‘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.’