Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,98

himself from the proceedings. Gerard, seated on the only chair, dominated the moment absolutely.

‘Your provider,’ he said, ‘chose the name of a respectable supplier with whom you didn’t already do business and sent you everything stencilled “Vintners Incorporated”. You received normal-looking invoices from your supplier with that heading and your treasurer’s department sent cheques normally in return. They were perhaps negligent in not checking that the address printed on the invoice heading was truly that of Vintners Incorporated, as you have just heard me doing on the telephone, but no doubt Mr Quigley’s firm as a whole deals with dozens of different suppliers and has no habit of checking each one.’ He broke off and turned his head towards Quigley. ‘I always advise firms to check and keep checking. Such a simple matter. When an address has been entered once into a computerised system such as yours, it’s seldom ever checked. The computer goes on sending payments without question. Invoices may indeed be routinely paid without the goods ever being delivered.’ He turned back to Vernon. ‘On how many occasions did that happen?’

‘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…