Nothing Ventured (Detective William Warwick 1)

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 towards 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 pre-eminent 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.