“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.
Chapter 18
Maisie bent her head as the flash from camera bulbs erupted, and reporters approached, notebooks in hand, asking for comments on what had happened in the private residence of the popular watering hole. Billy raised his hand to shield his employer, taking Maisie by the arm and falling into step as she walked at speed along Warren Street toward Fitzroy Square. Behind her she could hear Jack Barker, the newspaper vendor, who had hurried across the street when he saw what was happening. “Come on, gents, that’s enough for today. You’ve got your pictures and you’ve got the story, now get back to your little desks down there in Fleet Street and fiddle with your pens because I’ve got to sell your wares tomorrow morning.”
“That’s all I need,” said Maisie, as they reached the front door, her key at the ready.
“Nearly there, miss. Another nice cup of tea with a lot of sugar is what we need. Terrible day—miserable day all-around, and that was a blimmin’ horrible thing you saw in there.”
Maisie was standing by the window, staring down at Walter Miles’ garden when Billy entered her office, placing a tray with two mugs of hot tea on the long table, the case map still drawn out across its full length.
“I know you prefer a mug, miss, so I didn’t mess around with them china cups. Reminds me of being in the army, that there’s still a fight to be had and we’d better drink it all up and get some courage in us.”
Maisie took a seat at the table, clutching the mug with both hands as she sipped the piping hot, sweet tea.
“Funny, innit, miss—how it’s a nice warm afternoon out there, but now we’re both feeling like it’s a winter’s morning?”
“It’s the adrenaline, Billy. The rush of adrenaline that gets you through a shock leaves you cold once it diminishes in your body. At least we can still be shocked—I would hate to have to accept the death of Sally Coombes as something perfectly normal.”
“I know what you mean.” He put down the mug and tapped the map. “I can see all the links now, but some still seem a bit faint.” He paused. “And I’ve a question, miss—if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Go on, Billy. We should sit here and talk over everything that’s happened—so we can begin to take it all in, along with the outcome. This has been a testing case.”
“It’s been an odd one, no two ways about it. All these threads and lines of inquiry, and you’re not the one tying them all together. Well—you were when it came to Sally Coombes, but. . .” Billy reached for his mug again. “Anyway, I don’t want to speak out of turn.”
Maisie looked up at the man who had been at her side as her assistant for the best part of eleven years, a man she had seen struggle with lingering pain from war wounds sustained in 1917, with addiction, the loss of a beloved child, a very ill wife, and the challenges of bringing two sons to manhood as war approached. In turn he had witnessed Maisie battle her own shell shock along with the physical wounds of war, and then her blossoming when finding love again. He had known her through widowhood, through a homecoming from another war, and had returned to work for her as she reestablished her business.
“You have every right to express your opinions, Billy—and if I am not mistaken, you have been harboring feelings about the way I’ve managed this case.”
“It’s just not like you—you’ve almost got there, you’ve all your notes from the investigation. You’ve got this.” He tapped the case map. “And you’ve handed the lot over to Caldwell and that bloke from the Sweeney Todd—Harry Bream. You’re not going to be on the spot when they bring in Freddie whatshisname, and you never faced up to Jimmy Robertson—never even attempted to see him. That’s not like you at all. Now, admittedly, being in the same room with that felon would be a bit of a chance—after all, he’s not known for taking prisoners, but still . . . why? Why aren’t you in at the end? Is it because you’ve not got the motor car anymore, and you can’t exactly nip here and there on the train and the bus? Or is it to do with the money? Because as far as I can see, there ain’t some fancy client falling over himself to settle an account on this one. All the costs are down to the business.”
Maisie took another sip of tea before responding. “Certainly giving up the Alvis has clipped my wings—it’s hard to act at speed without a motor car. And it’s not the money, Billy. I daresay there will be some ‘consideration’ coming from Scotland Yard—after all, I’ve given them almost everything they need to make arrests. Or I will have by the time we make our statements. And there are funds in the business account to absorb a few losses.” She sighed. “No, it’s something quite different. I have to be careful for another reason.”
“I reckon after all this time, miss, you could tell me what it is,” said Billy.