The Goldfish Bowl by Laurence Gough Read Free Book Online

requirements of the very middle class.
    “Fantastic architecture,” said Parker as they drove past a particularly large and imposing structure.
    Willows grunted monosyllabically.
    “I always liked looking at buildings. Maybe I should have been an architect.”
    “Could be,” said Willows, obviously disinterested.
    The overhanging branches of the plane trees screened out so much of the rain that the windshield wipers weren’t able to work properly. The rubber blades shuddered in the middle of each arc, smearing the scattered drops of rain across the glass as if they were exotic little insects — soft and fragile creatures of liquid crystal. Parker concentrated on her driving for a few minutes and then said, “The missing baseball player, Shelley Rice. How did you get his name?”
    “He phoned 312 Main and gave it to the duty officer. The duty officer gave it to me.”
    “Why you, instead of Franklin or Atkinson. Didn’t he know it was their case?”
    “He knew, all right. But he owed me a favour, and now he doesn’t.”
    Willows’ feet were still up on the dashboard. Parker noticed that although both his socks were dark blue, they didn’t quite match. “Another thing,” she said. “When Bradley was handing out the assignments, why didn’t you tell him you already had Rice’s name and address?”
    “Because then he would’ve come up with some other way of wasting our time.”
    “What do you mean?” said Parker.
    “Rice doesn’t know anything about the murder. How could he? The only reason we’re going to bother talking to him is so we can say we’ve done it.”
    “I don’t understand. Why would Bradley deliberately give you something useless to do, why would he want to waste your time?”
    “He thinks I’m emotionally distraught. He wants to keep me busy because it’s his idea of therapy. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to give me anything important to do because he doesn’t want me screwing up the case.”
    “How could you do that?”
    “Believe me, there are a million ways.”
    “What are we going to do after we finish with Rice?”
    “We’ll think of something,” said Willows. “Turn left at the next corner.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    Parker braced herself, spun the wheel hard and slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The back tyres whined and slithered on the wet asphalt, and the rear end of the Ford broke free, drifting sideways. Willows clutched wildly at the dashboard. The heel of his shoe left a black streak across the windscreen. Parker steered expertly into the skid. When they were around the corner and the Ford had straightened she reached across the seat and jabbed Willows in the arm.
    “Look, I heard about your partner, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry he’s got cancer and I’m sorry it’s killing him. I know this must be very hard on you.”
    “I don’t want to talk about Norm,” said Willows.
    “That’s right, and I don’t like your attitude. Listen, I think it’d be great if a miracle happened, so the two of you could go live happily ever after in some cute little gingerbread house in the woods.”
    “What?” said Willows.
    “But if it doesn’t work out that way, and you end up getting stuck with me, try to remember something, will you? It isn’t my fault.”
    “You finished?” said Willows.
    “That depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On you,” said Parker.
    *
    Shelley Rice’s house was brick, three storeys high, with a lot of leaded glass windows and a brand new cedar shake roof. The house stood squarely in the middle of a hundred-foot lot, and was surrounded by a low ornamental wall, also of brick. Parker pulled the Ford neatly up to the curb. Willows was out of the car before she’d killed the engine, slamming his door and moving purposefully towards the house. Parker locked her door, dropped the keys in her purse and followed Willows across the lush, manicured grass of the boulevard towards a black wrought-iron gate.
    Willows fiddled with the