To Die but Once (Maisie Dobbs #14)(89)
“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.”
“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.