Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,41

own company. Yellow labels, see? All blank. So if he saw the yellow label for that tanker for the Wednesday, it wouldn’t say where it was picking up. Grey for gin, on the Monday, that was written up, but only for the pick up, not the destination. If someone wanted to steal the return load of scotch they’d have to follow the tanker all the way from Berger’s Gin distillery to find out where it was going.’

I frowned, thinking the theory excessive, but Gerard was nodding as if such dedication to the art of theft was commonplace.

‘Undoubtedly what happened,’ Gerard said. ‘But the question remains, to whom did Zarac pass on that message? He didn’t take part in the event himself. He wasn’t away from the Silver Moondance long enough, and was definitely at his post both the Tuesday and Wednesday lunch-times and also in the evenings until after midnight. We checked.’

My mind wandered from the problem I didn’t consider very closely my own (and in any case unanswerable) and I found my attention fastening on the few red labels on the chart. All the information on them had been heavily crossed out, as indeed it had on the grey labels as well. Kenneth Charter followed my gaze, his hairy Scots eyebrows rising.

‘The wine,’ I said, almost apologetically. ‘Didn’t you say red for wine?’

‘Aye, I did. All those shipments have had to be cancelled. Normally we fetch it from France and take it direct to the shippers near here, who bottle it themselves. We used to carry a lot more wine once, but they bottle more of it in France now. Half the bottling plants over here have been scratching round for new business. Hard times, laddie. Closures. Not their fault. The world moves on and changes. Always happening. Spend your life learning to make longbows, and someone invents guns.’

He closed the chart into its secrecy behind the map and dusted his hands on his trousers as if wiping off his son’s perfidy.

‘There’s life in tankers yet,’ he observed. ‘D’you want to see them?’

I said yes, please, as they were clearly his pride, and we left his office with him carefully locking the door behind us. He led the way not to the outside but down a passage lined on either side by office doors and through a heavier door, also locked, at the far end. That door led directly into a large expanse given to the maintenance and cleaning of the silver fleet. There was all the paraphernalia of a commercial garage: inspection pit, heavy-duty jacks, benches with vices, welding equipment, a rack of huge new tyres. Also, slung from the ceiling, chains and machinery for lifting. Two tankers stood in this space, receiving attention from men in brown overalls who from their manner already knew Charter was around on Sunday afternoon and gave Gerard and myself cursory incurious glances.

‘Over there,’ Charter said, pointing, ‘down that side, inside that walled section, we clean the tanks, pumps, valves and hoses. The exteriors go through a carwash outside.’ He began walking down the garage, expecting us to follow. The mechanics called him Ken and told him there was trouble with an axle, and I looked with interest at the nearest tanker, which seemed huge to me, indoors.

The tank part was oval in section, resting solidly on its chassis with what I guessed was a low centre of gravity, to make overturning a minor hazard. There was a short ladder bolted on at the back so that one could climb onto the top, where there were the shapes of hatches and loading gear. The silver metal was unpainted and carried no information as to its ownership, only the words ‘Flammable Liquid’ in small red capitals towards the rear.

The paintwork of the cab, a dark brownish red, was also devoid of name, address and telephone number. The tanker was anonymous, as the whole fleet was, I later saw. Kenneth Charter’s security arrangements had kept them safe for years from every predator except the traitor within.

‘Why did he do it?’ Charter said from over my shoulder, and I shook my head, not knowing.

‘He was always jealous as a little boy, but we thought he’d grow out of it.’ He sighed. ‘The older he got the more bad tempered he was, and sullen, and dead lazy. I tried to speak kindly to him but he’d be bloody rude back and I’d have to go out of the room so as not to hit him sometimes.’