The Mystery Down Under: Two private detectives have a busman’s holiday (The Quentin Cadbury Investigations Book 3) by Christine McHaines

Author:Christine McHaines [McHaines, Christine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: THE BOOK FOLKS bestselling cozy mysteries
Published: 2024-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Though he’d never been in a British holding cell, Quentin guessed it was pretty much the same as the one he’d been in for the last two hours. Stark, plain walls, a small, high window with bars and a steel door. His efforts to explain to the uniformed policemen that the fracas in the sex shop had been caused because he suspected a man of being involved with the recent burglaries, and that he’d had no intention of stealing the man’s rucksack, fell on deaf ears. He’d been taken to the nearest police station for questioning and was waiting for someone to interview him. He had been allowed to ring Wanda and tell her what had happened, and she’d agreed to come to the station to substantiate his story.

What an idiotic thing to do, he thought as he stared at the blank wall. He must have been mad to chase the guy like that, but he was guilty of something. Quentin could see it in the man’s face. Bloody hell, how much longer were the police going to keep him waiting? It was ridiculous keeping him there over nothing. They’d get more trouble with drunks on a Saturday night than his actions that day.

He imagined his parents’ reaction if they found out he’d been taken in for questioning. His mother would be upset and his father would be furious. “Damn stupid thing to do”, he would say, and for once he’d be right. And Ed Grayson? He’d probably tell him to drop the case and leave it to the police.

His thoughts ended abruptly as a clinking sound came to him. Seconds later the metal door swung open.

‘Here you go,’ said a cheerful-looking young policeman. ‘They’re ready for you now.’

About bloody time, Quentin thought, following him through the door. He hoped his earlier request – that someone in charge of the burglary cases be brought in to interview him – had been listened to.

‘Thanks,’ he said when the officer led him into a small room with a desk sporting a recording machine and three glasses of water. He sat on the chair the officer indicated and waited.

Eventually, two men came in. They wore plain clothes, so Quentin assumed they were detectives.

The older of the two, a man of about fifty with a slight stoop and a receding hairline, spoke to Quentin as he sat down.

‘Right, Mr Cadbury, I’m Detective Inspector Jackson and this is Detective Sergeant Wilson. I’m switching on this recording machine. Standard procedure, you understand.’

‘Fine,’ Quentin said. ‘I told the officers when they brought me in. The man in the shop, he–’

‘Let’s start at the beginning shall we,’ the detective sergeant said. ‘Your name is Quentin Cadbury, and you are here on holiday from England?’

‘Yes.’

‘You told the officers at the scene that you’re a private detective. Is that right?’ DS Wilson’s scathing tone made it clear that he didn’t think much of private detectives. He had pale, greenish-blue eyes and a thatch of light brown, bristly hair that reminded Quentin of coconut matting.

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