Novel - Half Moon Investigations by Eoin Colfer Page A

rest of me had evidence to process and was determined to be professional.
    The hallway was clear. I could hear conversation on the wards, but there was nothing but floor tiles between me and the nurses’ station. I strolled across confidently, as if I had a medical reason for being there. The station was bordered by a semicircular counter, and behind that a few worn chairs. There was an extension cord on the floor. Plugged into it were a kettle and a photocopier.
    I switched on the copier and waited, shuffling impatiently while it heated up. At last the red light flashed green. I pulled back the lid and plonked my arm on the glass. That really should have hurt, and probably would later, but at that moment I felt no pain.
    I made a copy. But it was worthless. No court in the world would admit it as evidence. The image was blurred and the reversed letters were barely visible. I tried again, darkening the picture. Still no good. Now my entire arm was coming out black.
    This was ridiculous. In this age of technology, I was being thwarted by a Stone Age photocopier. I needed a digital camera. Right now. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed as though the incriminating bruises were already fading. If only my family were here. Hazel’s cell phone had a built-in camera. But if I removed my cast in front of my mother to take a photo of a bruise, she would have had a nervous breakdown on the spot.
    May Devereux had a camera connected to the computer in her Wendy house. And I knew where the key to the Wendy house was. The Devereux house was barely a minute from the hospital. In fact, Rhododendron Road was clearly visible from the main entrance. I could just saunter over there, snap a few quick photographs, and nip back to bed before anyone knew. In my fuzzy mind, this plan made perfect sense.
    I belted my hospital gown, thrust my injured arm deep in the pocket, and pushed through the double doors into the reception area. In my semi-anesthetized condition I decided it would be a good idea to sing a quiet little song, so as to appear casual and certainly not up to mischief. Unfortunately, because my brain was buzzing so loudly, I sang like someone wearing headphones. Out of tune. And louder than I intended.
    “To all the girls I’ve loved before,” I warbled. My Dad’s favorite, forever on the CD player in the kitchen. “Who’ve traveled in and out my door.”
    A nurse blocked my path. She glared at me the way you might look at something that has crawled from a sewer leaving a trail behind it.
    “Excuse me, Julio ,” she said, hands on hips. “Would you mind reining in the voice? There are babies being born in this hospital. We wouldn’t want the first sound they hear to be your painful howling. There could be lawsuits.”
    I would have been hurt, if I hadn’t already been hurt.
    “Of course, nurse. I’m so sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”
    “This could be one of those times if you’re not careful. Now, on your way. And keep the noise down, or I may decide to check your temperature, and believe me you don’t want that.”
    The threat was accompanied by a steely grin, and suddenly having my temperature taken seemed like the scariest thing in the world. I scurried to a waiting area and pretended to be engrossed in a Beautiful Homes magazine.
    “What’re ye in for?” said a man beside me, a ragged line of stitches running across his forehead.
    “Ingrown toenail,” I replied, thinking he was joking. After all, my injuries were as plain as the nose on my face.
    “Oh,” he replied. “Sore yokes, dem.”
    “Yes. Terrible.”
    I checked that the nurse had gone, and scampered out the front door, very quickly indeed for someone with an ingrown toenail.
    It must have been very late, because there wasn’t a car on the road. I nipped across and leaned against a gate post on Rhododendron Road. The fresh air was not perking me up like I thought it would. In fact, I felt dizzy and nauseous. No throwing up, I warned