Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,99

well… provider’s.’

‘His name?’

‘Paul Young.’ Vernon had less trouble with that answer, not more. He sounded glib, I thought. He was lying.

Gerard didn’t press it. He said merely, ‘Paul Young was Larry Trent’s brother, is that it?’

‘Half-brother.’

‘Did you know Zarac before this Paul Young persuaded you to join his scheme?’

‘Yes, I did. He came here for regular wine like restaurants do sometimes and said he knew of a good fiddle, no risks, for someone in my position. If I was interested, he would let me in.’

Gerard pondered. ‘Did the Silver Moondance normally get its wine straight from, er, Paul Young?’

‘Yes, it did.’

‘Did you know Larry Trent?’

‘I met him.’ Vernon’s voice was unimpressed. ‘All he cared about was horses. His brother was bloody good to him, letting him strut about pretending to own that place, giving him money by the fistful for his training fees and gambling. Too bloody good to him by half, Zarac said.’

I heard in memory Orkney Swayle saying Larry Trent was jealous of his brother; the brother who gave him so much. Sad world; ironic.

‘What was the relationship between Larry Trent and Zarac?’

They both worked for his brother. For Paul Young.’ Again the unfamiliarity over the name. Gerard again let it go.

‘Equal footing?’

‘Not in public, I don’t suppose.’

‘Why did Paul Young kill Zarac?’

‘I don’t know,’ Vernon said, indistinctly, very disturbed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you knew he did kill him?’

‘Jesus…’

‘Yes,’ Gerard went on. ‘Go on. You do know, and you can tell us.’

Vernon spoke suddenly as if compelled. ‘He said Zarac wanted the Silver Moondance. Wanted it given to him on a plate. Given to him or else. Sort of blackmail.’

Vernon was a sweating mixture of fear, indignation, sympathy and candour and had begun to experience the cathartic release of confession.

I watched in fascination. Gerard said smoothly, ‘He justified the killing to you?’

‘Explained it,’ Vernon said. ‘He came here with the Silver Moondance liquor piled up in his Rolls. He said he was loading it with Zarac’s help. He made three trips. There was so much. The third time he came he was different. He was flushed… excited… very strong. He said I would hear Zarjc was dead, and to keep my mouth shut. He said Zarac had wanted power over him, and he couldn’t have that… and then I heard later how he’d killed him… made me vomit… Zarac wasn’t a bad guy… Jesus, I never meant to get mixed up in murder. I didn’t. It was supposed to be just an easy fiddle for good money…’

‘And for how long,’ Gerard said flatly, ‘has the fiddle been in progress?’

‘About fifteen months.’

‘Wine and whisky all the time?’

‘No. Just wine to start with. Whisky these past six months.’

‘Always Bell’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did the fake Bell’s whisky go from here?’

‘Where?’ Vernon took a moment to understand. ‘Oh. We sold it in the bars here all the time. Sometimes in the boxes too. Also it went to the other sports fixtures Quigley’s cater for, and weddings and dances in halls everywhere. All over.’

Quigley’s face went stiff and blank with almost comical shock.

‘Anywhere you thought no one would notice the difference?’ Gerard asked.

‘I suppose so. Most people can’t. Not in a crowded place, they can’t. There’s too many other smells. Zarac told me that, and he was right.’

Wine waiters, I knew, were cynics. I also thought that but for Orkney’s anti-caterer obsession and his refusal to accept what they routinely offered, I might even have found the Rannoch/Bell’s in his box.

‘Do you know what precise whisky you were selling in Bell’s bottles?’ Gerard asked.

Vernon looked as if he hadn’t considered it closely. ‘It was scotch.’

‘And have you heard of a young man called Kenneth Charter?’

‘Who?’ Vernon said, bewildered.

‘Return to Paul Young,’ Gerard said without visible disappointment. ‘Did he plan with you the robbery at Mr Beach’s shop?’

Vernon wasn’t so penitent as not to be able to afford me a venomous glance. ‘No, not really. He just borrowed one of our vans. I lent him the keys.’

‘What?’ Quigley exclaimed. ‘The van that was stolen?’

Quigley… Quality House Provisions. I picked up one of the printed catering pricelists from the desk beside Gerard and belatedly read the heading: Crisp, Duval and Quigley Ltd, incorporating Quality House Provisions. Quigley’s own van outside my back door.

‘They meant to bring it back,’ Vernon said defensively. ‘They didn’t expect that bloody man to turn up on a Sunday tea-time.’ He glared at me balefully. ‘They said he might have seen the number plate and they’d keep the van for a while but