The Goldfish Bowl Read Online Free PDF

file, Parker was twenty-eight years old, five foot seven inches tall, weighed one hundred and seven pounds, and had a pale complexion, dark brown eyes and black hair.
    Well, the file hadn’t given him the whole story by a long shot. There was no hint, for example, that Parker’s eyes were unusually large, dark as chocolate, liquid and expressive, full of warmth and intelligence. Or that her hair fell in a glossy mass, framing a delicate oval face, generous mouth, a nose that was strong and firm and full of character. If Parker’s file had mentioned the Taj Mahal all it probably would have said was that it was a building in India.
    Bradley found himself wondering what kind of body Parker had tucked away under her loosely-cut grey tweed jacket and matching skirt. He’d noticed that she had terrific ankles. In his reasonably varied experience that was usually a promising sign.
    Not that he imagined she’d be all that interested in a short balding pear-shaped fifty-two-year-old twice-divorced lapsed Catholic. Although, of course, you never could tell.
    Bradley waved his cigar at Willows, a sort of informal benediction. “Jack, this is Claire Parker. Claire, Jack Willows.”
    “Hi,” said Parker.
    Willows nodded politely, and then turned to look out the window at the matt-black water, and the clouds.
    Bradley leaned back in his chair, taking solace in the familiar creaking of the leather. When Norm Burroughs made the abrupt switch from the homicide squad to the cancer ward, Bradley had allowed a decent interval to pass and then started sniffing around for a replacement. A desk sergeant at the Oakridge Substation had tipped him to Parker. Heavy on formal education, she had put in very little time on the street. Bradley had thought about it for a few days and then arranged the transfer. Parker’s lack of seasoning worried him a little, but he knew that anyone paired off with Jack Willows would soon have enough experience to last a lifetime — if she managed to live that long.
    “Jack,” said Bradley, “Claire is your new partner.”
    “I don’t need a new partner,” said Willows. “The old one isn’t dead yet.”
    Bradley flicked an inch of cigar ash into the wastebasket. “Maybe not, but you and I both know he might as well be.”
    “What’s this all about?” said Parker.
    Bradley ignored her.
    The door opened and George Franklin shuffled into the office. He yawned, covered his mouth with his hand, waved a genial hello.
    Bradley’s fingers drummed on the stack of photographs. “You’re due some time off, Jack. If you want to take it now, it’s okay by me.”
    Willows went over to the window and stared venomously out at the harbour. Cloud had completely obscured the mountains. Tendrils of mist trailed down into the ocean. The rain was coming down so heavily that it was impossible to tell where the sea left off and the land began. He pressed his forehead against the cold pane of glass, felt it vibrate under a sudden gust of wind. He wanted a slice of the Alice Palm cake so badly that he was even willing to take Parker along for the ride. There was no point in telling himself otherwise. He hoped Norm Burroughs would understand.
    Bradley introduced Parker to Franklin. He asked Franklin where Dave Atkinson was.
    “On his way,” said Franklin vaguely. “Should be here any minute.”
    “That’s real considerate of him,” said Bradley. He glared angrily at Franklin until Franklin looked away, and then he began to sort through the photographs of Alice Palm, searching for a detail he might have missed, some small thing.
    It was five minutes before Atkinson made it to the office. The first thing he said was, “What the hell is he doing here?”
    “Waiting,” said Willows.
    “Shut the door,” said Bradley.
    Atkinson gave the door a push. The square of frosted glass rattled.
    Bradley waved his cigar at Parker. “Have you two met, Dave?”
    “In the elevator,” said Atkinson. “About an hour