them. How about you?’