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.”