‘Was she still breathing at this point?’
‘Benny got to her first,’ said Dunn. ‘He said not.’
‘Benny?’
‘Benjamin Charles,’ said Skins. ‘Our trombonist.’
‘I see,’ said Inspector Lavender. ‘So the men had the beer, the ladies had their cocktails, and you all ate the same sandwiches?’
‘As far as I know,’ said Skins.
‘And it was this “Danny” who brought the cocktails.’
‘It was,’ said Dunn. ‘He made a big thing of it. He said the sax player in the Foot-Tappers preferred a cocktail in the break. It seemed like a kindly gesture.’
‘Kindly,’ said the inspector. ‘Yes. Very. And Miss Puddephatt made sure Miss Adams got the brandy. Strong flavour, brandy. What else is in a Sidecar, I wonder? No matter. It would all work together to hide the flavour of a poison. Did anyone keep the glasses?’
‘What?’ said Skins and Dunn together.
‘So we can examine them for poison.’
‘Wasn’t that your man’s job on the night?’ said Dunn.
‘He didn’t know she’d been poisoned.’
‘Nor did we,’ said Skins. ‘You reckon we’d just grab the glass and put it in a box on the off chance you might need it a week later?’
Inspector Lavender narrowed his eyes. ‘All right, then. Did your Miss Puddephatt know this Danny character? Might they have been colluding?’
‘You’re not seriously suggesting—’ began Dunn.
‘My job is to keep an open mind, sir,’ said the inspector.
‘You’re an idiot,’ said Dunn.
‘I should watch your tone if I were you, sir.’
‘And I would most definitely do my job with a damn sight more compassion and sensitivity if I were unlucky enough to be you, Inspector.’
‘I understand you’re upset, sir, so we shall say no more about it.’
Dunn made a pfft noise and walked off.
‘Did she have any enemies in the band, Mr . . .’
‘Maloney. No.’
‘So your pal is’ – once again he leafed through his notebook – ‘Mr Dunn?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And had she fallen out with anyone at the club?’
‘She didn’t have time. None of us have. We come in, we play, we go home.’
‘I see. And this Danny character – what do you know about him?’
‘As much as we know about any of them – nothing.’
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘You’ve certainly corroborated Mr Chandler’s account, if nothing else. If you’d be good enough to let my constable have your address, we’ll be in touch if we need anything further.’
‘The band will be here every Tuesday and Wednesday evening until the dance contest, and every Friday night for the foreseeable. We’re easy to find.’
‘Dance contest? When is that exactly?’
‘Friday the twelfth. But they’ll need two lessons a week from now until it happens just to come in second.’
‘Out of how many, sir?’
‘Two.’
Inspector Lavender smiled, closed his notebook, and walked off to talk to one of the uniformed policemen.
‘You’ve got to take it easy, mate,’ said Skins as he caught up with his friend at the bar. ‘We need that bloke on our side.’
‘We need a decent copper on our side,’ said Dunn, grumpily. ‘Old Sunderland wouldn’t be that much of a . . . of a . . .’
‘Of a what, mate?’
‘He’s just so . . . I mean, starting to accuse Puddle. He can see how upset we are.’
‘He can now. I’ve got to admit even I didn’t know you were taking it so hard.’
Dunn looked directly at his oldest friend for the first time in the conversation. ‘I asked her out.’
‘Blanche?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bloody hell, mate. You never said. Even when we were talking to Ellie. You should have said. I didn’t even know you were—’
‘What was I going to say?’ said Dunn quietly. ‘I mean, I didn’t love her or anything. Well, not yet. Maybe I could have, though. Maybe she was “the one”. I don’t know. But I’ve not lost any more than anyone else has.’
Skins put a comforting hand on Dunn’s shoulder. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he said.
‘So your wife keeps telling me,’ said Dunn. ‘At least I’m not as much of an idiot as that Lavender.’
‘No, he’s hardly the Met’s finest.’
‘If he suspects the band, why did he interview us together? Should have split us up. Anyone knows that.’
‘He didn’t suspect anyone till it occurred to him that it could be the cocktail.’
‘But it could, couldn’t it?’ said Dunn.
‘I suppose so. Got to admit I didn’t even remember they had different drinks from us.’
‘Didn’t strike me till just then, either.’
‘But who would do it? And why?’
‘There’s definitely something not quite right about Danny. He doesn’t seem to fit in. All the others are so brash and cocky, but he twitches and fidgets and makes shy offers of cocktails to the girls . . . I mean, it takes all sorts and all that, but birds of a feather.’
‘What’s this, Barty Dunn’s Tired Old Saw Show? A smile, a song, and a worn-out cliché?’
‘My lack of original phrasing doesn’t make it any less true, does it? How come a timid bloke like Danny fell in with the Alfies and the Charlies of this world?’
‘None of them fit, mate,’ said Skins. ‘That’s why they fit. Who else would have them? They’re mates because they’re all a bit . . . you know . . . odd.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Still doesn’t explain why, though. Why kill Blanche? What had she done? Turned him down, maybe?’
‘It’s not something you kill for, though, is it? If I did that, half the birds in north London would be buried in Mrs C’s backyard.’
‘Unless he’s one of Lady H’s madmen,’ said Skins. ‘Motiveless murder, just for the sake of it.’
‘You never know. There’s that thing about Vera being ill, after all. The Foot-Tappers’ sax player. Danny made her a cocktail, too. What if he’s like Jack the Ripper, only he’s going after lady sax players instead of prossies. Or that bloke in the war . . . in France . . . killed all those women . . .’
‘I know who you mean. The Bluebird of Somewhere. But wasn’t he nicking their money?’
‘Bluebeard,’ said Dunn. ‘But what if Danny’s got something against the saxophone? Maybe he was traumatized by one as a child. Or lady musicians? What if a lady musician broke his heart and he’s taking it out on all of them?’
‘Traumatized by a saxophone?’
‘You never know. Stranger things have happened. There was that lad we met when we did that concert at GHQ in ’17 – he was afraid of soup spoons.’
‘As Ellie would say, “I remain unconvinced.” But we do need to talk to him.’