“One thing,” Maisie interjected. “And it’s a tricky question, Mr. Sands—but do you think Yates is on the up and up in his business affairs? Have you ever heard anything untoward, or critical of his business practices.”
The man shrugged. “Everyone’s got to make a living, haven’t they? Old Bill Yates only took the firm so far, but Mike Yates worked hard, put in the hours and made the connections so it became a much bigger business—for our line of work, anyway. But a growing concern like that means more mouths to feed, because no one likes laying off their workers, especially men they’ve apprenticed and trained up. I mean, it’s not like they’re packing sausages, is it? And it’s not as if any bloke with a brush can just slap paint on walls—well, they can, but you can always tell the cowboys in the trade.” He paused, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I wouldn’t say Mike Yates has bad commercial practices—as far as I know—but he is a terrier. He finds out about new business, goes after the opportunities, and he keeps the customers over time. The minute his crew have finished the downstairs on a job over in Belgravia, than he’s over there asking about the upper floors. For every customer there’s a record kept of what they’ve had done and when—and he’s in there as soon as he thinks a room might need another coat of paint. And he’s a stickler for his men looking clean and tidy—all wearing spotless whites at the start of every week and every new job, and he’ll check a work site to make sure they’re leaving it in good order every day. But no getting away from it—if there’s business out there, then Mike Yates is on it like a fly on a corpse.”
Maisie and Billy exchanged glances, then Maisie turned her attention back to the man seated between them.
“How would someone find out about a contract like this—would the government have come to Mr. Yates? Or would he have his contacts?”
“Bloke like Mike Yates? It’ll be a bit of both. He’s big enough to be known, and on the other hand, the people he works for are your well-heeled lot, on drinking terms with nobs in high places. And you’ve got to remember—like I said, a job like that won’t come to a one-man band like me, or even a cartload of us—it goes to a business big enough to get the job done. And knowing Mike, he would make sure the customer gets the price they want—but so does he. His boys would be putting away a pretty penny too. I would imagine someone from the government arranged all the lodgings and that sort of thing—Mike Yates wouldn’t take that on.”
“Do you think Mr. Yates would do or say anything if he thought the emulsion were dangerous?” asked Maisie.
“I think that unless someone dropped dead in front of him, he would ignore it, hoping that nothing happened that he had to attend to while he was counting the money.” He paused, looked at his hands, shrugged, and brought his gaze back to Maisie. “And to tell you the truth, Miss Dobbs, any of us would do the same thing—if I’m to be perfectly honest with you, we all need work and we’ve all had hard times, especially since the last war. No one can afford to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Maisie nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
“And who knows what was causing the lad to have these headaches? It might’ve been something to do with the company he was keeping. He could have been smoking, and not been used to it, or trying to keep up with the older lads at the pub. P’raps that’s why he ended up like he did—Billy told me about the railway line.”
Billy was about to speak—Maisie heard him start, “But Pete—” when Sands continued.
“They always say, though, to follow the money, don’t they? Which is why you’re asking me these questions about Yates. But there’s more to the money than where the boy worked.”
“What do you mean, mate?” asked Billy.
“Ever seen Phil Coombes when he gets a chance to go out? I mean, you think he doesn’t see the sky but for his walk down the road to the caff every morning, but I’ve seen him go out dressed up, suit and all—not all the time, but every now and again. And they’ve got the telephone—never known the brewery to do that for a publican, so he must be special.” He scratched his head and put his cap back on. “It’s not always the big things you notice—they don’t have a motor car, and Phil and Sally Coombes aren’t flash—but there are a lot of little things.”
“To be fair, Mr. Coombes works very hard and they’re very friendly, and that brings in a lot of custom,” offered Maisie.
“So do I work hard, and I’m friendly—got to be, haven’t you?” replied Sands. “But my daughter doesn’t have a new pair of shoes every couple of months, or my wife her hair done regular as clockwork. Sally Coombes might look a bit dowdy at times—but she can get dolled up when she wants to. Her handbags don’t come cheap and they buy quality. No, Phil is doing very well, and it’s coming from somewhere.”
Maisie came to her feet at the same time as Sands. Billy pushed back his chair and made his way to the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Sands.” She pressed five shillings into his palm with her handshake. “Your time is appreciated—I hope I didn’t drag you away from your work this morning.”
Sands touched the peak of his cap. “Much obliged, Miss Dobbs—and no, it’s all right. Like I said, I’m only over in Russell Square. Mind you, I hope my apprentice hasn’t painted the lamps by the time I get back.”
“I’ll see you out to the street, mate,” said Billy, holding open the door.
As the door closed behind the men, their voices muffled as they made their way downstairs to the front door, Maisie walked to the window overlooking Fitzroy Square. She watched as Billy shook hands with Pete Sands, and the painter and decorator walked away in the direction of Warren Street. As she was turning away from the window, Maisie glanced back. A black motor car parked on Conway Street. She moved to one side, so that she might see without being seen, for it was as if the driver, silhouetted against light filtering into the vehicle, were looking straight at her.
Chapter 7
Maisie and Billy sat in silence in front of the case map, looking at the highways and byways of color expressing each thought and idea that had come to them while considering the case of Joe Coombes—though the exercise seemed at that point to be getting them nowhere.
“So the air force girl didn’t call back, did she?”
“She might have, but I had to rush off yesterday evening—ambulance practice, and I was late because it had completely slipped my mind.”
“They won’t strike you off—you’re a volunteer. Apparently they’ve had to give quite a few of the employed ones their cards, and sent them back down to the labor exchange.”
“They’ll get their jobs back, and it won’t be long, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I thought the same thing.” Billy looked down at his hands, rubbing the palm of the right up and down across the knuckles of the left.
“Everyone holding up at home?” asked Maisie.
“I’m amazed, really,” said Billy. “They’re keeping their chins up, especially Doreen. She said it won’t get our Billy back any sooner if we all sit around in a state. I don’t like what I’m reading in the papers though. They say there’s going to be a service at Westminster Abbey on Sunday—prayers for the safety of our boys over there. I’m not one for all that, but I reckon it won’t hurt, so we’ll probably come up for it and put our hands together with the rest of them. People say it will be packed.”