Shattered Read Online Free PDF

that the investigation, despite its lack of results, was over. It was the go-to-work version of Constable Dodd that prepared to step into the street.
    â€œWhy?” I asked.
    â€œWhy what?” She concentrated on her change of character..
    â€œWhy the too-big sweater and the baseball cap?”
    She flashed me an aware, amused glance and turned back to the world outside. “You happened to have been robbed on my allotted beat. My assignment in Broadway is to spot the gang stealing cars on bank holidays in this area. Thanks for your time.”
    She grinned with cheerfulness and shuffled off down the hill, pausing to talk to a homeless-looking layabout sitting in a shop doorway, huddling against the chill of morning.
    A pity the hippie and the hobo hadn’t been car-thief spotting at midnight, I thought vaguely, and telephoned to the hospital to inquire about Baxter.
    Awake and grumbling, I gathered. I left a message of goodwill.
    Bon-Bon next.
    She wailed miserably into my ear. “But darling Gerard, of course I didn’t tell Priam not to bring you with him. How could you believe it? You are the first person Martin would want to come here. Please, please come as soon as you can, the children are crying and everything’s dreadful.” She drew a shaky breath, the tears distorting her voice. “We were going to a midnight party ... and the baby-sitter came and said she wanted her full money anyway, even if Martin was dead, can you believe it? And Priam talked about the inconvenience of finding another jockey halfway through the season. He’s an old fool and he kept patting me ...”
    â€œHe was seriously upset,” I assured her. “A matter of tears.”
    â€œPriam?”
    I frowned at the memory, but the tears had looked real.
    â€œHow long did he stay with you?” I asked.
    â€œStay? He didn’t stay long. Ten to fifteen minutes, maybe. My mother descended on us while he was here, and you’ve met her, you know what she’s like. Priam was mostly in Martin’s den, I think. He kept saying he had to be back for evening stables, he couldn’t sit still.” Bon-Bon’s despair overflowed. “Can’t you come ? Please, please come. I can’t deal with my mother by myself.”
    â€œAs soon as I’ve done one job, and found some transport. Say ... about noon.”
    â€œOh yes, I forgot your bloody car. Where are you? Did you get home?”
    â€œI’m in my workshop.”
    â€œI’ll come and fetch you ...”
    â€œNo. First, fill your mama with gin and let the children loose on her, then shut yourself in Martin’s den and watch the tapes of him winning three Grand Nationals, but don’t drive anywhere while you’re so upset. I’ll find transport, but at the worst we could persuade your remarkable parent to lend me Worthington and the Rolls.”
    Bon-Bon’s mother’s versatile chauffeur raised his eyebrows to heaven frequently at Marigold’s odd requirements, but had been known to drive a roofless Land Rover at breakneck speed at night across stubble fields, headlights blazing in the dark, while his employer stood balancing behind him with a double-barreled shotgun loosing off at mesmerized rabbits over his head. Martin said he’d been afraid to watch, but Worthington and Marigold had achieved a bag of forty and freed her land of a voracious pest.
    Worthington, bald and fifty, was more an adventure than a last resort.
    Â 
    Â 
    On New Year’s Day 2000 in England the world in general came to a stop. Saturday’s running of one of the best steeplechasing afternoon programs of the whole midwinter season was stuck in a silly halt because the people who worked the betting machines wanted to stay at home. There was no racing—and no football—to entertain the nonworkers on or off the television.
    Logan Glass astounded the other residents of Broadway by opening its doors to the