Read Online Shattered by Dick Francis - Free Book Online Page A

between boy and man, and his face had begun to grow from the soft lines of childhood into adult planes.
    â€œWhat’ve you been up to, young Vic?” his mother asked, and to me she said, “It’s bloody cold out here. Want to come in?”
    â€œEr,” I said. I was suffering more from the unexpected than the cold, but she waited for no answer and walked back past the boy until she was out of sight. I pulled the envelope sent to Martin out of a pocket and immediately set the alarm racing above the curiosity in young Victor.
    â€œYou weren’t supposed to find me,” he exclaimed, “and in any case, you’re dead.”
    â€œI’m not Martin Stukely,” I said.
    â€œOh.” His face went blank. “No, of course, you aren’t.” Puzzlement set in. “I mean, what do you want?”
    â€œFirst of all,” I said plainly, “I’d like to accept your mother’s invitation.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œTo be warm.”
    â€œOh! I get you. The kitchen is warmest.”
    â€œLead on, then.”
    He shrugged and stretched to close the door behind me, and then led the way down beside the staircase to the heart of all such terrace houses, the space where life was lived. There was a central table covered with a patterned plastic cloth, four attendant unmatched upright chairs and a sideboard deep in clutter. A television set stood aslant on a draining board otherwise stacked with unwashed dishes, and checked vinyl tiles covered the floor.
    In spite of the disorganization there was bright new paint and nothing disturbingly sordid. I had an overall impression of yellow.
    Mrs. Verity sat in one of the chairs, rocking on its back legs and gulping smoke as if she lived on it.
    She said pleasantly enough, “We get all sorts of people here, what with Vic and his wretched Internet. We’ll get a full-sized genie one of these days, I shouldn’t wonder.” She gestured vaguely to one of the chairs, and I sat on it.
    â€œI was a friend of Martin Stukely,” I explained, and I asked Vic what was on the videotape that he had sent or given to Martin at Cheltenham.
    â€œYes, well, there wasn’t a tape,” he said briefly. “I didn’t go to Cheltenham.”
    I pulled his letter to Martin out of the envelope and gave it to him to read.
    He shrugged again and handed it back when he’d reached the end.
    â€œIt was just a game. I made up the tape.” He was nervous, all the same.
    â€œWhat knowledge was it that was dynamite?”
    â€œLook, none.” He grew impatient. “I told you. I made it up.”
    â€œWhy did you send it to Martin Stukely?”
    I was careful not to let the questions sound too aggressive, but in some way that I didn’t understand, they raised all his defenses and colored his cheeks red.
    His mother said to me, “What’s all this about a tape? Do you mean a videotape? Vic hasn’t got any videotapes. We’re going to get a new video machine any day now, then it will be different.”
    I explained apologetically. “Someone did give Martin a videotape at Cheltenham races. Martin gave it to Ed Payne, his valet, to keep safe, and Ed gave it to me, but it was stolen before I could see what was on it. Then all the videotapes in Martin Stukely’s house and all the videotapes in my own house were stolen too.”
    â€œI hope you’re not suggesting that Vic stole anything, because I can promise you he wouldn’t.” Mrs Verity had grasped one suggestion wrongly and hadn’t listened clearly to the rest, so she too advanced to the edge of anger, and I did my best to retreat and placate, but her natural good humor had been dented, and her welcome had evaporated. She stubbed out a cigarette instead of lighting another from it, and stood up as a decisive signal that it was time I left.
    I said amiably to young Victor, “Call me,” and although he shook his