Enquiry - By Dick Francis Page 0,28

back round the North Circular Road wondering whether or not to pay a call on David Oakley, enquiry agent and imaginative photographer. If Charlie West didn’t know who had framed me, it seemed possible that Oakley might be the only one who did. But even if he did, he was highly unlikely to tell me. There seemed no point in confronting him, and yet nothing could be gained if I made no attempt.

In the end I stopped at a telephone box and found his number via enquiries.

A girl answered. ‘Mr Oakley isn’t in yet’

‘Can I make an appointment?’

She asked me what about.

‘A divorce.’

She said Mr Oakley could see me at 11.30, and asked me my name.’

‘Charles Crisp.’

‘Very well, Mr Crisp. Mr Oakley will be expecting you.’

I doubted it. On the other hand, he, like Charlie West, might in general be expecting some form of protest.

From the North Circular Road I drove ninety miles up the Ml Motorway to Birmingham and found Oakley’s office above a bicycle and radio shop half a mile from the town centre.

His street door, shabby black, bore a neat small name-plate stating, simply, ‘Oakley’. There were two keyholes, Yale and Chubb, and a discreetly situated peephole. I tried the handle of this apparent fortress, and the door opened easily under my touch. Inside, there was a narrow passage with pale blue walls leading to an uncarpeted staircase stretching upwards.

I walked up, my feet sounding loud on the boards. At the top there was a small landing with another shabby black door, again and similarly fortified. On this door, another neat notice said, ‘Please ring’. There was a bell push. I gave it three seconds work.

The door was opened by a tall strong looking girl dressed in a dark coloured leather trouser suit. Under the jacket she wore a black sweater, and under the trouser legs, black leather boots. Black eyes returned my scrutiny, black hair held back by a tortoiseshell band fell straight to her shoulders before curving inwards. She seemed at first sight to be about twenty-four, but there were already wrinkle lines round her eyes, and the deadness in their expression indicated too much familiarity with dirty washing.

‘I have an appointment,’ I said. ‘Crisp.’

‘Come in.’ She opened the door wider and left it for me to close.

I followed her into the room, a small square office furnished with a desk, typewriter, telephone, and four tall filing cabinets. On the far side of the room there was another door. Not black; modern flat hard board, painted grey. More keyholes. I eyed them thoughtfully.

The girl opened the door, said through it, ‘It’s Mr Crisp,’ and stood back for me to pass her.

‘Thank you,’ I said. Took three steps forward, and shut myself in with David Oakley.

His office was not a great deal larger than the ante-room, and no thrift had been spared with the furniture. There was dim brown linoleum, a bentwood coat stand, a small cheap armchair facing a grey metal desk, and over the grimy window, in place of curtains, a tough looking fixed frame covered with chicken wire. Outside the window there were the heavy bars and supports of a fire escape. The Birmingham sun, doing its best against odds, struggled through and fell in wrinkled honeycomb shadows on the surface of an ancient safe. In the wall on my right, another door, firmly closed. With yet more keyholes.

Behind the desk in a swivel chair sat the proprietor of all this glory, the totally unmemorable Mr Oakley. Youngish. Slender. Mouse coloured hair. And this time, sunglasses.

‘Sit down, Mr Crisp,’ he said. Accentless voice, entirely emotionless, as before. ‘Divorce, I believe? Give me the details of your requirements, and we can arrive at a fee.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can give you just ten minutes, I’m afraid. Shall we get on?’

He hadn’t recognised me. I thought I might as well take advantage of it.

‘I understand you would be prepared to fake some evidence for me… photographs?’

He began to nod, and then grew exceptionally still. The unrevealing dark glasses were motionless. The pale straight mouth didn’t twitch. The hand lying on the desk remained loose and relaxed.

Finally he said, without any change of inflection, ‘Get out.’

‘How much do you charge for faking evidence?’

‘Get out.’

I smiled. ‘I’d like to know how much I was worth.’

‘Dust,’ he said. His foot moved under the desk.

‘I’ll pay you in gold dust, if you’ll tell me who gave you the job.’

He considered it. Then he said, ‘No.’

The door