Break in by Dick Francis

Author:Dick Francis
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective, Horse racing, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Twins, Fiction
ISBN: 9780425199930
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2005-01-04T19:08:49.238790+00:00

After a night spent at least half in bed I drank some coffee in the morning and went out shopping, standing in draughty doorways in Tottenham Court Road, waiting for the electronic wizards to unbolt their steel-mesh shutters.

I found a place that would re-record Rose’s professional three-quarter-inch tape of Maynard on to a domestic size to fit my own player, no copyright questions asked. The knowingly obliging youth who performed the service seemed disgusted and astounded that the contents weren’t pornographic, but I cheered him up a little by buying a lightweight video-recording camera, a battery pack to run it off and a number of new tapes. He showed me in detail how to work everything and encouraged me to practise in the shop. He could point me to a helpful little bachelor club, he said, if I needed therapy.

I declined the offer, piled everything in the car, and set off north to Hitchin, which was not exactly on the direct route to Towcester but at least not in a diametrically opposite direction.

Finding the Perrysides when I got there was easy: they were in the telephone book. Major C. Perryside, 14 Conway Retreat, Ingle Barton. Helpful locals pointed me to the village of Ingle Barton, three miles outside the town, and others there explained how to find number 14 in the retirement homes.

The houses themselves were several long terraces of small one-storey units, each with its own brightly painted front door and strip of minute flower bed. Paths alone led to the houses: one had to park one’s car on a tarmac area and walk along neatly paved ways between tiny segments of grass. Furniture removal men, I thought, would curse the lay-out roundly, but it certainly led to an air of unusual peace, even on a cold damp morning in November.

I walked along to number 14, carrying the video camera in its bag. Pressed the bell push. Waited.

Everywhere was quiet, and no one answered the door. After two or three more unsuccessful attempts at knocking and ringing I went to the door of the right-hand neighbour and tried there.

An old lady answered, round, bright-eyed, interested.

‘They walked round to the shop,’ she said.

‘Do you know how long they’ll be?’

‘They take their time.’

‘How would I know them?’ I asked.

‘The Major has white hair and walks with a stick. Lucy will be wearing a fishing hat, I should think. And if you’re thinking of carrying their groceries home for them, young man, you’ll be welcomed. But don’t try to sell them encyclopaedias or life insurance. You’ll be wasting your time.’

‘I’m not selling,’ I assured her.

‘Then the shop is past the car park and down the lane to the left.’ She gave me a sharp little nod and retreated behind her lavender door, and I went where she’d directed.

I found the easily recognisable Perrysides on the point of emerging from the tiny village stores, each of them carrying a basket and moving extremely slowly. I walked up to them without haste and asked if I could perhaps help.

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