by Dick Francis
‘The owner? No. It was a woman. She never bets much. She just likes to see her horses win.’
‘Pelican swore you’d backed it yourself, and put him off so that you could get a better price.’
‘You bookmakers are too suspicious for your own good.’
‘Hard experience proves us right.’
‘Well, he’s wrong this time,’ I insisted. ‘This bird friend of yours. If he asked me… and I don’t remember him asking… then I told him the truth. And anyway, any bookmaker who asks jockeys questions like that is asking for trouble. Jockeys are the worst tipsters in the world.’
‘Some aren’t,’ he said flatly. ‘Some are good at it.’
I skipped that. ‘Is he still angry after all these months? And if so, would he be angry enough not just to tell the Stewards that Cranfield backed Cherry Pie, but to bribe other people to invent lies about us?’
His eyes narrowed while he thought about it. He pursed his mouth, undecided. ‘You’d better ask him yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ Hardly an easy question.
‘Move your car now?’ he suggested.
‘Yes.’ I walked two steps towards it, then stopped and turned back. ‘Mr Newtonnards, if you see the man who put the money on for Mr Cranfield, will you find out who he is… and let me know?’
‘Why don’t you ask Cranfield?’
‘He said he didn’t want to involve him.’
‘But you do?’
‘I suppose I’m grasping at anything,’ I said. ‘But yes, I think I do.’
‘Why don’t you just quieten down and take it?’ he said reasonably. ‘AH this thrashing about… you got copped. So, you got copped. Fair enough. Sit it out, then. You’ll get your licence back, eventually.’
‘Thank you for your advice,’ I said politely, and went and moved my car out of his gateway.
It was Thursday. I should have been going to Warwick to ride in four races. Instead, I drove aimlessly 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 to the outer office opened quietly behind me.
Oakley said calmly, ‘This is not a Mr Crisp, Didi. This is a Mr Kelly Hughes. Mr Hughes will be leaving.’
‘Mr Hughes is not ready,’ I said.
‘I think Mr Hughes will find he is,’ she said.
I looked at her over my shoulder. She was carrying a large black looking pistol with a very large black looking silencer. The whole works were pointing steadily my way.
‘How dramatic,’ I said. ‘Can you readily dispose of bodies in the centre of Birmingham?’
‘Yes,’ Oakley said.
‘For a fee, of course, usually,’ Didi added.
I struggled not to believe them, and lost. All the same…
‘Should you decide after all to sell the information I need, you know where to find me.’ I relaxed against the back of the chair.
‘I may have a liking for gold dust,’ he said calmly. ‘But I am not a fool.’
‘Opinions differ,’ I remarked lightly.
There was no reaction. ‘It is not in my interest that you should prove you were… shall we say… set up.’
‘I understand that. Eventually, however, you will wish that you hadn’t helped to do it.’
He said smoothly, ‘A number of other people have said much the same, though few, I must confess, as quietly as you.’
It occurred to me suddenly that he must be quite used to the sort of enraged onslaught I’d thrown at the Wests, and that perhaps t
hat was why his office… Didi caught my wanddering glance and cynically nodded.
‘That’s right. Too many people tried to smash the place up. So we keep the damage to a minimum.’
‘How wise.’
‘I’m afraid I really do have another appointment now,’ Oakley said. ‘So if you’ll excuse me…?’
I stood up. There was nothing to stay for.
‘It surprises me,’ I remarked, ‘That you’re not in jail.’
‘I am clever,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘My clients are satisfied, and people like you… impotent.’
‘Someone will kill you, one day.’
‘Will you?’
I shook my head. ‘Not worth it.’
‘Exactly,’ he said calmly. ‘The jobs I accept are never what the victims would actually kill me for. I really am not a fool.’
‘No,’ I said.
I walked across to the door and Didi made room for me to pass. She put the pistol down on her desk in the outer office and switched off a red bulb which glowed brightly in a small switchboard.
‘Emergency signal?’ I enquired. ‘Under his desk.’
‘You could say so.’
‘Is that gun loaded?’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Naturally.’
‘I see.’ I opened the outer door. She walked over to close it behind me as I went towards the stairs.
‘Nice to have met you, Mr Hughes,’ she said unemotionally. ‘Don’t come back.’
I walked along to my car in some depression. From none of the three damaging witnesses at the Enquiry had I got any change at all, and what David Oakley had said about me being impotent looked all too true.
There seemed to be no way of proving that he had simply brought with him the money he had photographed in my flat. No one at Corrie had seen him come or go: Tony had asked all the lads, and none of them had seen him. And Oakley would have found it easy enough to be unobserved. He had only had to arrive early, while everyone was out riding on the Downs at morning exercise. From seven thirty to eight thirty the stable yard would be deserted. Letting himself in through my unlocked door, setting up his props, loosing off a flash or two, and quietly retreating… The whole process would have taken him no more than ten minutes.
It was possible he had kept a record of his shady transactions. Possible, not probable. He might need to keep some hold over his clients, to prevent their later denouncing him in fits of resurgent civic conscience. If he did keep such records, it might account for the multiplicity of locks. Or maybe the locks were simply to discourage people from breaking in to search for records, as they were certainly discouraging me.
Would Oakley, I wondered, have done what Charlie West had done, and produced his lying testimony for a voice on the telephone? On the whole, I decided not. Oakley had brains where Charlie had vanity, and Oakley would not involve himself without tying his clients up tight too. Oakley had to know who had done the engineering.
But stealing that information… or beating it out of him… or tricking him into giving it… as well as buying it from him… every course looked as hopeless as the next. I could only ride horses. I couldn’t pick locks, fights or pockets. Certainly not Oakley’s.
Oakley and Didi. They were old at the game. They’d invented the rules. Oakley and Didi were senior league.
How did anyone get in touch with Oakley, if they needed his brand of service?
He could scarcely advertise.
Someone had to know about him.
I thought it over for a while, sitting in my car in the car park wondering what to do next. There was only one person I knew who could put his finger on the pulse of Birmingham if he wanted to, and the likelihood was that in my present circumstances he wouldn’t want to.
However…
I started the car, threaded a way through the one way streets, and found a slot in the crowded park behind the Great Stag Hotel. Inside, the ritual of Business Lunch was warming up, the atmosphere thickening nicely with the smell of alcohol, the resonance of fruity voices, the haze of cigars. The Great Stag Hotel attracted almost exclusively a certain grade of wary, prosperous, level-headed businessmen needing a soft background for hard options, and it attracted them because the landlord, Teddy Dewar, was the sort of man himself.
I found him in the bar, talking to two others almost indistinguishable from him in their dark grey suits, white shirts, neat maroon ties, seventeen-inch necks and thirty-eight-inch waists.
A faint glaze came over his professionally noncommittal expression when he caught sight of me over their shoulders. A warned off jockey didn’t rate too high with him. Lowered the tone of the place, no doubt.
I edged through to the bar on one side of him and ordered whisky.
‘I’d be grateful for a word with you,’ I said.
He turned his head a fraction in my direction, and without looking at me directly answered, ‘Very well. In a few minutes.’
No warmth in the words. No ducking of the unwelcome situation, either. He went on talking to the two men about the dicky state of oil shares, and eventually smoothly disengaged himself and turned to me.
‘Well, Kelly…’ His eyes were cool and distant, waiting to see what I wanted before showing any real feeling.
‘Will you lunch with me?’ I made it casual.
His surprise was controlled. ‘I thought…’
‘I may be banned,’ I said, ‘But I still eat.’
He studied my face. ‘You mind.’
‘What do you expect…? I’m sorry it shows.’
He said neutrally, ‘There’s a muscle in your jaw… Very well: if you don’t mind going in straightaway.’
We sat against the wall at an inconspicuous table and chose beef cut from a roast on a trolley. While he ate his eyes checked the running of the dining-room, missing nothing. I waited until he was satisfied that all was well and then came briefly to the point.
‘Do you know anything about a man called David Oakley? He’s an enquiry agent. Operates from an office about half a mile from here.’
‘David Oakley? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.’
‘He manufactured some evidence which swung things against me at the Stewards’ Enquiry on Monday.’
‘Manufactured?’ There was delicate doubt in his voice.
‘Oh yes,’ I sighed. ‘I suppose it sounds corny, but I really was not guilty as charged. But someone made sure it looked like it.’ I told him about the photograph of money in my bedroom.
‘And you never had this money?’
‘I did not. And the note supposed to be from Cranfield was a forgery. But how could we prove it?’
He thought it over.
‘You can’t.’
‘Exactly,’ I agreed.
‘This David Oakley who took the photograph… I suppose you got no joy from him.’
‘No joy is right.’
‘I don’t understand precisely why you’ve come to me.’ He finished his beef and laid his knife and fork tidily together. Waiters appeared like genii to clear the table and bring coffee. He waited still noncommittally while I paid the bill.
‘I expect it is too much to ask,’ I said finally. ‘After all, I’ve only stayed here three or four times, I have no claim on you personally for friendship or help… and yet, there’s no one else I know who could even begin to do what you could… if you will.’
‘What?’ he said succinctly.
‘I want to know how people are steered towards David Oakley, if they want some evidence faked. He as good as told me he is quite accustomed to do it. Well… how does he get his clients? Who recommends him? I thought that among all the people you know, you might think of someone who could perhaps pretend he wanted a job done… or pretend he had a friend who wanted a job done… and throw out feelers, and see if anyone finally recommended Oakley. And if so, who.’
He considered it. ‘Because if you found one contact you might work back from there to another… and eventually perhaps to a name which meant somethi
ng to you…?’
‘I suppose it sounds feeble,’ I said resignedly.
‘It’s a very outside chance,’ he agreed. There was a long pause. Then he added, ‘All the same, I do know of someone who might agree to try.’ He smiled briefly, for the first time.
‘That’s…’ I swallowed. ‘That’s marvellous.’
‘Can’t promise results.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tony came clomping up my stairs on Friday morning after first exercise and poured half an inch of Scotch into the coffee I gave him. He drank the scalding mixture and shuddered as the liquor bit.
‘God,’ he said. ‘It’s cold on the Downs.’
‘Rather you than me,’ I said.
‘Liar,’ he said amicably. ‘It must feel odd to you, not riding.’
‘Yes.’
He sprawled in the green armchair. ‘Poppy’s got the morning ickies again. I’ll be glad when this lousy pregnancy is over. She’s been ill half the time.’
‘Poor Poppy.’
‘Yeah… Anyway, what it means is that we ain’t going to that dance tonight. She says she can’t face it.’
‘Dance…?’
‘The Jockeys’ Fund dance. You know. You’ve got the tickets on your mantel over there.’
‘Oh… yes. I’d forgotten about it. We were going together.’
‘That’s right. But now, as I was saying, you’ll have to go without us.’
‘I’m not going at all.’
‘I thought you might not.’ He sighed and drank deeply. ‘Where did you get to yesterday?’
‘I called on people who didn’t want to see me.’
‘Any results?’
‘Not many.’ I told him briefly about Newtonnards and David Oakley, and about the hour I’d spent with Andrew Tring.
It was because the road home from Birmingham led near his village that I’d thought of Andrew Tring, and my first instinct anyway was to shy away from even the thought of him. Certainly visiting one of the Stewards who had helped to warn him off was not regulation behaviour for a disbarred jockey. If I hadn’t been fairly strongly annoyed with him I would have driven straight on.
He was disgusted with me for calling. He opened the door of his prosperous sprawling old manor house himself and had no chance of saying he was out.