‘I love them, too,’ said Sunderland.
‘No, I mean, do you see them?’
‘Not as often as I’d like, but we keep in touch. You know how it is.’
Dunn was beginning to get the tiniest bit impatient.
‘No offence, Superintendent,’ he said, ‘but I’m assuming you didn’t drag us both from our beds for some misty-eyed reminiscences about the olden days. How can we help you?’
‘Dragged from your beds?’ said Sunderland with some dismay.
‘It was before eight in the morning,’ said Dunn.
‘Which seems like a perfectly reasonable—’
‘We’re musicians, Superintendent,’ said Skins. ‘We work nights.’
‘Oh my lord, I really am sorry,’ said Sunderland. ‘I honestly didn’t think. I just sent Grine off in a car—’
‘In a Black Maria,’ interrupted Dunn.
‘In a what?’
‘He said it was the only vehicle available,’ said Skins.
‘Good lord,’ said Sunderland. ‘It’s not exactly the best way to get someone in to ask them a favour, is it? I’m really very sorry.’
Grine knocked and entered with the tea tray, then left without saying a word.
‘You want a favour?’ said Skins as Sunderland poured the tea.
‘From us?’ said Dunn.
‘I do, indeed,’ said Sunderland. ‘It’s a bit of an imposition – a bit of a damned cheek, if I’m brutally honest – but I think it’ll be “right up your alley”, as they say nowadays.’
‘How’s that, then?’ said Skins. ‘You need a band for the Met Police Summer Ball?’
‘As a matter of fact I think we probably do, but that’s not it, no. This is altogether more interesting. More intriguing. More the sort of thing you used to get involved in with our mutual pal.’
‘Lady H?’ said Dunn. ‘Not sure it’s fair to say we were ever “involved” in any of her cases. We just happened to be nearby a couple of times.’
Sunderland smiled. ‘Even so, I imagine you’ll find this one a – how did she put it? – “a bit of a lark”.’
‘Lady Hardcastle said that?’ said Skins.
‘Sounds like the sort of thing she’d say,’ said Dunn.
‘It does,’ agreed Skins, ‘but why did our names come up in a conversation between you and Lady H?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sunderland. ‘I’m getting ahead of myself. Sugar?’
Skins grinned. ‘Six lumps for me.’
Dunn tutted. ‘Just two, please.’
‘I burn a lot of energy,’ said Skins.
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Sunderland. ‘It’s not really my thing, I’m afraid, but I imagine this new jazz music is quite energetic.’
‘It can be if you’re doing it right. Oh, ta.’
Sunderland handed him his cup of tea.
‘Lady H,’ said Dunn as he accepted his own tea with a nod of thanks. ‘Favour. Bit of a lark.’
‘Yes, quite right,’ said Sunderland. ‘My apologies. So easy to get sidetracked by tea. Let me see . . . How to begin . . . ? I suppose it’s simplest to say a couple of my cases seem to have merged into one and I need a hand with some surveillance. And possibly a bit of discreet snooping.’
‘From us?’ said Skins.
‘From you, yes. I have a squad of men of my own here, but only a small one – we’re not at the top of the pecking order, crime-wise, so I have to make do.’
‘And what is it you do?’ said Skins. ‘You and your team, I mean.’
‘We deal with . . . older cases. Quite specific older cases,’ said Sunderland.
‘Burglaries? Fraud? Murder?’
‘No, not quite. Although sometimes. Let’s take a step back . . . How was your war?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Skins. ‘My war?’
‘Yes. How did you get on? You served?’
‘Middlesex Regiment. Both of us. Joined up together.’
‘Right,’ said Sunderland. ‘You got through it unscathed, I trust?’
‘I got walloped on the head near the end,’ said Skins. ‘But Barty here didn’t get so much as a hangnail.’
‘To be fair, we spent a lot of time behind the lines entertaining the troops,’ said Dunn. ‘Concert parties and the like. We did our time in the trenches, obviously. A few assaults. But nothing like what a lot of the boys went through.’
‘Quite. Takes guts,’ said Sunderland.
‘Don’t know about that,’ said Skins. ‘Stubbornness and ignorance’ll get you through most of it.’
Sunderland laughed. ‘I’m sure you’re making light of a terrible time. You know there were deserters, of course. Men who weren’t blessed with your . . . stubbornness and ignorance, who took it upon themselves to bugger off and leave their mates to it.’
‘We lost a few, yes,’ said Dunn. ‘Saw a couple shot “for cowardice”. Not sure that was right, if I’m honest.’
Skins shook his head. ‘Not young Bernie Butcher, at any rate. He was in a right state, that poor lad. He didn’t know if he was coming, going, or been by the time they court-martialled him. Shell shock. Lost his mind. Terrible thing.’
Sunderland sipped his tea. ‘There were some . . . Look, between these four walls, there were some appalling miscarriages of justice. But there were some among them whose minds hadn’t been messed up, who just took off. And some of those used the whole thing as an opportunity to get away with some pretty serious crimes. And I’ve been given the unenviable task of trying to find them.’
‘Rather you than me,’ said Skins.
Sunderland smiled. ‘It’s not the glamorous end of policing, I grant you – very few dawn raids and pavement arrests. But I like to think I’m doing important work and it comes with occasional glimmers of excitement. Like now, for instance. I’ve got a lead on a missing deserter who could well be hiding out under your very noses. And his is a very interesting case indeed.’
‘Under our noses?’ said Dunn. ‘One of the band?’
‘Oh, good lord, no,’ said Sunderland, quickly. ‘My sources tell me you’ve been booked to play for dance lessons at the Aristippus Club in Mayfair. Is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Dunn.
‘That is right,’ said Skins. ‘You’re better-informed than I am. I thought we were just Tipsy Harry’s regular dance band. But like you say, we’re booked to play for their dance lessons, an’ all.’
‘Who’s Tipsy Harry?’ asked Sunderland.
‘It’s what the members call the Aristippus Club,’ said Skins. ‘Don’t ask me why.’
‘Tipsy Harry . . .’ said Dunn. ‘Arri-stippus . . . ? Surely you can hear it.’
They looked blankly at him.
Dunn sighed. ‘So, anyway, Aristippus was a Greek philosopher. He believed in taking pleasure, but not being controlled by it. He was very keen on control in general, actually. He liked the idea of adapting circumstances to suit himself, not adapting himself to his circumstances. Pupil of Socrates. Liked a drink. So “Tipsy Harry” seems like a good name for him. A Good Time Charlie if ever there was one. Or a Good Time Harry, in this case.’