To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(86)

“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.”