Novel - Half Moon Investigations by Eoin Colfer Page A

you know.”
    This was all happening too quickly. I liked to think things over. Make my deductions at a leisurely pace. Was any of this really happening? I flexed my fingers and the pain ran all the way up to my nose. It was happening, all right.
    Red stared out from the eyeholes in his mask. “I didn’t do it, Half Moon,” he said. “I took the badge, and I’m sorry about that. But I never attacked you, or set a fire in May’s garden.”
    Red held out his hand.
    “There’s a mystery here, Half Moon. I know you can solve it.”
    Mystery. The magic word. I took Red’s hand and he swung me onto the seat of the bicycle, like a cavalry officer rescuing his fallen comrade.
    I held on tightly as Red put his weight on the pedals, building enough speed to outpace Murt Hourihan. Pain pinged my nose with every bump in the road.
    “You pair of good-for-nothings!” wheezed Murt. “Get back here or there’ll be hell to pay.”
    Hell to pay . The phrase stayed in my mind long after the sound of Murt’s wheezing had faded in the distance. I had just escaped from police custody. There would be hell to pay. And I was the one holding the bill.

AT HOME WITH THE SHARKEYS
    RED TOOK THE LONG WAY home, dragging me across several fields and a stream before he finally doubled back to his own house. By the time we reached Chez Sharkey the sun was painting the undersides of the clouds a deep orange, and anyone under the age of ten was being tucked in for the night.
    Chez Sharkey was the most famous house in the southeast. It had once belonged to the American filmmaker Walter Stafford, but he had lost it in a poker game to Red’s grandfather. Over the years, the surrounding estate had been built up by developers, but the old house remained untouched. It stood proud yet ramshackle, a mock Tudor mansion in the middle of a dozen almost identical housing estates.
    “This place must be worth a fortune,” I whispered as Red freewheeled down the back path.
    Red shrugged, which is dangerous on a bike. “Maybe. Papa would never sell. Mom loved this house.”
    Red’s mother had died several years previously. I still remember the day he got the news in lunch hall. Red had kept right on eating his sandwiches. Then, when he’d finished the last one, he crumpled the tinfoil and threw it in the garbage. We didn’t see him for three months after that. As far as I know, nobody had ever asked Red how he was feeling. He wasn’t really a touchy-feely group-hug kind of person.
    We dismounted from the bike in a yard of cracked paving stones. Weeds clawed their way through every crack, and at least a dozen cats hissed at our passing. The back door was massive and black. The edges were chipped to reveal rainbow stripes of glossy paint beneath. A century’s worth of layers.
    Red stowed his bike by the wall, then put his shoulder against the door. He was still wearing the ski mask, and I got the feeling he was comfortable in there.
    “I haven’t cleared this with Papa yet, Half Moon,” he said, rolling the woolen cap from his face. “So you stay out of sight until I do.”
    “Out of sight? I thought you had a plan.”
    “I had the first part. The breakout. I thought you could handle the rest of it, bright spark.”
    “My name is Fletcher, Red.”
    “Oh, really? And what’s my name?”
    I waited for my brain to supply the information, but it didn’t come. I had no idea what Red’s actual name was. He’d been Red since we were little.
    Red winked at me, his point made. I had no idea what that point was, but as far as Red was concerned he had definitely made it.
    We crept into the house. The ceilings were high, and faded wallpaper curled in the corners like pages from an old book. Red pushed me into a room.
    “Just stay in there until I come and get you,” he whispered. “There’s a bed in the corner. The light doesn’t work, but that’s okay, because you probably want to spend your time thinking.” He handed me a disposable cell phone.