The Detective Up Late by Adrian McKinty

Author:Adrian McKinty [McKinty, Adrian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

ELEVEN

MRS MCCAWLEY

McCawley had an unusual address: The Lodge, Castle Hobbs, County Antrim, and we found out the reason for this unusual address pretty quickly when we went to the wrong house.

Castle Hobbs, a butler or perhaps a footman told us, was the ancestral home of the Hobbs family. The current owner, Major Arthur Hobbs, was the Lord Lieutenant of County Antrim, the Queen’s representative in the county.

Castle Hobbs was a big, old, red sandstone seventeenth-century pile that had been expanded in the eighteenth century to accommodate stables and bigger servants’ quarters. It lay on a gentle river valley between Carrickfergus and Whitehead. I didn’t know a lot about country houses, but this seemed to be a pleasant one. Maybe a bit chilly this time of year.

“You’re looking for Mr Charles McCawley?” the butler said when I told him why I’d come.

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to go back down the drive and turn left for the lodge. I’m not sure that Mr McCawley is in the country at the moment, but Carol is here.”

“Who’s Carol?”

“The Major’s younger daughter, Mr McCawley’s wife.”

“All right. Back down the drive. Thank you.”

Back down the gravelly drive between fig trees.

The Lodge was also done in red sandstone, a handsome home but, of course, a considerably smaller residence.

When we parked the Beemer and rang the doorbell, no butler or footman answered but instead Mrs McCawley herself. She had an attractive Pre-Raphaelite look about her with her long chestnut hair put back in an Alice band. Intelligent grey eyes and a brisk, no-nonsense figure. She was wearing a dark green jumper, an ankle-length skirt and knee-length rubber riding boots.

I made the introductions and came to the point.

“Good afternoon, Mrs McCawley. We’d like to speak to your husband,” I said.

“I’m afraid my husband is not at home,” she said in a soft, old-fashioned, Irish gentry accent. “May one ask the nature of your inquiries?”

“I’m afraid not, madam,” I said.

“Why not?”

“It’s a delicate inquiry at this stage and concerns only your husband,” I said. “Do you mind if we come in?”

“May one ask what department of the RUC you are a member of?”

“I’m a detective in Carrick CID.”

“What type of detective? Homicide? Fraud squad? Traffic? What?”

“We are such a small department that we do a bit of everything,” I said. “Can we come in? It’s a little nippy out here on the doorstep.”

“Not much point you coming in, is there? My husband is not at home.”

“Where is your husband?”

“He’s been sent to Coventry,” she said with a thin smile. “Literally, I mean. He’s in Coventry.”

“Is he likely to be there long?”

“Yes, he is. He’s at a conference,” she said. “What’s the nature of your investigation? May one ask that, at least?”

“I’m afraid not. When did your husband go to Coventry?”

“New Year’s Day.”

“So he was here on December thirty-first and presumably December thirtieth?” I asked.

“Yes. Why? What happened then? Was there an accident?”

“Why do you say that? Did something happen to his car?”

“No, his car is fine. It’s in the garage. You can look yourself.

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