Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,113

down the stairs and carefully removed the broken bottle from anywhere near Denny, and took enough bottles out of the crate to make sure Naylor couldn’t reach any.

I pushed the shotgun well out of their reach with my foot.

What else?

Nothing else.

I was myself, like Naylor and Denny, soaked from head to foot with wine: jacket, trousers, shirt, socks, shoes, all dark red against dark red skin. Gerard alone, though copiously splashed, was relatively dry.

I said to him, ‘Could you fetch your car to the gate? I’ll drive from there, but I’m not quite sure that I’m what they’d expect in this neighbourhood.’

‘What about them?’ he said, looking at our captives.

‘We’ll send the posse. I’d like to get away from here first. Denny has a partner somewhere.’

‘Right. Yes, I’ll get the car.’ He sounded exhausted and very subdued, and looked anywhere but at my face.

Denny stirred and groaned. Naylor wheezed. In a very few minutes the bandages round their wrists would be pink rock, and it would take a saw to release them.

We left without locking anything. Gerard brought the car to the gates and I drove from there on, apologising as I got in for the stains I would be leaving on the upholstery. He said stains were secondary. He said little else.

We stopped again as in the morning at a nearby public telephone and this time I got through myself to the priority number, reversing the charges. I said to the answering voice that I wanted an urgent message to reach Detective Chief Superintendent Wilson from Tony Beach.

Hold on, he said. I held. A smooth well-known voice came on the line and said, *Mr Beach? Is that you?’

•Yes, Mr Wilson.’

‘And was it you earlier, who directed us to Martineau Park?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Mr McGregor, was it?’

‘Yes. How do you know?’

‘A man at the racecourse… the deputy clerk of the course who is present there on Saturdays and Sundays while the gates and doors are unlocked… he told our men that a Mr Beach had been to the caterer’s section yesterday and again today with a Mr McGregor.’

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Paul Young hasn’t gone there, Mr Beach.’ He spoke partly regretfully, partly with faint reproof.

‘Has anyone?’ I asked.

‘A man called Lew Smith arrived a short while ago in a van from Vintners Incorporated. Our men surrounded him, accompanied by the deputy clerk of the course. Lew Smith could give no good reason for being there, but neither was he Paul Young. There seemed to be no grounds for detaining him on the basis of an anonymous telephone call, and our men let him go. And now Mr Beach, could you give me an explanation? Why did you expect Paul Young to go to Martineau Park?’

‘Mr Wilson,’ I said. ‘I do know where Paul Young is now. Do you want him?’

‘Don’t be facetious, Mr Beach.’

I told him exactly where to find his quarry. I said, ‘You’ll find a printing press if you go upstairs, complete with Bell’s labels and also the same fake wine labels found in the Silver Moondance. You’ll find stolen whisky in the vats… if you apply to Rannoch whisky distillers you’ll get a profile match. The scotch was stolen from tankers belonging to a firm called Charter Carriers… you’ll find another branch of the police investigating those thefts. You’ll find plaster of Paris in Paul Young’s office… and he’s Larry Trent’s half-brother and his name is Stewart Naylor.’

‘Mr Beach…’

‘Goodbye, Mr Wilson,’ I said. ‘Please don’t waste time. Lew Smith might drive there and free him. And oh, yes, you remember Gerard McGregor and I were shot at by the robbers outside my shop? You’ll find one of those thieves tied up with Naylor. Also his gun’s there. I think his name’s Denny. Lew Smith was probably his partner. Worth a try, anyway.’

I put the receiver down although I could hear him still talking and got back into the car with Gerard.

‘There will be endless questions,’ he said.

‘Can’t be helped.’

I restarted the engine and we angled our way sedately out of Ealing, crossed the hinterland, made it safely back to the high road home.

Neither of us talked again for a long way. There was none of the euphoria of the Sunday before with the pellets burning in our bodies and our spirits high with escape. Today had been grimmer, dark with real horror, dark as wine.

Gerard shifted in his seat and sighed and said eventually, ‘I’m glad you were with me.’

‘Mm.’

Five minutes later he said, ‘I was afraid.’

‘Yes, I know.