Nothing Ventured (Detective William Warwick 1)

‘Coffee?’ asked Gino.

William didn’t notice the time slip by until Beth whispered, ‘I think the staff want to go home.’

He looked around to see that they were the last two customers in the restaurant, and quickly called for the bill.

‘Do you live nearby?’ he asked.

‘In Fulham. I share a flat with a friend. But don’t worry, I can catch a bus from here.’

‘I can’t afford the bus fare,’ said William after looking at the bill. ‘So can I walk you home?’

‘I hope we’ll see you again soon, signorina,’ said Gino as he opened the door for them.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ said Beth, returning his grin.

William took her hand as they crossed the road, and they didn’t stop chatting about nothing, about everything, until they reached Beth’s front door, when he leant down and kissed her on the cheek. As she put her key in the lock he asked, ‘Would you like to come to the Fake Gallery with me?’

‘Are you ever off duty, Detective Constable Warwick?’ she asked.

‘Not while there’s an outside chance I’ll find your Rembrandt, Miss Rainsford.’

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 enquiry. 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 centrepiece 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 jewellers and watchmakers.’

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