Nothing Ventured

9

The rule was simple. If the phone rang, you took the call, like the next cab on the rank. You wrote down the details before briefing DCI Lamont, who would decide which one of them would take on the case, assuming there was a case to take on.

Quite often the call came from a member of the public who’d had a family keepsake stolen and wanted to know what the police intended to do about it. You had to explain that most burglaries were a matter for their local constabulary, as the Art and Antiques unit only had four officers, so it couldn’t follow up every inquiry. However, Commander Hawksby never stopped reminding them that to an old lady who’d lost her Victorian brooch it was the Crown Jewels, and for many callers, this was their only direct contact with the police.

‘When you put the phone down,’ he told William, ‘be sure you have a happy, satisfied customer, rather than someone who believes the police aren’t on their side.’

William picked up the phone.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ said a well-spoken voice. ‘I just hope I’m not wasting your time.’

‘You won’t be wasting my time,’ said William, ‘if you believe a crime has been committed.’

‘That’s the problem. I’m not altogether sure a crime’s been committed, but it looks a bit fishy.’

William smiled at the quaint expression. ‘Can I start by taking your name, sir?’ he asked, picking up a pen, aware that half the time the caller put the phone down after that question.

‘Jeremy Webb. I work at the London Silver Vaults in the City. You might not have heard of us.’

‘My father took me there one half-term when he was buying a gift for my mother’s birthday. I’ve never forgotten it. There must have been at least a couple of dozen different stalls, all hugger-mugger—’

‘Thirty-seven shops,’ said Webb. ‘I’m president of the London Silver Vaults Association this year, which is the reason I’m calling. Several of our members have raised a problem with me.’

‘What kind of problem?’ asked William. ‘Take your time, Mr. Webb, and don’t hesitate to mention any detail, however insignificant it may seem.’

‘Thank you,’ said Webb. ‘The LSVA is comprised of a group of associated members whose principal activity is to buy and sell silver. It can be anything from a Victorian teaspoon to a large centerpiece for a dining room table. Now silver, as I’m sure you know, has to be hallmarked and accepted by the assayer’s office before it can be described as sterling. No serious collector would ever consider purchasing an item unless it was properly hallmarked.’

William remained pen poised, aware that Mr. Webb would get there in his own time.

‘Over the past month, the vaults have regularly been visited by a gentleman whose only interest is in buying silver that is at least a hundred years old. He doesn’t seem to care if it’s a George V coronation medal, or a school trophy for the long jump. One of the four hallmarks indicates the year of manufacture, and several of my colleagues have noted that this particular gentleman always checks the age of a piece using a loupe, before taking any interest in the object itself.’

‘A loupe?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Webb. ‘It’s a small magnifying glass, often used by jewelers and watchmakers.’

‘I see,’ said William, although he still wasn’t sure where this was leading.

‘The other thing that made my colleagues suspicious is that he always pays in cash.’

‘Large-denomination notes?’

‘No. We’re always on the lookout for that, following the Treasury’s recent directives on money laundering. Am I making any sense, officer?’

‘You are, Mr. Webb. Do you know the gentleman’s name?’

‘That’s the thing,’ said Webb. ‘We always take the name and address of every customer, but this man has given us several different names, and never the same address.’

William was suddenly more interested. ‘Do any of your stallholders have any idea who he might be?’

‘One of our dealers says he recognizes him, but can’t be sure from where. He claims he doesn’t recall his name.’

‘You say “claims.” That suggests you’re not convinced.’

‘A few years ago, the stallholder in question was sentenced to six months in prison for handling stolen goods. The probation service asked us to give him a second chance, which we did — reluctantly. But we warned him that if he put a foot out of line again, he would be expelled from the society.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Ken Appleyard.’

William wrote down the name. ‘And given your experience in the field, Mr. Webb, do you have a theory as to why our mystery man is buying so much old silver?’

‘To begin with, I assumed it might be money laundering, but he kept coming back. So, unless he’s stupid, that didn’t make any sense. Then I wondered if he was melting the silver down, but that also didn’t add up, because the price of silver has fallen recently. So I confess I’m completely flummoxed. However, my board of trustees felt I should let you know, to be on the safe side.’

‘I’m most grateful, Mr. Webb. I’ll brief my boss about your concerns, and may well get back to you.’

The first thing William did after he’d hung up wasn’t to brief Lamont, but to take the lift down to minus one, where the police national computer was housed. A PC who looked even younger than him tapped in the name Ken Appleyard, and in a matter of moments a record of his previous convictions was printed out. It confirmed that Appleyard had been sentenced to six months for receiving stolen goods. William was pleased to see that he had no other convictions, and since his release hadn’t received so much as a parking ticket.

William returned to his office bearing the charge sheet. Lamont was on the phone, but waved William to the chair by his side. William knew that the boss was assisting an Interpol inquiry into a diamond smuggling ring that worked out of Ghana and Dubai. Once Lamont put the phone down he switched his attention to what William had to say.

‘What do you think he’s up to, boss?’ asked William, when he had come to the end of his report.

‘I’ve no idea. But the first thing you have to do is find out who the mystery man is, because until we know that, we’re just floundering around in the dark.’

‘Where do I start?’

‘Follow up your only lead. Go to the Silver Vaults and talk to Appleyard. But tread cautiously. He’ll be sensitive about his prison sentence, especially with his colleagues working close by. Try to look like a customer, not a copper.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘And, William, why haven’t you arrested the Churchill forger yet?’

‘He’s gone to ground, sir. But if he resurfaces, I’ll nab him and happily apply the thumbscrews.’

Lamont smiled and returned to his diamond smugglers.

William knew exactly where the Silver Vaults were, but before leaving he called his father to ask if he was free for lunch, as he needed to seek his advice.

‘I can spare you an hour,’ replied Sir Julian, ‘but no more.’

‘That’s all I’m allowed, Dad. Oh, and I can only give you two pounds and eighty pence toward the bill.’

‘I accept your pittance, although it’s considerably less than I usually charge for an hour’s con. Let’s meet outside the entrance to Lincoln’s Inn at one o’clock. You can tell me afterward if your canteen is any better than ours.’

William left the Yard and caught a bus to the City. After a short walk up Chancery Lane, he entered the London Silver Vaults. A list of all the stallholders was displayed on a wall in the reception area. Mr. K. Appleyard’s shop was number 23.

William took the wide staircase to the basement, where he found a long room with stalls huddled together on both sides. He would have liked to stop and look more closely at several exquisite pieces that caught his eye, but didn’t allow himself to be distracted from his search for number 23.

Appleyard was showing a customer a sugar bowl when William spotted the name above his stall. He stopped at the dealer opposite, picked up a silver pepper pot in the form of a suffragette, and studied it closely. The ideal Christmas present for Grace, he thought. He was about to ask the price when Appleyard’s customer drifted away, so he strolled across to join him.

‘Good morning, sir. Were you looking for something in particular?’

‘Someone,’ said William quietly, and produced his warrant card.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ said Appleyard defiantly.

‘No one’s suggesting you have. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.’

‘Is this about that guy who’s been buying old silver?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘There’s not a lot I can tell you. I came across him in Pentonville, but I can’t remember his name. I’ve spent years trying to forget that period of my life, not revisit it.’

‘I quite understand,’ said William. ‘But it would be a great help if you could remember anything at all about the man — age, height, any distinguishing features.’

Appleyard looked into space as if trying to conjure him up. ‘Shaved head, fifty, fifty-five, over six foot.’

‘Do you know what he was in for?’

‘No idea. Golden rule in jail, never ask what crime another prisoner’s committed, and never volunteer what you’re in for.’ William added this piece of information to his memory bank. Appleyard was silent for a few moments before adding, ‘He had a small tattoo on his right forearm, a heart with “Angie” scrolled across it.’

‘That’s really helpful, Mr. Appleyard,’ said William, handing him his card. ‘If you think of anything else, please give me a call.’

‘No need to mention your visit to any of my colleagues?’

‘Just another customer,’ said William, as he strolled across to the stall opposite, and asked how much the suffragette pepper pot was. A week’s wages.

There were enough clocks chiming all around William to remind him that he was due to meet his father in fifteen minutes, and he knew the old man would have begun his first course if he wasn’t on time.

He ran up the stairs and out onto the street, turned right, and kept running. He reached the entrance gate of Lincoln’s Inn at 12:56, to see his father on the far side of the square, striding toward the main hall.

‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’ Sir Julian asked as he led his son down a long corridor lined with portraits of preeminent judges.

‘Business and pleasure. I’ll explain over lunch. But first, how’s Mum?’

‘She’s well, and sends her love.’

‘And Grace?’

‘As dotty as ever. She’s defending a Rastafarian who has five wives and fourteen children, and is trying to claim he’s a Mormon and therefore not bound by the laws of polygamy. She’ll lose of course, but then she always does.’

‘Perhaps she’ll surprise you one day,’ said William as they entered the dining room.

‘It’s self-service, so grab a tray,’ said his father, as if he hadn’t heard him. ‘Avoid the meat at all costs. The salads are usually safe.’

William selected a plate of sausage and mash and a treacle tart before they walked over to a table on the far side of the room.

‘Is this a social call, or are you seeking my advice?’ asked Sir Julian as he picked up a salt cellar. ‘Because I charge one hundred pounds an hour, and the clock is already ticking.’

‘Then you’ll have to deduct it from my pocket money, because there are a couple of things I’d like your opinion on.’

‘Go.’

William spent some time describing why he’d spent his morning just down the road in the Silver Vaults.

‘Fascinating,’ said his father, when William came to the end of the story. ‘So you now need to find out who the mystery buyer is, and why he’s melting down silver that’s over a hundred years old.’

‘But we can’t even be sure that’s what he’s up to.’

‘Then what’s in it for him, unless he’s a rich eccentric collector? And if he was, he wouldn’t have given different names and addresses.’

‘Got any other ideas, Father?’

Sir Julian didn’t speak again until he had finished his soup. ‘Coins,’ he said. ‘It has to be coins.’

‘Why coins?’

‘It has to be something worth considerably more than the original silver, otherwise it doesn’t make any sense.’ Sir Julian pushed his empty soup bowl to one side and began to attack his salad. ‘What’s your other problem?’

‘Have you come across a QC called Booth Watson? And if so, what’s your opinion of him?’

‘Not a name to be mentioned in polite society,’ said Sir Julian, sounding serious for the first time. ‘He’ll happily bend the law to the point of breaking. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m investigating one of his clients—’ began William.

‘Then this conversation must cease, as I have no desire to appear in court with that particular man.’

‘That’s not like you, Dad. You rarely speak ill of your colleagues.’

‘Booth Watson is not a colleague. We just happen to be in the same profession.’

‘Why do you feel so strongly?’

‘It all began when we were up at Oxford and he stood for president of the Law Society. Frankly, I was only too willing to support any candidate who opposed him. After the man I proposed was elected, Booth Watson blamed me, and we haven’t passed a civil word since. In fact, that’s him over there, on the far side of the room. Eating alone, which is all you need to know about him. Don’t look, because he’d sue you for trespass.’

‘Who are you defending at the moment?’ asked William, changing the subject, while unable to resist glancing across the room.

‘A Nigerian chief who chopped up his wife and then posted various body parts to his mother-in-law.’

‘So you won’t be getting him off?’

‘Not a chance, thank God. In fact I’m thinking of giving up murder altogether. Agatha Christie got out just in time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Poirot never had to contend with DNA, which is about to make it almost impossible to put up a reasonable defense for one’s client. No, in future I’m going to concentrate on fraud and libel. Longer trials, and better refreshers, and you’re still in with a fifty-fifty chance of winning,’ he said before wiping his mouth with a napkin.

William looked at his watch. ‘I ought to be going.’

‘Understood, but first, tell me how your social life is, because your mother’s bound to ask.’

‘A little more promising. I’ve met someone who I think’s a bit special. In fact I’m seeing her again tonight.’

‘Can I tell your mother?’

‘Please don’t say a word, otherwise she’ll want to invite us both to lunch on Sunday, and I haven’t prepared Beth for that particular ordeal yet.’

‘Mum’s the word,’ said Sir Julian, laughing at his own feeble pun.

As they left the dining room, William couldn’t resist taking another glance at Booth Watson, who was digging into the treacle tart.

‘Good to see you, my boy,’ said Sir Julian as they stepped out into the courtyard.

‘You too, Father.’ William smiled as he watched his father striding away. How much he owed him.