'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 we'd get it back eventually. When the heat died down they'd dump it somewhere. They told me to report it missing, but I didn't get a chance, the police were round at the office before you could sneeze.'

'They,' Gerard said calmly. 'Who are they?'

'They work for... Paul Young.'

'Names?'

'Don't know.'

'Try again.'

'Denny. That's all I know. One's called Denny. I was just told Denny would pick up the van. They were going to bring the wines here from the shop for me to sort through but they didn't come although I waited until nine. Then I heard he he turned up,' Vernon jerked his head in my direction, 'and something happened to put them off so they never came here. I heard later they got the wrong stuff anyway, so it was all a bloody muddle for nothing.' turned up,' Vernon jerked his head in my direction, 'and something happened to put them off so they never came here. I heard later they got the wrong stuff anyway, so it was all a bloody muddle for nothing.'

'Did anyone tell you what it was that happened to put them off?' Gerard asked casually.

'No, except they panicked or something because something happened they didn't expect, but I didn't hear what.'

Both Gerard and I believed him. He couldn't have stood there so unconcernedly disclaiming knowledge in front of us if he'd known that the something that had happened was our being shot.

'How well do you know them?' Gerard asked.

'I don't. Denny drives the delivery van which brings the stuff here. The other comes sometimes. They never talk much.'

'How often do they deliver?'

'About once a week. Depends.'

'On how much you've sold?'

'Yes.'

'Why didn't they use that van to rob Mr Beach's shop?'

'It's big... it's got Vintners Incorporated on the door... it was in for repairs, or something.'

'And can you describe Denny and his mate?'

Vernon shrugged. 'They're young.'

'Hair style?'

'Nothing special.'

'Not frizzy black Afro?'

'No.' Vernon was positive and slightly puzzled. 'Just ordinary.'

'Where do they come from? Where do they bring the wine from?'

'I don't know,' Vernon said. 'I never asked. They wouldn't have said. They're not friendly. They work for Paul Young... that's all I know.'

He said Paul Young this time far more easily. Getting accustomed, I thought.

'When did you first meet Paul Young?'

'Right when I started. When I told Zarac I was interested. He said the boss would come to check me out and explain what he wanted, and he came. He said we'd get on well together, which we did mostly.'

Until Vernon started in business on the side, stealing from his master: but he wasn't confessing that, I noticed.

'And what is Paul Young's real name?' Gerard asked.

The open doors of the confessional slammed rapidly shut.

Vernon said tightly, 'His name is Paul Young.'

Gerard shook his head.

'Paul Young,' Vernon insisted. 'That's what his name is.'

'No,' Gerard said.

Vernon's sweat ran from his forehead across his temple and down to his jaw. 'He told me the police had seen him in the Silver Moondance when he went there unawares after his brother died, and that was the name he gave them because he didn't want to be investigated because of the drinks, and he said they'd be looking for him now because of Zarac, they'd be looking for Paul Young who didn't exist, he just said the first name that came into his head... He said if ever, if ever anyone came here asking, which he said he was certain they wouldn't, but if ever... I was to call him Paul Young. And my God, my God, that's what I'm calling him and I'm not telling you his real name, he'd kill me somehow... and I'm not joking, I know it. I'll go to jail... but I'm not telling you.'

He'd spoken with total conviction and in understandable fear, but all the same I was slightly surprised when Gerard didn't press him, didn't lean on him further.

He said merely, 'All right.' And after a pause, 'That's all, then.'

Vernon for a wild moment seemed to think he had been let off all hooks, straightening up with a returning echo of burly authority.

Quigley instantly deflated him, saying in pompous outrage, 'Gie me your keys, Vernon. At once.' He held out his hand peremptorily. 'At once.'

Vernon silently brought a ring of keys from his pocket and handed them over.

'Tomorrow you can look for another job,' Quigley said. 'I'll stick to my agreement. I won't prosecute. But you'll get no reference. I'm disappointed in you, Vernon, I don't understand you. But you'll have to go, and that's it.'

Vernon said blankly, 'I'm forty-eight.'

'And you had a good job here for life,' Gerard said, nodding. 'You blew it. Your own fault.'

As if for the first time Vernon seemed to be looking realistically at his doubtful future. New lines of worry deepened round his eyes.

'Do you have a family?' Gerard said.

Vernon said faintly, 'Yes.'

'Unemployment is preferable to imprisonment,' Gerard said austerely, as no doubt he had said to many a detected cheat: and Quigley as well as Vernon and myself heard the iron in his voice. Actions had to be accounted for and responsibility accepted. Consequences had to be faced. Constant forgiveness destroyed the soul...

Vernon shivered.

With Quigley's permission, after Vernon had gone, Gerard and I loaded into his Mercedes (driven round to the green door) a case of 'Vintners Incorporated' Bell's and a case each of the 'Vintners Incorporated' wines. In effect Gerard and Quigley watched while I shifted the cases. Back to my normal occupation, I thought with a sigh, and let the fork-lift truck take most of the strain off my mending muscles.

'What do I do with the rest?' Quigley said helplessly. 'And how are we going to cope with the Autumn Carnival without Vernon? No one else knows the routine. He's been here so long. He is is the routine... he developed it.' the routine... he developed it.'

Neither Gerard nor I offered solutions. Quigley gloomily set about double-double-locking his treasure house and switching on the alarm, and we made the final reverse trip to the outer world.

'What should I do?' Quigley asked, fastening the green door 'I mean... about that murder?'