Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,95

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 patronis-ingly. ‘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