To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(21)

There were two guards on duty at the decoy airfield. They checked her identity card, and informed her that they had been briefed regarding her inquiry and that a small painting crew was indeed at the airfield—someone would be across to speak to her in about five minutes. As she waited, it occurred to Maisie that a decoy airfield was like any other RAF station, except for the silence, and the lack of activity. It was as if she were looking at an empty shell discarded on the beach. Twenty minutes later an approaching white dot in the distance revealed itself to be a van from Yates’ yard in London. When it screeched to a halt a few yards away from the gate, a man of about thirty years of age emerged from the vehicle, dressed in white overalls. His pale blue shirt was visible above the collar, and he wore paint-splattered hobnail boots. He reached back into the van for a cloth, and was wiping his hands as he approached Maisie.

“Miss Dobbs?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Freddie Mayes, foreman on this job here. What can I do for you? I understand you’re looking for young Joey Coombes.”

“Yes, that’s right—have you seen him?”

The man shook his head. “Not for a few days—he was called off to work with another crew. Trouble is, I heard he’d gone home, back to London.”

“Gone home? When?”

The man ran his fingers through dark hair swept back with brilliantine, and then absently wiped his fingers against his overalls. “’Bout four days ago, I reckon. Couldn’t stand the job, all the traveling around, not sleeping in his own bed of a night.” He inspected his paint-stained hands. “He told me he wasn’t feeling right—and I told him, don’t be a silly lad. Before he knows it, he’ll be seventeen and up for conscription, and then he’ll know what getting fed up with being away from home is really like. I said to him, ‘Stay with the crew, boy—you’re in a reserved occupation, working on these airfields—you’ll go through this war safe as houses, and not end up looking down at where your legs used to be and wondering how that came to happen. I told him what my dad was like when he came home from France—I was going on five years of age, and I remember. Screaming all night, not being able to walk properly ever again, and then there was his lungs. Soon as this job came up, I was in. After all this war business, I’m going back to my street and with all the bits of my body where they should be.”

“So, as far as you know, he went back—and should be at home,” reiterated Maisie.

“Haven’t heard from him since he told me he’d had enough. To be honest, I think being the youngest was a bit much for him, because he’s the only apprentice on the crew.”

Maisie nodded agreement. “Yes, that would do it, for a sensitive boy.”

“Sensitive? Joey Coombes? Oh, let me tell you, that boy could have his moments—probably had to, some of the company he was keeping.”

“What do you mean? The Joe I know is a good lad.”

“Yeah, but you know what they say—it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.” He gave a snorting half-laugh, dismissive in tone, and pulled a packet of Woodbines from the top pocket of his overalls. “Can’t have a smoke around here you know, not when we’re working.” He continued as he lit up and drew on the cigarette, holding it between thumb and forefinger, then inspecting the ashen glow as he exhaled smoke away from Maisie. “Couple of lads—older than Joe, I reckon—came down to see him. Said they were looking up their old friend, and when I told them he had work to do, they got all stroppy. Joe went out and had a word, and off they went. Looked like a pair of hounds to me—old enough to be in uniform, but in civvies. I asked him who they were, and he just said ‘mates.’ But I had a feeling he was well in with them though, not that I can put a finger on why.” The man looked away from Maisie before she could speak, and called over to the guardsman. “What’s the time, mate?”

“Not your knocking off time yet, old son,” came the reply.

A second’s laughter ensued, and Freddie Mayes turned back to Maisie. “Better be off now, miss. Work to do—and there’s a lot of it.”

“Are you doing well out of it?” asked Maisie.

“Earning more than we were getting for touching up mansions in Belgravia for snooty women who wanted us to match the paint with the curtains or their frocks. And on this job, Joe was getting a good wad of cash in his pay packet, for an apprentice. Shame he couldn’t take it—he was good at his work. Very precise, had good hands on him. Worker’s hands. Then off he goes, home to his mum.”

Maisie thanked the man, ignoring the tone in his voice. She had no further questions, but watched as he walked to the van, throttled the engine into life and drove at speed back to the decoy airfield, toward empty buildings that reminded Maisie of a still body bereft of a beating human heart.





Chapter 5




The black motor car visible in Maisie’s rearview mirror was not close enough to be overly obvious, but it had been in her wake a little too long for her not to have noticed. The driver had signaled when she had, had braked when she had, and had remained well back when she slowed her speed. Now she would test the driver—she would not return to London. Instead she would detour across country, through Petersfield, and onward beyond Petworth, taking the road on to Uckfield and then Heathfield, across to Tunbridge Wells and—finally—Chelstone. It would be a rare coincidence if a fellow driver were to be undertaking the long, identical journey. For her part, London could wait—she would go to see Anna, and along the way find out if she were being followed.