Shooting Star Read Online Free Page A

bring someone else in,’ I said. ‘And I’ll have to stay here, so I’ll need clothes.’
    Tom looked me over like a bloodstock agent. ‘Mark’s clothes should fit you. There’s a room full of them upstairs. Have some put out, Graham.’
    Graham didn’t like that command. His mouth twitched and he tested the fit of his collar, glanced at Barry. Barry was still engaged elsewhere, not flexing his fingers now but holding their tips to his lips.
    Silence, one man standing, four seated, an interlude between something concluding and the future. Into it, Pat said, ‘Never thought it would happen twice.’ His chin was on his chest, his eyes on the desk. ‘And the sinners walk free.’
    I couldn’t resist it. ‘What sinners would those be?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘What sinners walk free?’
    Pat raised his head and looked at me, blinked. ‘Figure of speech, son,’ he said. ‘No shortage of sinners walkin free. Cop, you’d know that.’
    ‘Former cop,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

THE ROOM next door explained why there weren’t any books in Pat Carson’s study. It was a library, a striking room, mellow parquet floor, four walls of floor-to-ceiling books, ladders on wheels, armchairs covered in faded fabrics, a long, narrow library table surrounded by upright chairs, stern chairs.
    I sat at the table, ran my fingertips over the green leather inlay, unhappy at being bought, tempted to find Noyce and tell him I’d changed my mind. These people were capitulating in the hope that it would save a girl’s life. It probably wouldn’t. And I was complicit, not abetting them, no, but certainly aiding them, taking money to carry their money. Why? Broke and prospectless, that was a good enough reason. If not me, then someone else.
    I got out my book and found the number of Corin McCall, garden designer and lecturer in horticulture, my date after class. It had taken me five months to find the courage to ask her out, five months of doing all my homework, spending hours formulating intelligent questions, shaving before my night class.
    ‘McCall.’ She had a deep voice for such a lean and wiry person. A little electric jolt went through me the first time she spoke to the class.‘
    Corin, Frank Calder.’ It occurred to me that I’d never said her name. I coughed. ‘Listen, I couldn’t get to class…’
    ‘I noticed,’ she said. ‘And you can’t make it tonight.’
    ‘Called out for an urgent job. I’m really sorry, I’d turn it down, but…’
    She said, ‘That’s fine, Frank, happens to me all the time. I mean, I do this to people.’ Pause. ‘Anyhow, I’m exhausted, wouldn’t have been good company.’
    ‘Can we make another time? Next week? Any night.’
    ‘I’m in the bush on Monday and Tuesday, possibly Wednesday.
    You could give me a call mid-week.’
    ‘I will. I’ll call you.’
    ‘Yes, call me. I await your call.’
    ‘I await calling you. I’m sorry I spoiled your evening. You could’ve taken up another offer.’
    Corin laughed. ‘It’s early, I may still.’
    ‘Goodnight. See you next week.’
    ‘Goodnight. Call me.’
    ‘Mid-week. Goodnight.’
    Repeating myself, breathing too shallowly. What kind of teenage nonsense was this?
    A sallow man in a white jacket was at the open door pushing a small serving trolley. Supper was grilled fish, tiny tomatoes and roasted eggplant. I had just finished it when there was a knock: a big handsome man in a dark suit, fortyish, fat coming on, neat short hair. Dennis Whitton, Pat Carson’s driver, the girls’ driver. I’d questioned Noyce about him. Ex-cop, excellent credentials, four years in the job.
    ‘Mr Noyce said…’
    I got up and shook hands, closed the door, sat him at the library table, sat opposite him.
    ‘Bad luck this,’ I said.
    He nodded, rolled his head ruefully, scratched the back of it. He had pale blue eyes, wary. ‘Let em talk me into it,’ he said. ‘Went in the first coupla times, hung around, pretend I’m lookin at the CDs. You