‘Yes. I told you, Mr Daneman,’ said David. ‘Ask him, he’ll confirm it.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. I think I passed a couple of boys on the stairs but I couldn’t tell you who they were.’

‘Surely, at around seven thirty on a Friday night, the lobby would have been a hive of activity? All the boys either coming in or out? Someone must have seen you.’

‘Perhaps, yes. You could ask them.’

Jazz sighed, thinking it was unusual to hear a suspect actively searching for a witness to confirm his presence at a murder scene. ‘So, Mr Millar, what did you do next?’

‘I sat in Cavendish’s room for a while, but when he didn’t show, I realised he’d probably gone out for the night. I knew it was pointless hanging around. Then I saw the tablets by his bed and had an idea. I remembered what Rory had told me about Cavendish’s allergy to aspirin. Being the drunk that I am, I always have some painkillers on me to help the headaches. It’s a common myth that alcoholics don’t get hangovers. Let me tell you, Inspector Hunter, they do. I pulled out the packet from my jacket, to see what they were. I usually grab the cheapest thing off the shelves, whether it be paracetamol, aspirin or ibuprofen. I’m not fussy.’ David smiled sadly. ‘Anyway, as luck – or should I qualify, luck for me – should have it, my current painkiller was aspirin.’

Jazz said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

‘I took a couple of them out of the packet, put them next to Charlie’s tablets and saw they were quite similar. So I decided to swap them over.’

‘Were you aware that they would kill him, Mr Millar?’

‘No, of course not! I had no idea how bad his allergy was. Just the thought of making him suffer for a few hours the way he’d made Rory suffer was enough for me. And to be honest, Inspector, I don’t think I was sober enough to think it through logically. It was a spur of the moment thing. So I swapped the tablets and left.’

Jazz tapped her pen on the table. ‘To go where?’

‘Home, of course. I had some more to drink and slept where I fell. I woke up the next morning and remembered what I had done.’

‘How did you feel?’

‘Bloody awful, obviously. I realised that whatever Charlie Cavendish had done to Rory, that was no excuse for putting his life at risk. I drank some more to dull the pain, hoping against hope that at the very worst, Charlie had spent an uncomfortable night at the hospital having his stomach pumped.’

‘When did you hear what had happened to him?’

‘Rory must have called me sometime that afternoon to tell me Cavendish was dead.’ David looked down at his hands. ‘I can’t remember any more of that day, to be honest.’

‘And how did you feel when you realised you’d killed him?’