Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,85
turned out to be a screwdriver. I liked both the look and the feel, and although it was true I already had a knife, it was old and blunt. I took the old knife out of my pocket and replaced it with the new, and thought friendly thoughts of Flora all morning.
Ridger added to my pleasure by telephoning to say there would be no more pub crawls for a few days as he had been assigned to other duties, but we would resume on Wednesday and he would be along for me then at ten-fifteen.
I suppose I should have told him about Mrs Alexis and the mysterious Vernon with his telephone number, but I didn’t. It seemed odd to me to find that my allegiance was to Gerard rather than to the police. I had caught from him quite thoroughly, it seemed, the belief that the paying client’s interests came first, with public justice second.
I did actually half jokingly ask Ridger who I should tell if I came across the suspect scotch when I wasn’t in his own company, and he answered seriously, after earnest thought, that I’d probably better tell Chief Superintendent Wilson straight away, as Ridger himself along with many of the county’s police was having to go up north to help deal with some ugly picketing, which made a change, and he couldn’t tell who’d be on duty while he was away.
‘How would I reach the Chief Superintendent?’ I asked.
He told me to wait a moment and came back with a number which would reach the Zarac investigation room direct. Night or day, he said. Priority.
‘Would the Silver Moondance scotch be priority?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anything would.’
‘O.K., Sergeant. See you on Wednesday.’
He said he hoped so, and goodbye.
Relieved at being let off the drinking I sold a lot of wine to a flood of customers, with Mrs Palissey busily beaming and Brian carrying the loads out to the cars, and it seemed as if it would be for once a normal day until Tina McGregor telephoned at eleven.
‘Gerard’s gone up to the office,’ she said. ‘I wish he wouldn’t on Saturdays and particularly as he’s not right yet from last Sunday, but it’s like arguing with a bulldozer… Anyway, he asked me to tell you they’ve traced the number you gave him yesterday and it doesn’t look too promising. It’s the number of the big caterers at Martineau Park racecourse. He says if you’d care to go along there you might ask them if Vernon – is that right? – still works for them. He says if you should see Vernon yourself he’ll leave it up to you to decide whether or not to ask him where he got the scotch and wines from. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I said. ‘How’s his shoulder?’
‘He’s being utterly tight-lipped about it and they’ve put him on antibiotics.’
‘It’s infected?’ I asked, alarmed.
‘He didn’t say. I just wish he’d slow down.’
She sounded neither anxious nor angry, but one could never tell Tina’s reactions from her voice. I said weakly, ‘I’m sorry,’ and she answered, ‘No need to be,’ in the same calm tone, and said Gerard would like me to telephone him at his home later to let him know how I got on at Martineau Park.
It was odd, I reflected, putting down the receiver, to think that I had been at Martineau Park races so long on Tuesday afternoon totally oblivious of the existence of Vernon among the caterers Orkney Swayle so much detested. Life, as Gerard said, was full of ironies.
Mrs Palissey, geared to my planned absence with Ridger, took my substitute trip to Martineau Park in her stride. ‘Of course, Mr Beach. No trouble at all.’
Grudge-and-spite might be the prevailing social climate but Mrs Palissey rose gloriously above it. Mrs Palissey was a non-interfering do-gooder, heaven reward her. I said I would make it up to her later, and she said, ‘Yes, Yes,’ as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.
I drove to Martineau Park wondering if in fact there would be anyone there. It wasn’t a race day. There would be no crowds. I hadn’t before been to a racecourse on a non-racing day and didn’t know what level of activity to expect in the way of managers, maintenance, groundsmen or cleaners. The whole catering department would very likely be locked. I would quite likely be turning round to drive straight back.
The gates into the members’ car park at least stood open, unguarded. I drove