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.”