Five minutes later a motorbike approached the other side of the gate, its rider clad in a leather jacket over a distinctive blue-gray uniform. He cut the engine, removed the leather jacket, pulled a cap from a pannier at the side of his motorbike, and approached the guard. Maisie saw the guard pass her identity and calling cards to the officer, who seemed to raise an eyebrow as he looked at Maisie and—she thought—made some sort of joke when he turned back to the men, as the two guards laughed in response. He stepped across to her motor car.
“Miss Dobbs—Captain Michaels.” He touched his cap by way of greeting. “You’re interested in the painting crews.”
“Crews? I am only interested in one crew—as you probably know, they’re working at airfields around the country, applying a type of fire retardant. It has quite a distinctive, unpleasant odor, so I am sure if they’ve been here, you would have smelled it in every room.”
He nodded, studying her calling card and identity card again.
“I told the guard, you can place a call to Scotland Yard, if you—”
Michaels, who Maisie estimated to be a good six feet tall, leaned toward the window, resting his right hand on the roof of the Alvis. “That won’t be necessary. Your possible arrival here was already noted and clearance given to allow you to enter—friends in high places, eh?” His look was one of amused disdain.
“If you have already received clearance for me, then I suppose I do have friends in the right places—though I certainly didn’t request such favoritism.”
“Well, there’s not much to tell you, Miss Dobbs—or I’d ask you into the mess for a chat. Yes, we’ve had painting crews—some working on the outside, and some working on the interiors of the buildings. They’ve moved on now, and I think they’re over at our decoy site—but of course, now I’ve told you that, if I find out you’re an enemy agent after all, I’ll have to kill you.” There was a second’s delay before he grinned.
“Oh, I don’t think you need to go that far,” said Maisie, smiling in return. “But what’s a decoy site?”
“It’s fake—everything about it is fake. Fake buildings, fake aircraft, fake people—no, just kidding about the people—but from the air it looks like a place of substance and will draw enemy aircraft away from Andover. We have a lot going on here. I’m sure you know that.”
“And where is the decoy?”
“Hurstbourne Tarrant. Mind you, by the time you get there, the painters could have moved on again—that one would have been faster to go over, and perhaps not so crucial. After all, if the enemy bomb the place, we want it to look like they scored a good one with lots of fire and flames. Anything to keep them away from here.”
“Right—I’ll go over there.”
The officer shrugged. “You’ve got the clearance.”
Maisie nodded, and held out her hand. “Do you fly, Captain?”
“Oh yes—just doing a spot of desk duty today. Had a thumper of a headache this morning, so had to go to the sick bay. But I’ll be back in the air later. I’m on Blenheims.”
“And you’re going into France?”
The young man tapped the side of his nose and smiled. “Can’t say. Even you don’t have clearance for that.”
And at that moment, Maisie knew this officer—who seemed far too young for such a job—would be bound for France, and with his squadron would be doing all he could to press back the German army who were fast approaching the beaches where soldiers were beginning to gather. Without thinking she placed her hand on the top of his arm.
“Safe landings, Captain. I wish you safe landings.”
“Much obliged, Miss Dobbs. Now then—must be getting on.” And with that he returned to his motorbike, removed his cap and pushed it down into the pannier, and pulled on his leather jacket once more, though he did not fasten it. Maisie watched as he turned the bike, and made off in the direction of the airfield buildings at speed, his jacket flapping out with the wind like a pair of wings.
“All right, miss?” said the guard.
“Yes, thank you. Could you give me directions to Hurstbourne Tarrant?”
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.”