The Goldfish Bowl Read Online Free PDF Page B

ago.”
    “Really?” said Parker, clearly not remembering.
    “Look,” Atkinson said to Bradley, “George and I answered the squeal. We examined the body, collected and tagged the evidence. It was me and George who conducted the initial investigation, standing around in the rain, sneezing. We worked hard on this one. Inspector. Christ, we were stuck in the squadroom questioning dumb-ass witnesses and drinking shitty coffee until two o’clock in the morning.”
    “What’s the point, Dave?”
    “The point is, what’s Willows doing here? The Alice Palm case belongs to us.”
    “Is that right, Dave?”
    Atkinson hesitated, decided to keep his mouth shut.
    “I’m in charge of the manpower,” said Bradley. “What square you stand on. How long you stay there. Where you jump next.” He looked around the room, softening the blow to Atkinson’s pride by speaking to everyone. “That’s the way it is, that’s the way it’s always going to be.”
    Willows turned away from the window, wondering what was coming next.
    “What’ve you got so far?” Bradley asked Atkinson.
    “Not much. The body. Shell casings, bullet fragments. All we’re sure of is that a person or persons unknown shot Alice Palm for a reason or reasons unknown.”
    “What you’re saying is that it was personal, there’s no chance she was the victim of a random shooting.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “How did you happen to come to that conclusion, Dave?”
    Atkinson was very much aware that Willows was giving him all of his attention, listening to everything he said. He chose his words carefully, occasionally glancing at Franklin for support.
    “For starters, neither George nor I have ever heard of a pro using such a large calibre weapon. A gun like the .460 Magnum has way too many disadvantages.”
    “For example?”
    “Ammunition is hard to come by. Depending on the manufacturer, the magazine holds only two or at the most three rounds. The weapon makes a hell of a racket. It’s next to impossible to conceal. What else? Velocity is real slow, and the bullet has a trajectory like spit.”
    “Another thing,” said Franklin. “The two spent cartridges we found in the garage were very shiny, a lot shinier than you’d expect. We sent them to the lab. Jerry Goldstein found traces of Brasso around the flange and in the area of the primer, in that little groove between the two pieces of metal.”
    Bradley took the cigar out of his mouth. “You’re telling me the shooter sat down with a rag and a can of Brasso and put a nice shine on his bullets before he went out and blew a hole the size of a doughnut in Alice Palm?”
    “That’s what it looks like.”
    “Weird,” said Bradley. “What else have you got, if anything?”
    Franklin took a much-travelled notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He licked the ball of his thumb and flipped through the pages until he came to his notes on Alice Palm. The pages were wrinkled where the rain had dampened them, but his writing was round and modest, unhurried. He squinted at the page for a moment, and then fumbled through his pockets until he found his glasses.
    Atkinson sighed audibly.
    Bradley dropped another inch of cigar ash into his wastebasket. He fiddled with the humidor until it was lined up just so.
    Parker risked a quick glance at Willows, perched now on the windowsill, settled in.
    Franklin shook his glasses out of a black imitation leather case, tilted his head slightly to one side as he put them on. The frames were rectangular, heavy, made of black plastic.
    Parker thought the glasses had a nice effect. They somehow made Franklin look more dignified, even scholarly. He happened to glance up, and their eyes met. He gave her a brief, meaningless smile, and began to read.
    “Alice Palm was a spinster. She was forty-four years old and as far as we know has no surviving relatives. She lived alone at The Berkely, 990 Bute. For the past twenty years she’s been employed as a secretary at