Dick Francis - Proof

‘We’ve come to meet Mr Quigley... the caterer.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’m Gerard McGregor,’ Gerard said. ‘This is Tony Beach.’

The busy eyebrows frowned. ‘I thought you said Cash,’ he said to me. ‘Peter Cash.’

I shook my head. ‘Beach.’

‘Oh.’ He was puzzled, but shrugged. ‘Well, you know the way.’

We smiled, nodded, walked on.

‘Who’s Peter Cash?’ Gerard asked.

‘No one.’ I explained about Vernon still searching for me the day before. ‘I didn’t want him to know it was Tony Beach who was there. Peter Cash was the first name which came into my head.’

‘Do you mean,’ he said, alarmed, ‘that this Vernon chased you all over the stands?’

‘Hardly chased.’

‘It must have felt like it to you.’

‘Mm.’

We reached the green door, which on this occasion was firmly locked. Gerard looked at his watch, and almost immediately a proprietor-sized car appeared from behind the far end of the Tote building, pulled up near us outside the Celebration Bar, and disgorged a proprietor-shaped occupant.

He had black hair, a moustache and a paunch. First impressions also included an air of importance, a touch of irritability and a liking for white silk scarves worn cravat-style under nautical blazers.

‘Miles Quigley,’ he announced briefly. ‘Gerard McGregor?’

Gerard nodded.

‘Tony Beach,’ I said.

‘Right.’ He looked us over without cordiality. ‘Let’s see what all this is about, shall we? Although I’ll tell you again as I told you last night, I’m certain you’re wrong. Vernon has worked for our family for years.’

I could almost feel Gerard thinking of a hundred clients who had said and believed much the same.

‘Vernon who?’ he said.

‘What? No, Vernon’s his last name. He’s always called Vernon.’

The keyhole in the green door was round and uninformative. The key Miles Quigley produced was six inches long. The one inside the other turned with a good deal of pressure and the multiple click of a heavy mortice lock.

‘That’s the first locked door I’ve seen on this racecourse,’ I said

‘Really?’ Miles Quigley raised his eyebrows. ‘They do tend to open everything for easy maintenance between meetings in the daytime but I assure you everything’s locked at night. A security guard comes on duty after dark. We’re very security conscious of course because of all the alcohol stored here.’

The green door opened outwards like that by my own storeroom: more difficult to break in. Miles Quigley pulled it wide and we went into the passage, where he importantly turned on the lights by slapping a double row of switches with his palm. Yesterday’s all too familiar scene sprang to life, the long corridor stretching away dimly to the bowels of the kitchens.

In the wider passage leading to the drinks store Quigley opened a small cupboard marked First Aid and applied to the contents a second key, not as large as the first but equally intricate.

‘Security alarm,’ he explained with superiority. ‘A heat-sensitive system. If anyone goes into the store when the system is on, an alarm rings in the security office here on the racecourse and also in the main police station in Oxford. We test the system regularly. I assure you it works.’

‘Who has keys?’ Gerard asked, and Quigley’s irritated look was its own reply.

‘I’d trust Vernon with my life,’ he said.

Not me, I thought. I wouldn’t.

‘Only Vernon and yourself have keys?’ Gerard persisted.

‘Yes, that’s right. Keys to the alarm and the store, that is. The racecourse has a key to the outer door, the green one.’

Gerard nodded non-committally. Quigley turned his back on the problem and produced a third and a fourth key to undo the heavy door into the actual store, each key having to be turned twice, alternately: and considering the value of the liquor stacked inside, I supposed the vault-like precautions weren’t unjustified.

‘Can your keys be duplicated?’ Gerard asked.

‘What? No, they can’t. They can be obtained only from the firm who installed the system, and they wouldn’t issue duplicates without my say-so.’

Quigley was younger than I first thought. Not mid-forties, I judged, standing near him in the brighter storeroom lights: more like mid-thirties aping the manner of fifty.

‘A family firm, did you say?’ I asked.

‘Basically, yes. My father’s retired.’

Gerard gave him a dry look. ‘He’s still chairman, I believe, your father?’

‘Presides over board meetings, yes,’ Quigley said patronisingly. ‘Makes him feel wanted. Old people need that, you know. But I run things. Have done for three years. This is a big firm, you know. We don’t cater only for this racecourse, but for many other sporting events and also for weddings and dances. Very big, and growing.’

‘Do you keep everything here?’ I asked. ‘Your linen, tableware, glasses, things like that?’

He shook his head. ‘Only the liquor here, because of the high security of this place. Everything else is at our central depot two miles away. Equipment, food stores and offices. We ship everything from there by van daily as required. It’s a very big operation, as I said.’ He sounded vastly self-satisfied. ‘I have streamlined the whole business considerably.’

‘Were spirits by the tot in the private boxes here your own idea?’ I asked.

‘What?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Yes, of course. Got to fall in line with other racecourse caterers. Much more profitable. Got to answer to shareholders, you know. Shareholders are always with us.’

‘Mm,’ I said.

He heard doubt in my tone. He said sharply, ‘Don’t forget it’s to the box-holder’s advantage. When only a little has been used, we don’t insist on them buying the whole bottle.’

‘True,’ I said neutrally. A Quigley-Swayle face-to-face could draw blood: diverting prospect. ‘Your strawberry tartlets are excellent.’

He looked at me uncertainly and explained to Gerard that all the paperwork to do with wines, beer and spirits passed through the small office to our left. Vernon, he said without happiness, was wholly in charge.

‘He chooses and orders?’ Gerard said.

‘Yes. He’s done it for years.’

‘And pays the bills?’

‘No. We have a computerised system. The checked invoices go from here to the office two miles away to be paid through the computer. Saves time. I installed it, of course.’

Gerard nodded, ignoring the smugness.

‘We keep beer in here, as you see,’ Quigley said. ‘This is just back-up. Normally we get suppliers to deliver on the day of need.’

Gerard nodded.

‘Outside in the passage... we’ve just passed it... is the one passenger lift which comes down here... in this part of the stands the ground floor as far as the public is concerned is above our heads. We transfer from here to the bars and the boxes using that lift: to the bars on all floors. Early on racedays we are extremely busy.’

Gerard said he was sure.

‘Through here are the wines and spirits,’ Quigley said, leading the way into the main storeroom. ‘As you see.’

Gerard saw. Quigley walked a few steps ahead of us and Gerard said quietly, ‘Where were you yesterday?’

‘Lying up here... on the Pol Roger.’

He looked at me with curiosity. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You look... it can’t be right... you look of all things ashamed.’

I swallowed. ‘When I was up there... I was frightened sick.’

He looked round the storeroom; at the possibilities and limitations of concealment; and he said judiciously, ‘You’d have been a fool not to be scared stiff. I don’t think there’s much doubt Paul Young would have killed you if he’d found you. Killing the second time is easier, I’m told. Fear in a fearful situation is normal. Absence of fear is not. Keeping one’s nerve in spite of fear is courage.’