To Die but Once

  “I didn’t want to bother you, Miss Dobbs, really I didn’t, but I thought that, what with your line of work, you could help out.”

  Billy glanced at Maisie, and raised an eyebrow.

  “We’re here to listen, so please go on,” encouraged Maisie.

  “I—I don’t have anything to pay you, and I know, Miss Dobbs, that you work for Scotland Yard now and again, and you’ve had all them big cases—missing persons, unexplained deaths and what have you. I don’t miss much. And I’m sure you can charge a pretty penny, but we’ve nothing put by for this sort of thing.”

  “Please don’t worry about money, Mr. Coombes. Really—what’s important now is to talk about what’s on your mind. Should Billy nip round to bring Mrs. Coombes to the office? Would you feel better if she were here?”

  The man looked up at Maisie and shook his head, his eyes wide, fearful. “Oh no. No, I don’t want her to know how much it’s bothering me. It’s best if she thinks there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “So what is bothering you, mate?” said Billy. “Come on, Phil, get it off your chest. You’ll be all the better for it.”

  Coombes nodded. “I know this sounds like it’s nothing, but I can’t ignore this terrible ache I’ve got here every time I think about our boy, Joe. He’s the youngest one. We haven’t heard from him for a few days, and it’s unlike him not to get on the blower once on a Wednesday night, and again of a Sunday morning—well, I say it’s not like him, but for the past couple of weeks it’s as if he hasn’t wanted to give us a ring, hasn’t wanted to say much.”

  “I didn’t know you had a telephone in there, Phil,” said Billy.

  Coombes sighed, as if answering even the most simple question would exhaust him. “The brewery had it put in a year ago now, and it’s come in handy for us, not only for the business, but since the war, with the boys not at home anymore. When Joe picks up the telephone wherever he is, it’s not that he can talk for long—he’s never got enough pennies on him for a start, you know what lads are like—but at least we hear from him, and he knows we like to have a word, even if it’s a quick one, but as I say, something feels off to me.” He looked at Billy as if for affirmation. Billy nodded. Keep going. “Viv’s a different kettle of fish,” continued Coombes. “She started work at the telephone exchange when she left school, as a trainee, so she always gives us a bell when she’s on her way home from a shift, and then we don’t worry. What with soldiers coming in from all over—Australia, Canada, just like it was in the last war—you want to know your daughter’s safe. She’s turned nineteen now, doing well at her job—they’ve promoted her to working on the government exchanges—and she’s a nice-looking girl, which is a father’s worry.”

  Billy leaned forward. “Isn’t Joe the same age as my Bobby—about sixteen?”

  “Another six months. Archie, the eldest, is going on twenty-one now. Not that we see much of him—different kettle of fish to his sister and brother. Couldn’t wait to get off on his own, though he sometimes comes along to see us after closing time of a Sunday afternoon, for a spot of dinner before we open again. Then he’s off. It’s all I can do to get him to stay and help me change a barrel—I reckon he had enough of pubs when he was a youngster.”

  “Tell us about Joe, Mr. Coombes,” said Maisie.

  Phil Coombes wiped the back of his hand across one eye and then the other. “I know it’s only a short stretch since we heard from him—last Wednesday, it was—but like I said, something seems off to me. . . .” His voice tapered off, and he looked down at the carpet, as if tracing its paisley patterns with his eyes.

  “Go on,” said Maisie. “First tell us what he’s doing and why he’s not living at home—he’s only fifteen.”

  “He apprenticed to Yates and Sons, the painters and decorators.” Coombes paused and shook his head, as if not quite believing the turn of events. “One of the regulars got him the job when he was coming up to leaving school, couple of year ago, come October. Seemed a good position, learning a trade, and old Bill Yates was always very good at pushing for the big jobs, and his son, Mike, is even better at it. He gets jobs over in those mansions. Belgravia, Mayfair and the like. So Joe was learning from the ground up—and it’s a job with prospects.” Maisie was about to ask another question when Coombes smiled as he thought about his son. “Very easygoing boy, my Joe. Very solid young bloke—see his hands—” Coombes held out his hands. “Calm. Very precise with his hands, he was—even Yates himself said Joe’s laying out of the wallpaper ready for hanging was perfect, exact, just as it should be. He said he’d known blokes on the job for years who couldn’t lay out paper like that—pasted and folded, ready to hold up and brush out to keep the pattern running right.”

  “But does that work take him away from London?” asked Maisie.

  Coombes shook his head. “Just before war was declared, it all changed. Yates had a visit from the RAF brass. They wanted him for special war work—it was a big contract, all tied up and a sizeable down payment, according to one of the other lads who works for him, name of Freddie Mayes. Yates has got a big enough business, and what with the war, both Bill and Mike Yates realized that people would probably start pulling in their horns and wouldn’t be having so much painting and decorating done on their big houses, and the council contracts would probably dry up too, so they jumped at the chance. And like I said, they’re being paid a pretty penny—laying out government money for the painters to be in lodgings, the lot.”

  “What sort of contract was it, Phil?” asked Billy.

  “Joe said he couldn’t talk much about it—that he had to sign some papers to say he wouldn’t let on about his job. But he told me when I promised him I didn’t have any spies in the pub walls, and that it was a father’s right to know his son’s work.” Coombes looked up at Maisie and Billy. “So this is secret, right? Anything I say in this room to you two? I don’t want this getting out, because if it’s supposed to be on the QT, I don’t want my son’s name in the dirt.”

  “Every conversation that takes place in my office is held in strict confidence, Mr. Coombes—Phil.” Maisie laid her hand upon her chest.

  Coombes pressed his lips together, then continued. “Turns out the job was to take the crew to every single airfield or RAF station in the whole of the British Isles, with the most important being the ones within striking distance of the coast—they were to be the priority. Here’s how Joe explained it to me—the lads on the crew go in a Yates’ van down to a place—as far as I know, they’ve just been in Hampshire, not far from Southampton and Portsmouth, as the crow flies—and when they get there they’re put up in lodgings, and they report to the airfield. Paint is brought in on a special lorry—a Yates’ lorry, not RAF, but special all the same—then they have to set about painting all the buildings with this emulsion, but only the outside for most of them.”

  “Was it for camouflage? Did he say?” asked Maisie.

  Coombes shook his head. “He said it was a sort of gray in color, so I suppose there was that camouflage business, but that’s not what it was for. It was a sort of—what do they call it?” He frowned. “For fire. To stop a building catching on fire—that’s it, it’s called a fire retardant.”

  “Sounds like a jammy job to me—paint buildings for the government and take their money. And wasn’t it a reserved profession?” said Billy.

  Coombes looked at Billy Beale. “Yes, it was a protected job—he could spend the rest of the war for however long it lasts, just painting airfield buildings for the RAF. But he said the paint wasn’t like anything he’d ever come across. Sort of thick, very viscous, he said—his word, ‘viscous.’ And he reckoned it gave him headaches, terrible headaches, what with the vapor coming off it. It sounded like strong stuff.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Maisie, pressing a hand to her right temple. As Coombes described his son’s work, a headache had started behind her eyes, moving to her crown. She felt unsettled, and her vision was blurred, just for a second. “Did
he describe what was strong about the paint? Just the smell?”

  “Joe told me that after they’d finished putting a few coats onto each wall, they had to line up a row of blowtorches against the wall, right close to where they’d just painted it, and they had to leave them there burning for a good few hours while they moved on to the next wall, or the next building.”

  “It’s a wonder the wall didn’t come down,” said Billy.

  “No, it didn’t come down—that’s the thing. Joe said there wasn’t a mark on it, not even a small smoke stain. They’d run those blowtorches, and after they took them away hours later, the wall looked like they’d just finished painting.”

  “And what was this emulsion called?” asked Maisie.

  “Oh, it didn’t have a name. Just a number.” Phil Coombes shook his head. “Blessed if I can remember the number—I don’t know if he even told me. If I find it, I’ll let you know, because I’m sure I wrote something down.”

  “And you think Joe has been affected by this paint, that he might be ill,” said Billy, making a note in his book.

  “I don’t know, mate. I just know we haven’t heard, and that he hasn’t been himself lately. You know your own, and I know something’s wrong.”

  Maisie allowed a few seconds of silence as Coombes’ story of his son’s work lingered in the air. “First of all, have you spoken to Mr. Yates? Or to a foreman at their works? Where’s their depot?”

  “I’ve been on the blower a couple of times. A young lady in the office told me Mr. Yates would return my call, but he hasn’t. I had my other boy go round there to the works—it’s just across the river, in Kennington—and he said there was no one there to talk to. He said the typist said she’d only been in a couple of hours, and that since she arrived, everyone was out on a job, and that she didn’t have any notes regarding the whereabouts of an individual employee.”

  Maisie nodded. “I would imagine all the workers are out during the day, on job sites. Do you know how Joe got on with his work mates? He was an apprentice—were there others, or was he the youngest of the crew? Do you know if the men working with him were beyond apprenticeship?”

  “I reckon he was the only apprentice on the crew, and the youngest of them. The other painters were always sent all around London, working for Yates—the business lost a number to the services, so apparently it sort of balanced out when a few contracts were canceled, after war was declared. Mind you, I would imagine they’ll get it back if this government work goes well. But according to Joe, Mike Yates can manage the work still going on in London, plus this contract. The older painters and decorators are too long in the tooth for the army, so they can teach the apprentices, who are too young. They’ve got a few younger men in the crew with Joe, probably ones that don’t want to get dirty fighting. Before he . . . before he sort of changed, Joe said that they were all looking out for him, being the apprentice on the job, and that he was eating well and getting his sleep. No late nights with the boys—he was brought up in a pub, so he knows how to take care of himself.”

  “What do you mean by ‘sort of changed’?” asked Maisie. “Can you be more specific? I know it’s hard, because when it’s someone we’re close to, it’s often something we feel and it’s not anything easy to describe.”

  Coombes rubbed his chin. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s been four weeks since he was last home for a Saturday and Sunday. He was quiet then. Me and the missus put it down to him being a bit tired, what with knocking around the country, sleeping in different places. She thought he could do with a tonic, and even went around to Boots, to see what she could get for him. You know, it probably seemed like a big adventure at first, this job, but them lads are working at a clip, and then there were the headaches, like I said.”

  Maisie allowed another moment of silence to pass before asking her next question. “Is there anything else you can add?”

  Coombes shook his head. “I know he was all right before that last visit. One of Archie’s mates was stationed in the area, so he looked in on Joe at his digs in Whitchurch and said he was on top form. Those were his words. Top form. But I don’t think he’s on any top form now, or he would have picked up the blower and made a call to me and his mum. And all we know is that he’s near this place called Whitchurch.”

  “Hampshire. I can—” Billy began to speak, but Maisie shook her head, aware Phil Coombes was watching her, waiting.

  “As Billy was about to say, he’s making regular visits to Hampshire to see his wife and daughter. I believe he’s not too far from Whitchurch.” She paused again. “Phil—Mr. Coombes—I think I should speak to your wife. She should know you came to talk to us. I understand you don’t want her to be worried, but the thing is, I bet she is worried sick too, and it might help if she’s given the opportunity to air her feelings without thinking she’s adding to your worries. Something she says might throw more light on Joe’s situation.” Maisie smiled at Coombes. “I promise I will take care of her. And in the meantime, Billy here will go along to Yates’ yard, and have a word with them—you know Billy, he’s a terrier. He won’t be put off by anyone and will find out if something’s amiss about Joe’s working conditions. They’re probably not used to dealing with families, because their workers have always been in London, so they go home at night. Your questions might easily be settled.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “But all the same, I am taking your concerns seriously, and we will do all we can to help.” Maisie came to her feet. “And you’re not to worry about the money.”

  She caught Billy’s eye.

  “I’ll see you out, mate,” offered Billy.

  Coombes nodded and held out his hand to Maisie. “Thank you, Miss Dobbs. I feel better, having got that off my chest. I’ll tell Sally to come round after closing time this afternoon—that all right?”

  “Perfect. I’ll be here. And she’ll have a chance to see Sandra’s baby—she comes in one or two afternoons a week with him, to catch up with the paperwork. It’s a treat for all of us, seeing young Martin. Anna, our evacuee, loves it when he comes to the country.”

  “How’s the little lady getting on?”

  “Very well, Mr. Coombes—thank you for asking. We’ll see Sally at about three o’clock then.”

  “Three o’clock it is.”

  Billy was holding the office door open for Phil Coombes, when Maisie called out.

  “Oh, just one more small thing—do you have the name of the lad who was in touch with Joe—his brother’s friend?”

  “Teddy Wickham. Nice lad—known the family for years.”

  Maisie thanked Coombes, and nodded to indicate that it was her final question.

  Maisie was waiting, still sitting by the gas fire, staring into the flame, when Billy returned to the office and took his seat again.

  “What do you think, miss?”

  “I think he has cause for concern. I know it’s easy to say boys will be boys, that they don’t keep up with their parents when they’re away like Joe’s away, but he’s a lad who always struck me as someone who is respectful of his family. They’re a tight little unit—look at how he grew up, over the pub. In some respects, he probably was looking forward to getting away, setting out on a big adventure—but that aside, Phil’s description of the past weeks is a bit unsettling. Joe might not be well and his fellow workmates have failed to notice, so he’s soldiering on. Or he might have been ill and told his mates not to say anything to Yates—he might be fearful about losing his apprenticeship.”

  “I can see that.”

  “So can I—to a point. But there’s something that worries me far more.”

  “Miss?”

  “Think back to when Mr. Coombes first started telling us about his son, about his worries—not a few minutes into the conversation. He made a slip.”

  “What sort of slip.”

  “‘Very precise with his hands, he was. . . .’ He used the past tense, Billy. When he looked down at his own hands, and
talked about his son, about his steady hands. Past tense.”

  “You don’t think he’s got something to do with his son going quiet?”

  “At this point . . . no, I don’t think so. But I believe Mr. Coombes has a greater sensitivity with regard to his children than he might give himself credit for. We must get to work without delay, Billy—I fear for Joe’s safety.”

  “But if you look at it another way, he’s been working for the government.”

  “We’re at war, Billy. There are thousands of sons—and daughters—working for the government. Army, air force, navy, and in jobs like Joe’s that no one knows about. They’re all government jobs. No one is guaranteeing their safety.”

  “And don’t I know it.”

  Chapter 2

  “It’s so lovely how people stop to ask about Martin when I take him out in the pram—as if seeing a baby makes the sun shine a little brighter. But have you noticed, since just before Christmas there’s been more children around now who’ve been brought back from evacuation to London by their parents? After all, it’s not as if something really terrible has happened to us since war was declared. Though I think it will, what with what’s gone on in the Netherlands, and, well . . .” Sandra Pickering’s voice tapered off, giving the impression that she could not countenance the direction of her thoughts. She took the baby from his carrycot and handed him to Maisie. “He slept all the way here in the motor car.”

  “The movement of the motor can soothe a baby.”

  Sandra laughed. “Not when it’s me slamming on the brakes every two minutes!” She smiled as Maisie gently rocked the child in her arms. “I reckon we’ll all be stopping driving soon—not enough coupons for the petrol, and it’s not as if you can carry them over from month to month if you don’t go anywhere much. Anyway, I’ll get on with these letters—and you say you have someone coming in?”