All he had to do was find out why McCabre had gone to that meet.
And since he didn’t like wasting time, he decided to pay her a visit right now. Rattle the cage a bit. And just when he was shrugging into his overcoat, his phone went, and he picked it up, barking, “Watley.”
“Inspector Darian Watley?” a gruff voice sounded at the other end.
“Yes.”
“I understand you’re in charge of the Buckley murder investigation?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Chief Whitehouse. Happy Bays Police Department.”
Watley frowned. “Who? What?”
“Whitehouse. I’m chief of police in Happy Bays.” There was a slight pause, then the man went on, “A small town on Long Island. The States.”
Reluctantly he sat down again. “What can I do for you, Chief Whitehouse?” he asked, wondering what this was all about.
“I used to work for you guys at Scotland Yard about, oh, ten years ago? I worked under Thaddeus Yaffle at the time. Specialist Operations.”
“Yaffle retired three years ago.”
“I know. Good man, Thaddeus. You could always count on him to help you out in a pickle. My wife and I used to join him and his wife at your mother’s dinner parties back in the day. And great parties they were.”
Watley was starting to wonder if this Whitehouse would ever get to the point. “I wouldn’t know. I never went to my mother’s dinner parties.”
“Met your dad once or twice. Great man, your dad. Great commissioner.”
“Dad retired five years ago.”
“Pity. He was always ready to help out a man in a pickle.”
This obsession with pickles was starting to irk Darian. “And do you? Find yourself in a pickle, Chief Whitehouse?”
“Not me personally, but my niece does.”
“And who is your niece?”
“Henrietta McCabre. My daughter tells me she’s a suspect.”
Watley raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Henrietta McCabre is your niece?”
“That’s right. A very sweet-natured young woman. Absolutely incapable of murder. Or any other mischief for that matter. Which is why I’m calling.”
If there was one thing Watley hated, it was outsiders butting into his investigation, and that included chiefs of police of small American towns. “Look here, Chief…” he began therefore, his tone not too friendly.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Whitehouse grumbled. “Butt out. I’d say exactly the same thing if I were in your position, Watley. But the fact of the matter is that I promised Harry I’d look after her. My sister and her husband died a couple of years ago, and her only other relatives are in Scotland and the States. And I hate to see Harry in a pickle like this.”
“Well, that’s entirely up to her now, isn’t it? Nothing I can do about it,” Watley returned. He was getting more and more annoyed. This Little Orphan Annie story might work on other people, but to him it reeked of manipulation.
“I’m going to ask you straight out, Watley. Is my niece a suspect?”
“I’m sorry, but as the investigation is still ongoing, I really don’t see how I can disclose anything at this point, not even to a friend of my father.”
“I see,” said the man thoughtfully. “Then let me put it this way, Inspector. If anything were to happen to my niece, anything at all, I will personally come over there to make sure that the ones responsible will see justice served.”
Watley gawked at the phone for a moment. Was this guy for real? “Are you threatening me?” he asked, his voice taking on a steely tone.
“Well, if the shoe fits…” riposted Whitehouse gruffly.
“If your niece finds herself in a pickle, I’d say she’s the one responsible. Not me—not anyone else in the Yard—she and she alone!”
“So she is a suspect?”
“Of course she’s a suspect!” he yelled. “She was meeting some guy at the time of the murder and refuses to tell me who he is and why they were meeting. Innocent people don’t refuse to share this kind of information!”
Even before he’d finished talking, he knew he’d said too much. He was giving this man critical information from his investigation. This odd American who proclaimed to come after anyone who harmed his niece.
“I see,” grunted Chief Whitehouse. “In that case, I’ll have a word with my niece. I’m going to extract this piece of information from her, Watley, and then I’m going to share it with you. Together we’re going to crack this case!”
Watley massaged his temple. “Please don’t interfere with my investigation.”
“Don’t worry, buddy, I won’t. I’m just going to talk to Harry, that’s all. Get her to spill the beans.” He barked a curt laugh. “I like this, Watley. I like this intercontinental cooperation we’ve got going here. Just like old times.”
“Please. Sir. I really don’t need your help,” he said curtly.
“You don’t have to thank me, Watley. Just doing what needs to be done!”
“I’m not thanking you, and nothing needs to be done!” he cried.
“How would you feel,” the other man rumbled, “if you had an orphaned niece, living all alone in a big city, her boss murdered, and no one around to help her? No family, no job, no future prospects, hounded by the cops…”
“Hey! I’m not hounding your niece!”
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this and then I’ll get back to you, Watley. Can I call you Darian?”
“No, you may not!”
“Great. Just call me Curtis. Much appreciated, Darian. And say hi to your mom and dad, will you? My wife still raves about those dinner parties.”
“Wait—you can’t do this!”
“Good day to you, too,” the chief growled, and promptly disconnected.
Watley stared at his phone. What the hell had just happened? But then he knew exactly what had happened. For some nebulous reason, he’d just been coerced into an intercontinental investigation into the Buckley murder.
“God,” he groaned as he raked a hand through his dark mane. Just what he needed right now. Some gung-ho small-town cop to add to his problems.
He quickly rose again and swept from his office. Before her uncle started throwing his weight about, he was going to make Henrietta McCabre talk, and he was going to do it now. He didn’t care that she was an orphan, she was going to tell him exactly what had happened under that underpass.
Chapter Five
Ten minutes later, he was chauffeuring his car through London morning traffic, en route to Valentine Street, where Henrietta McCabre was apparently housed. When he arrived, and finally managed to find a parking space, he strode up to the house and pressed his finger on the bell. He hadn’t told her he was coming, lest she made up some excuse. When he heard her melodious voice inquire about his identity, he barked, “Inspector Watley, Miss McCabre. I have a few more questions for you if you don’t mind.”
Whitehouse might call this hounding. He called it proper police work.
After a brief pause, she buzzed him in, and he found himself in the narrow hallway of a clean-looking house. She called from upstairs, “Second floor, Inspector!” and he grunted and started to make his way up the stairs.
When he arrived on the landing, he saw that she’d changed into something less sodding wet than the day before. A pair of pink linen pants and bright yellow linen shirt. It became her. She was an attractive young woman, he had to admit, but then he’d noticed that already when he’d interviewed her before.
With her short bob of blond hair, fair complexion and lithe frame she looked anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five, though he knew from her file she was, in fact, twenty-three. Her nose tilted up at the tip, and her eyes were large and of a remarkable golden hue. All in all, she looked entirely too pretty to be a suspect, and he really couldn’t imagine she was involved in anything as nasty as murder. But then if his years in the Yard had taught him anything it was that looks could be deceiving. For all he knew here stood a cold-blooded accomplice to murder.