Dick Francis - Proof

‘Rubbish,’ Vernon said.

‘Vernon,’ Quigley said, and it was a shattered word of disillusion, not of disbelief. ‘Vernon, how could you? You’ve been with the family for years.’

Vernon gave him a look in which contempt was clearly a component. Vernon might have remained loyal to the father, I thought, but had been a pushover under the son.

‘Who is this provider?’ Quigley said.

I saw Gerard wince internally: it wasn’t a question he would have asked except obliquely, trying to squeeze out a name by finesse.

Vernon said, ‘No one.’

‘He’s coming here this afternoon,’ I said.

Vernon stood up compulsively and unfolded his arms.

‘You bloody spy,’ he said intensely.

‘And you’re afraid of him,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to follow Zarac to the cemetery.’

He glared at me. ‘You’re not Peter Cash,’ he said suddenly. ‘I know who you are. You’re that interfering bloody wine merchant, that’s who you are. Beach, bloody Beach.’

No one denied it. No one asked him, either, how he knew anything about any bloody interfering wine merchant called Beach. He could only have known if Paul Young had told him

‘Who’s Peter Cash?’ Quigley asked, lost.

‘He told the racecourse people his name was Peter Cash,’ Vernon said violently. ‘Insurance.’ He nearly spat. ‘He didn’t want us knowing who he was.’

‘Us?’ Gerard asked.

Vernon shut his mouth tight under the curtain of moustache.

‘I’d guess,’ I said slowly, ‘that you turned up this early today because you intended to take all the “Vintners Incorporated” cases out of here and be long gone before your provider arrived at two.’

Vernon said, ‘Rot,’ but without conviction, and Quigley shook his head despairingly.

‘It’s possible,’ Gerard said with authority, ‘that Mr Quigley wouldn’t himself press charges against you, Vernon, if you cared to answer some questions.’

Quigley stiffened. I murmured ‘Shareholders?’ at his elbow and felt his opposition falter and evaporate. With the faintest twitch of humour to his mouth Gerard said, ‘For instance, Vernon, how close were your ties with Zarac at the Silver Moondance?’

Silence. The dew on Vernon’s forehead coagulated into visible drops and he brushed the back of one hand over the moustache in evident nervousness. The struggle within him continued for a lengthening time until his doubts forced a way out.

‘How can I know?’ he said. ‘How can I be sure he wouldn’t get the force here the minute I said anything?’ He, it appeared, was Miles Quigley. ‘Keep the trap shut and stay out of trouble, that’s what I say,’ Vernon said.

‘Wise advice, if we were the police,’ Gerard said. ‘But we’re not. Whatever you say here won’t be taken down and used in evidence. Mr Quigley can give you an assurance and you can believe it.’

Mr Quigley looked as if he were well on the way from injured sorrow to vengeful fury at Vernon’s defection, but still had enough of an eye to the annual general meeting to see that swallowing the unpalatable now could save him corporate indigestion later on.

‘Very well,’ he said rigidly. ‘No prosecutions.’

‘On condition,’ Gerard added, ‘that we consider your answers to be frank.’

Vernon said nothing. Gerard neutrally repeated his question about Zarac, and waited.

‘I knew him,’ Vernon said at length, grudgingly. ‘He used to come here for wine if they ran out at the Silver Moondance.’

‘Your provider’s wine?’ Gerard said. ‘The “Vintners Incorporated” labels?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Why of course?’

Vernon hesitated. Gerard knew the answer: testing him, I thought.

Vernon said jerkily, ‘Larry Trent was his brother.’

‘Zarac’s brother?’

‘No, of course not. My... well... provider’s.’

‘His name?’

‘Paul Young.’ Vernon had less trouble with that answer, not more. He sounded glib, I thought. He was lying.

Gerard didn’t press it. He said merely, ‘Paul Young was Larry Trent’s brother, is that it?’

‘Half-brother.’

‘Did you know Zarac before this Paul Young persuaded you to join his scheme?’

‘Yes, I did. He came here for regular wine like restaurants do sometimes and said he knew of a good fiddle, no risks, for someone in my position. If I was interested, he would let me in.’

Gerard pondered. ‘Did the Silver Moondance normally get its wine straight from, er, Paul Young?’

‘Yes, it did.’

‘Did you know Larry Trent?’

‘I met him.’ Vernon’s voice was unimpressed. ‘All he cared about was horses. His brother was bloody good to him, letting him strut about pretending to own that place, giving him money by the fistful for his training fees and gambling. Too bloody good to him by half, Zarac said.’

I heard in memory Orkney Swayle saying Larry Trent was jealous of his brother; the brother who gave him so much. Sad world; ironic.

‘What was the relationship between Larry Trent and Zarac?’

‘They both worked for his brother. For Paul Young.’ Again the unfamiliarity over the name. Gerard again let it go.

‘Equal footing?’

‘Not in public, I don’t suppose.’

‘Why did Paul Young kill Zarac?’

‘I don’t know,’ Vernon said, indistinctly, very disturbed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you knew he did kill him?’

‘Jesus...’

‘Yes,’ Gerard went on. ‘Go on. You do know, and you can tell us.’

Vernon spoke suddenly as if compelled. ‘He said Zarac wanted the Silver Moondance. Wanted it given to him on a plate. Given to him or else. Sort of blackmail.’

Vernon was a sweating mixture of fear, indignation, sympathy and candour and had begun to experience the cathartic release of confession.

I watched in fascination. Gerard said smoothly, ‘He justified the killing to you?’

‘Explained it,’ Vernon said. ‘He came here with the Silver Moondance liquor piled up in his Rolls. He said he was loading it with Zarac’s help. He made three trips. There was so much. The third time he came he was different. He was flushed... excited... very strong. He said I would hear Zarac was dead, and to keep my mouth shut. He said Zarac had wanted power over him, and he couldn’t have that... and then I heard later how he’d killed him... made me vomit... Zarac wasn’t a bad guy... Jesus, I never meant to get mixed up in murder. I didn’t. It was supposed to be just an easy fiddle for good money...’

‘And for how long,’ Gerard said flatly, ‘has the fiddle been in progress?’

‘About fifteen months.’

‘Wine and whisky all the time?’

‘No. Just wine to start with. Whisky these past six months.’

‘Always Bell’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did the fake Bell’s whisky go from here?’

‘Where?’ Vernon took a moment to understand. ‘Oh. We sold it in the bars here all the time. Sometimes in the boxes too. Also it went to the other sports fixtures Quigley’s cater for, and weddings and dances in halls everywhere. All over.’

Quigley’s face went stiff and blank with almost comical shock.

‘Anywhere you thought no one would notice the difference?’ Gerard asked.

‘I suppose so. Most people can’t. Not in a crowded place, they can’t. There’s too many other smells. Zarac told me that, and he was right.’

Wine waiters, I knew, were cynics. I also thought that but for Orkney’s anti-caterer obsession and his refusal to accept what they routinely offered, I might even have found the Rannoch/Bell’s in his box.

‘Do you know what precise whisky you were selling in Bell’s bottles?’ Gerard asked.

Vernon looked as if he hadn’t considered it closely. ‘It was scotch.’