Mike Yates was in his office on the first floor of the old warehouse building, overlooking the brickyard where two vans were parked and men were loading tools and materials. One of the decorators loading a van directed Maisie up to the office, which was reached via a wooden exterior staircase and through a partially ajar door. A young woman was seated at a desk piled with papers and a ledger, and was typing a letter. Maisie saw the man she assumed was Mike Yates, standing at another desk in a small office that lay beyond a wood partition with pebbled glass windows. The typist did not look up until Maisie cleared her throat.
“He’s through there, if you want him,” said the woman.
“Oh. All right. Then I can just go in?”
“Door’s open—anyone can go in. Never disturb him if that door’s closed though, not if you don’t want your head blown off.”
“Really?” said Maisie.
“Yes, really—he’s a nasty man. I’m off to join the ATS next week, and I would rather put up with that than him. Monster. Blimmin’ monster. If he has a go at me this week, I’ll just down tools and leave him to it. Him and his blimmin’ accounts.”
“Right then. I’d better brace myself and go in.” Maisie stepped toward the open door, but turned to the young woman. “What’s your name, if I may ask?”
“Charlotte Bright.”
“Does he let you out for five minutes in the morning?”
“He does this week—can’t stop me.”
“If he doesn’t tell me to leave straightaway, could you meet me—perhaps downstairs or along the street, a few minutes after I leave?”
Bright looked up from her typewriter. “Go on—tell me what he’s done, miserable sod. I bet he’s done something—did you just find out he’s married? Told you lies, did he?”
“No, not quite. I’m a friend of Joe Coombes’ family, and—”
The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh poor Joe. We all thought a lot of Joe—he was lovely. Not like some of them, when they come up to get their wages. Anyone would think I was only here for them to make fun of, and they all think they’re so comical with their jokes everyone’s heard before.”
“I’d better go in,” said Maisie.
She approached the door to Mike Yates’ office and knocked on the glass. “Good morning—Mr. Yates?”
“And who’s wanting him?” said Yates, looking up from a stack of papers on his desk.
“My name is Maisie Dobbs,” said Maisie, deciding to give him her full affiliation. “I am a psychologist and investigator, and I am also a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Coombes, the parents of Joseph Coombes, now deceased, but latterly in your employ.”
Yates’ nut-brown eyes met Maisie’s. He took a pencil from behind his ear, as if he were about to make a note on the top sheet of paper in front of him, but thought better of it and instead tapped the pencil against the fingers of the opposite hand. “Yeah, I’d heard someone had been round to talk about Joe—bloke with a limp. Know him?”
“Yes, that’s Mr. Beale. He works for me.”
“Works for you? Well, well, well—man working for a woman. New one on me. Take a seat, Miss Dobbs—you can ask me all the questions you want to ask about Joe. Silly boy, skylarking around near a railway line, not able to hold his drink and standing on top of a wall like that.” He shook his head. “If he’d just had a bit of brain in his noddle, he would have seen that coming.”
“How did you find out how Joe died?”
“Freddie Mayes telephoned in—he’d found out from the police, then they came here.”
“I see.” Maisie sighed. “I wonder, Mr. Yates, what evidence do you have that Joe had been drinking?”
“Freddie told me—I had to ask him and Len, on account of the accident, and of course the police have been around. Said it was open and shut—death by misadventure and all that. But still, I’ll be going to see the family—probably tomorrow. Wanted to give them a bit more chance to get over the shock before I turned up. I’ve got Joe’s last pay packet, and a bit extra as a consideration for the family, to see them all right. Mind you, that’s if Dopey out there can pull herself together to get it all ready for me.” He looked past Maisie to Charlotte Bright, and then back again. “Auxiliary Territorial Service? That one? They’ll chuck her out after a week of her painting her nails in the dark when she’s supposed to be operating a searchlight—you mark my words.”
Maisie thought it best to ignore the comment. “It’s very good of you to visit Joe’s people, to help them out. They’ll need it for the funeral.”
“Not many firms would do it, but we like to take care of our own here at Yates. Now then, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Yates, I am curious to know if Joe was the only one of your men to experience headaches and other symptoms, likely associated with the emulsion they’ve been using—the fire retardant, and—”
“How do you know about all that?” asked Yates.
Maisie gave a half-smile. “I think it’s fairly common knowledge that your crews who are currently in Hampshire were working with a type of paint that prevents fire when air force buildings are under attack from the enemy.”
Yates shook his head. “Not one of them can keep a thing to themselves, that lot.”
“Were they supposed to?”
“Were they heck? I told every one of them—if anyone asks, you’re just giving the buildings a lick of paint. Making everything nice for when old Adolf waltzes right in.”
Maisie sighed, wondering how she might continue the conversation and perhaps tease more information out of Yates. “You can’t stop lads talking about their work or anything else when they’re away from home.” She held Yates’ gaze. “Do you know what’s in that emulsion, Mr. Yates? Do you know if it’s been tested properly?”
Mike Yates walked away from his desk toward a window. He stared down at the yard below, and after a minute had passed—an uncomfortable interlude during which Maisie thought she should have perhaps not pressed her point—Yates turned back to answer the question.
“I don’t know if it’s been tested at all. I was asked about the job, and I got it. You don’t turn down a government contract like that, and I know my blokes would agree—they’ve all got to put roofs over their heads and food on the table. If they get a headache, they can take an aspirin powder for their trouble.”
“So the contract just came to you, you didn’t have to bid for it.”
“Sometimes it works like that. Sometimes you bid against other firms, and sometimes you’re just asked to give an estimate and you’re in. That was how this one was done—I was in.”
“You must know some important people, Mr. Yates.”
Yates’ eyes appeared to narrow, as if the aperture through which he viewed her had been altered. “What’s it to you, Miss Dobbs?”