Some fifteen minutes later, Maisie and Archie reached the café where Billy was waiting with Vivian Coombes.
Billy stood up as Maisie approached. They exchanged an almost imperceptible nod, and Billy smiled at Archie and his sister.
“I’m leaving you two to talk to Miss Dobbs now—lovely to see you again, Viv. And thank you for asking after my Billy. Can I get anyone another cuppa before I go?”
“I think we’re all right, Billy,” said Maisie, taking a seat and pulling out the chair next to her for Archie to be seated as Billy left the café.
“Vivian, Archie has been talking to me about the difficulties involved in being related to Jimmy Robertson, and I wonder if I can ask you a few questions—I just want to connect the dots, if I may.”
“Uncle Jimmy’s not a difficulty, Miss Dobbs. People thinking he is, that’s the difficulty. He’s been good to us.” She turned to face her brother. “And you should learn to keep your mouth shut, you stupid idiot.”
“But Viv—”
Maisie held up a hand. “A row between the two of you isn’t going to help matters—and neither is denial, Vivian. You could be in a lot of trouble, and lose a very good job. I just want to get some things sorted out. And you probably don’t know this, Vivian, but Archie was on his way to barracks and was coming here to say good-bye to you when I bumped into him—he’s enlisted, so you don’t have a lot of time with your brother.”
“Oh that’s just wonderful.” Vivian glared at her brother. “You yellow-bellied twit! Off to join the army because you can’t get anything right—see what good that did Teddy. You’re like a child with his hands over his eyes who thinks no one can see him.”
“Oh, leave off, Viv—things are bad enough as it is.” Archie rested his head in his hands, elbows on the table.
“And don’t loll around on that table—I know people in here. You’ll have everyone looking at you and you’ll show me up,” added his sister.
“All right, Vivian, here’s your choice,” said Maisie. “You either talk to me now, or you’ll be talking to the police for hours on end. You’re going to have to talk to them anyway, but you can make it easy on yourself by starting to tell the truth right now. Get into practice. You’re in trouble—but it might not be as bad as you expect, if you cooperate.”
“I’ve been cooperating since I was a child—I’m fed up with cooperating with someone. Mum and Dad, and now Uncle Jimmy. I suppose you want to know all about Teddy too, don’t you?”
“Actually, no—I know about Teddy, and I know all about Archie. What I want to know about is every step that was taken so your uncle was awarded the contract to supply Mike Yates with a special paint to use as a fire retardant on airfields.”
“That? You want to know about that? That was nothing much.” Vivian Coombes smirked and turned away, her back to her brother, and her right shoulder to Maisie. She lifted up her handbag, which she had placed on the floor, and took out a lipstick and compact. She proceeded to apply the red lipstick, rolling her lips together before closing the compact with a snap. Maisie could see she struggled to control her shaking hands. “And how long do you think I can stay here in this café? I’ve got to get back to work.”
Maisie looked at her watch. Not long now. “Just another couple of minutes, then you can go. But first—that contract, how did you find out about it?”
Vivian Coombes sighed and flapped her hand at Maisie, as if the answer were hardly worth her time.
“I’m on the government exchanges—you know that. And I heard it on the line—it’s not as if they’re all scrambled, after all, and not all the calls are important or top secret. Most of the time it’s just one boring civil servant speaking to another boring civil servant. Anyway, it was before the war, when I’d just been promoted—I heard this bloke talking to another bloke about putting the contract out to tender, that it had to be done quickly, none of this waiting for months. Painting the airfield buildings with that special paint to stop fires was urgent, on account of the expected attacks and the chance of invasion if war were declared. I knew Uncle Jimmy was always looking for a new bit of business, and that he’d sold paint to Yates before, so I let him know. After that I didn’t do anything—he’s got his ways of finding out about the other bids, so he made sure he got it. I can’t go about my job listening to everything.”
“Just as well.” Maisie sighed. “But you were rewarded for your trouble, weren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Vivian.
“Come on, Viv—she knows,” said Archie. “And this is about our Joe. Uncle Jimmy wasn’t on the up and up, not with that paint.”
Maisie watched as Vivian Coombes looked at her brother, then at her hands, and when she met Maisie’s eyes, her lips trembled.
“You’re a strong young woman, Vivian, and you are loyal to your family. Your uncle has seen you all supplied with some lovely things in the past, gifts that made life a little easier. You’ve had brand-new clothes, good shoes, nice furniture, all sorts of little extras. And he had that telephone put in at the pub. It wasn’t the brewery, was it?” She looked from Vivian to Archie. “Your family were the recipients of stolen goods, and have been for a long time. Being a ‘receiver’ of such items is a crime in itself, but the passing on of confidential information carries a different kind of punishment in a time of war.”
“We weren’t at war, not when I told him,” said Vivian. “I just thought I would let him know.”
“All in your favor, Vivian, that there was a limit to your sharing of information from a confidential government call. But the judge might see it as simply a question of semantics,” said Maisie.
“Of what,” asked Archie.
Vivian rolled her eyes. “She means it’s down to how the judge sees it. That big bits of information are the same as small bits, when it comes to language—it’s confidential whether it comes from the prime minister or the cleaner, when it’s on a government line. You dopey item.”
“It’s the seriousness of the crime that counts, and character,” said Maisie. “Fortunately, you weren’t in on the most egregious part of the crime.”
“What was that?” said Vivian.
Archie began to weep, his head low, his shoulders revealing his grief and fear.
“Oh you, you blimmin’ watery head. I wish you’d pull yourself together,” said Vivian to her brother. She took her bag and began to stand up.
Archie looked up at his sister. “You’re not as hard as you try to be, Viv. Uncle Jimmy killed Joe. He might have got him that job, so he was in a reserved occupation, but he was killing him slowly because he was adding other stuff to the paint to make it go a lot further. He wasn’t supplying Yates with the stuff exactly as it was shown to him by the RAF bods and the government officials. I know—I’m a slave in his blimmin’ engineering works. I know what he does, and he was doing things on the cheap so he made more money—a lot more money. He was thinning it down so he could sell it to other businesses, for painting factories, shops and all sorts of other buildings, telling the landlords that it would save their properties from burning down when the invasion came and we were bombed. He couldn’t use water because it would have just gone lumpy like rotten eggs, so he used chemicals. Mike Yates was in on it. And yes, Dad wanted me and Joe to have jobs where we wouldn’t be called up, but what were we really protected from? Eh? No one protected Joe, did they? That stuff was killing him.”
Maisie watched the siblings argue back and forth, then saw her chance to interject.
“Joe was made very ill by the paint—possibly he was more susceptible to the toxins due to his age, and the fact that he was still growing. And because he was the apprentice, he was set to work on tasks that demanded most exposure to the poisonous vapor—decanting the paint into the smaller pails, stirring it to mix the chemicals, and then the final testing, setting the blowtorches on the finished walls where he was breathing in even more danger. There are more pathology reports to come through. But ultimately Joe was not killed by the paint or an accident—he was murdered, and his life was taken because people knew about his health and that he was suffering. He had to be stopped, because the more he talked about his headaches, and the more he wanted to leave an apprenticeship that was considered an otherwise good opportunity, the more attention was drawn to him and therefore to the job he was doing and the materials he was using. If he continued complaining, it was only a matter of time before the paint was subject to renewed testing by the authorities. Your uncle Jimmy needed time—time for the contract to run its course, enabling him to make as much money as possible. And the contract could go on for a long while, given the number of new aerodromes being built and any repainting required after the job was finished.”
Vivian stared at Maisie, her mouth open.
“You want to watch that, love—something might fall in if you keep it that wide.” Caldwell stood over Vivian Coombes, then pulled up a chair and sat down.
Maisie shook her head and sighed. “This is Detective Chief Inspector Caldwell with the golden tongue from Scotland Yard. He would like to speak to you both on his premises, and not here in the café. A motor car is waiting outside, so my advice is to accompany him without attracting attention.” She turned to Caldwell. “Thank you, Inspector.”
Vivian Coombes came to her feet. “But I have to get back to work—you don’t understand, I have a shift—”
“All sorted out, love—your supervisor knows you’ve been a witness to a serious crime and that you are providing us with invaluable information, for which you could well receive an important reward. Your life.” He drew his attention to Maisie. “Now then, Miss Dobbs, would you be so kind as to lead the way, and I’ll bring up the rear, as the saying goes.”
Outside the café, Caldwell shepherded the siblings into a police vehicle, and turned to Maisie. “They’ll be at each other’s throats all the way to the Yard, mark my words.” He held out his hand to Maisie. “My colleagues with the Flying Squad will love this one—nailing Jimmy Robertson will be a coup.”
“There’s more, Inspector Caldwell—I just had to get them into safe hands. What about Teddy Wickham?”
“Steps have been taken to question him. His testimony will come in useful to snare his uncle, though he will most likely end up being reassigned to another military capacity—and that’s after a good spell of cleaning latrines before being promoted to peeling spuds and chopping cabbage. And after that, he won’t be in any cushy number like looking after stores.” He shook his head. “The forces have lost enough men and they can’t afford to lose more, so they’re making allowances.” He sighed. “Anyway, getting Jimmy Robertson off the streets will be a dream come true for us at the Yard. Trouble is, the nasty bugger gets others to do his dirty work, so he’s hard to nail. But this time, it’s his family telling us the story.” He turned to get into the motor car. “I’ll see you at the Yard, to make a full statement.”
“And what about Joe Coombes’ killer?”
“Got Murphy on it, down in Basingstoke. Should be picking him up at any minute. How did you know it was him?”
“It was a process of elimination. Freddie Mayes had a lot to lose, with Joe being so ill and him worried more people would notice and then the balloon would really go up. Mike Yates, Freddie—they’re all Jimmy Robertson’s men, one way or another.”
“The money way,” said Caldwell.
“The past ten years have been bad for a lot of people—no work to be had, and even when you get a job, you’re not being paid as much, or you’re on short time. I would bet that Freddie had more going on at home than we know about—and responsibility brings a need for more money. I have no idea who Jimmy Robertson’s driver is, but I imagine he was the man with the cosh, and Freddie just knew the route that Joe took when he was out for a walk, trying to clear his head. He was an accomplice, not the perpetrator.”
“We found the motor, and the driver—he’s got previous as long as your arm, including grievous bodily harm—good old GBH. In fact on his record, there’s a long line of GBH, GBH, and even more GBH. His name’s Sidney Spooner—the initials suit him. He should be over there with old Hitler.” Caldwell paused, then inclined his head toward the back seat of the motor car. “And what about their parents? I’m looking forward to hearing their side of the story.”
“Can I talk to them first?” asked Maisie.
Caldwell nodded. “All right. This time, yes—I owe you.”
Maisie watched as Caldwell moved away. His rhetoric was the same, but it was tempered, flat, as if someone had stepped hard upon an essential—and not entirely likeable—part of his character. And such was the air of melancholy that emanated from him, underlined by his willingness to follow her lead, that she reached out to touch his shoulder.
“Inspector Caldwell—wait. There’s something amiss.” She kept her voice low as he stepped back to face her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Caldwell shook his head. “I don’t like to admit it, but there’s not much anyone can get past you, is there, Miss Dobbs?” He took a deep breath, looking up at the barrage balloons, then casting his eyes down to the sandbags and barbed wire. He exhaled as he brought his attention back to Maisie. “It’s Able—you remember Able?’
“Yes, of course—of course I remember. You said he joined the navy.”
Caldwell nodded. “He did—and I made a joke of that too. Able Seaman Able. That’s what I said when he joined up. And the lad took it all in good heart.” Caldwell looked at his feet, then at Maisie again. “HMS Keith went down on Saturday. She came under attack by German aircraft, taking out her steering gear first, then they dropped a bomb right down her funnel. And she’d already done one run to Dunkirk, evacuating over nine hundred soldiers—she was on her way back to get more when they attacked her. A lot of men were saved, but Able wasn’t one of them.”
“I am so sorry, Inspector. I’m so very sorry.”
“I feel bad about it—the way I teased him, made everyone laugh at his expense.”
Maisie shook her head. “Don’t—don’t blame yourself for anything. Able was a good sport, and even though you ribbed him, he would smile and laugh in return. You noticed him, Inspector—even though you had a joke about his name, he was never invisible, and was held with great affection by the other men because of the way he took it. I believe he knew it too—knew he was popular, and well liked.”
“Thank you, Miss Dobbs. Thank you very much for that. Now then—I’d better get these two over to the Yard, before they kill each other in the back of my motor car.”
Maisie watched the vehicle drive away.
“I heard that—about Able. Terrible shame,” said Billy, who had been waiting outside the café for Maisie. “Miss—did you really mean it, about Able knowing he was held with affection? By Caldwell? I mean, does that man hold anyone in any sort of affection?”
Maisie raised a hand to hail a taxicab. “He was a good assistant to Caldwell, and though Caldwell could be merciless in his teasing, Able had a gentle kindness about him, and I believe he would see no advantage to saying anything that would add to Caldwell’s grief and guilt.”
A taxi stopped, allowing Maisie and Billy to climb aboard.
“So, why do you think someone like Able joined the police in the first place, if he was that gentle? I mean, you really need to be a bit of a tough nut to do that job, unless of course you’re on the beat in a little village somewhere.”
“I don’t really know—and by the way, from my experience, being on the beat in a village can be fraught with danger. But I would imagine that if we delved a bit further into his motivations, it might have something to do with his father. Perhaps he was a policeman, and even in a small village—a man who aspired to Scotland Yard and pressed his son into the same profession. Perhaps when war was declared, the navy offered a way out of the family business for Able, so he jumped at the chance of enlisting into the senior service.” She paused. “It’s all perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. And on that note—talking about a family business—we’re going to see Phil and Sally Coombes.”
Maisie and Billy sat in the saloon bar and waited until afternoon closing time before the pub was empty. Phil Coombes did not even ask if they wanted to speak to him, but as he chivvied the last customer out of the pub and locked the door, he turned to them.
“Better come upstairs. Sally will have heard me bolt the door, and the kettle will be on.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coombes,” said Maisie.
Sally Coombes demonstrated no sense of surprise as her husband led the visitors into her kitchen. She set two more cups and saucers, a pot of tea, a jug of milk and the sugar bowl on the table.
“Take a seat,” said Coombes. “You too,” he added, pulling out a chair for his wife.
Maisie looked in silence from Phil to Sally Coombes, and Billy shifted in his seat.
“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” said Maisie.
“It’s about my brother,” said Sally. She pulled a handkerchief from her pinafore pocket and pressed it against her eyes.
“We couldn’t go to the police,” said Coombes, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulder.
“Couldn’t go to the police? He was killing your son!” Billy’s outburst came without warning.
“Billy—” Maisie raised her hand to settle her assistant. She drew her attention back to Phil Coombes. “Mr. Coombes—Phil—correct me if I’m wrong, but here’s what I believe has happened in this family.” She looked toward Sally. “Would you pour the tea, Mrs. Coombes—I know I could do with a cup.” She continued while Sally Coombes poured. “Sometimes these things start in a small way, don’t they? I’ve seen this so many times in my work—the very worst trouble that people get into doesn’t begin with a big leap to the dark side. It’s rather like when you run a hot water tap—it first runs cold, then slowly the water warms, until the hot water comes through and it’s so uncomfortable you have to draw your hand away. You can run the cold water to moderate the heat. Or you can just get used to the increasing temperature.”
Sally Coombes set a cup of tea each in front of Maisie, Billy and her husband, then took a sip from her own cup while continuing to stare at Maisie, as if she had been anticipating every word spoken.
“Phil—you were in the army with Jimmy Robertson, and you two became tight—he’s a charismatic person, after all. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a Jack-the-Lad with a quick turn of phrase, and a very good head on his shoulders. A very bright man.”
“He kept our boys out of the army,” said Sally.
“Indeed.” Maisie glanced at Billy, then brought her attention back to Sally. She had expected her to make at least one defense of her brother. “And he’s seen you all right,” she continued. “You’ve been well taken care of as a family. But there’s a price, isn’t there? And what was that price? Selling his stolen goods through the pub—perhaps the holiday clubs? People put money in the kitty every week to buy themselves a good Christmas, or Easter, and you not only keep it for them, but then you can sell the goods acquired by your brother.”
“It didn’t do anyone any harm,” said Sally, folding her arms.
“Sal—hold on,” said Coombes. “All right—yes, it was just like you said. A bit of knocked-off stuff here and there, and holding on to some money until one of his blokes came for it—he made it worth our while. Kept our three in better clothes than we could afford, and all we had to do was the odd favor. Nothing wrong with that—not really.”
“But it began to get bigger, until—I suspect—you both would really rather not be doing what you were doing anymore. And that’s why, when Joe didn’t telephone as usual, and when he complained about the headaches, you were too scared to go to Jimmy, because really—” Maisie turned her attention to Sally Coombes. “Because really you know that Jimmy might have the veneer of taking care of his own, but anyone in his pay is dispensable, one way or another. You could not go to the police directly, because you have—whether you like it or not—committed the crime of receiving stolen goods, and you’ve done it for years. Probably all your life.”
Maisie reached to take a sip of tea, choosing her words. “You, Phil, started the ball rolling when you came to see me. I think you hoped that I would find Joe alive, bring him home, and then all would be well. But I also think that, in the deepest place of your heart, you knew your brother-in-law would sacrifice your son to save himself. He is a ruthless man.”
Phil Coombes began to weep, his shoulders shaking as the mournful keening took over his body. “I thought Jimmy was saving him, I thought he had helped us by putting in the word at Yates, and then getting him the job there. I knew that if this war went on, he’d reach conscription age, and after what I saw in the last war, I didn’t want my sons to go, and Jimmy helped.”
Sally’s voice was cold, her words delivered in a tone that made Maisie think of shards of shaved ice. “Jimmy expects loyalty.”
“I’m sure he does. I think it’s something we all like—but you knew, deep down, that something was not quite right with the work, and instead of allowing Joe to leave Mike Yates’ employ—and Yates is in the palm of your brother’s hand—you forbade him to take up the opportunity to work on a farm.”
“You’re right, Miss Dobbs.” As he spoke, Maisie could see that Phil Coombes wore the demeanor of a resigned man—his shoulders were rounded, his head low—and in his voice she could feel the deep chasm of grief in his heart. “I was scared, and I was scared of Jimmy—of what he could do. I knew he would have had no patience if Joe’s complaints led to him losing money. Archie and Vivian know exactly what their uncle is like, and they’ve toed the line—they’ve done very well—but Joe was different. He didn’t really see it. And what future is there on a farm, for a London boy?” Phil Coombes held out his hands, palms up, as he asked the question.
“There’s life,” said Billy. “A boy on a farm would be alive. And in one of your precious reserved occupations.”
Maisie cleared her throat. “Billy, would you telephone Caldwell. Tell him Mr. and Mrs. Coombes are ready to make a statement. I think it would be a good idea if he sent a motor car.”
“Right you are, miss,” said Billy. He left the room to go down to the saloon bar, where he could place the call.
“I could have stopped it all, if I’d gone to the police earlier,” said Phil. “But, I mean, it was only headaches, and it was probably his age.”
Maisie leaned forward, her brow knitted. “Phil, you’re playing a devastating game of snakes and ladders, going back and forth with the truth. One minute you’re confessing and the next denying complicity to the rest of the world. You must face up to the fact that Joe suffered terrible pain due to your brother-in-law tampering with the paint he was supplying to Yates. And who knows how many others have been affected.”
“But Teddy said—” began Sally.
“Teddy is only protected now because he is in uniform and the services need people working, not in prison—but he may still risk incarceration if he has to stand a court-martial. The authorities know he was under the influence of a man of whom he was fearful, so that may help him—believe it or not, the police have spoken up for him. But you knew Teddy worked in his uncle’s warehouses before the war, and it was fortuitous that his experience took him right into a similar position with the RAF—looking after stores. But was it fortune, or another of his uncle’s contacts? Either way, that’s where Jimmy Robertson came in again—and Teddy wasn’t safe in the RAF.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sally.
“Teddy was falsifying deliveries. No less than a third of each shipment was going straight to his uncle’s warehouse. And a good deal of each shipment was foodstuff—which is becoming harder to get already. It’s very nice money for Jimmy, a quite significant black market income. There’s probably food in your larder that should have gone into an RAF store. Sally, your brother has tentacles that reach everywhere—but you know that, you’ve lived with it all your life, because your father before him was the same. It’s the family business.”
“We wanted only the best for our children, Miss Dobbs,” said Phil Coombes. “We might have been strict, we might have been a bit hard on them, but it’s no good bringing them up soft, is it? And we provided for them the best we could.”
Maisie sighed, relieved to hear the sound of a motor car pulling up outside.
It was not Caldwell who entered the kitchen moments later, but another man, along with Billy and a uniformed policeman. The man in civilian clothing addressed Maisie first.
“Harry Bream. Flying Squad. Pleased to meet you.” He turned to Phil and Sally Coombes. “If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me, Mr. and Mrs. Coombes. It’s very quiet outside, and we just want to take you along to our gaff to ask a few questions.”
Sally Coombes came to her feet, aided by her husband.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Bream—in fact, I’m sure it’s Detective Inspector Bream—I’d like to change into my best costume, fetch my coat and pay a visit to the lavatory,” said Sally. She smiled at her husband and reached across to squeeze his hand.
Bream stepped aside to allow her to leave, and as she did so, Maisie came to her feet and stood still, watching the first steps she took across the threshold onto the landing. As Sally Coombes’ footfall receded along the passageway first to the bedroom, and then a few minutes later to the bathroom, Maisie felt as if she were watching a moving picture reduced to slow motion. And then the screen turned black.
“Oh no!” cried Maisie, rushing down the passageway. She had just pushed open the bathroom door when the shot rang out.