‘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.
‘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 defence 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.
10
THE FIRST THING William did when he arrived back at the Yard was to brief the boss on his meeting with Appleyard.
‘There was only one piece of information he supplied that just might prove useful,’ said Lamont. ‘Did you spot it?’
‘The tattoo?’
‘In one. Because if you find Angie, she could lead us to the mystery buyer.’
‘But all we’ve got to go on is a tattoo.’
‘Which may be enough.’
‘Why?’
‘Think like a criminal, laddie, and not like a choirboy,’ said Lamont, leaning back in his chair.
‘Pentonville,’ said William after a brief silence.
‘You’re on the right track. But who do you need to speak to at Pentonville?’
‘The governor?’
‘No. Too senior for what we need.’
William looked lost, and once again had to wait for Lamont
to come to his rescue.
‘You told me Appleyard was only in Pentonville for three weeks before being transferred to Ford Open.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘During that time he would have been entitled to three prison visits. So you need to find out if anyone called Angie visited someone at Pentonville while Appleyard was there. If she did, they’ll have her details on file.’
‘We’ve also got to hope that she’s still his girlfriend.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. A tattoo to a con is like a ring to you and me. It’s a commitment, and, let’s face it, it’s all we’ve got to go on. Have a word with the senior officer in charge of visits. His name is Leslie Rose. Sir to you. Make sure you pass on my best wishes.’
William returned to his desk and looked up the number for the visits officer at HMP Pentonville. When the phone was answered, a stentorian voice barked, ‘Rose.’
‘Good afternoon, sir. My name is DC Warwick, and I’m ringing at the suggestion of my boss, Detective Chief Inspector Lamont.’
‘A complete wanker.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Any idiot who believes Arsenal can win the Cup is a complete wanker. What can I do for you, detective constable?’
‘In 1981, you had a prisoner called Appleyard at Pentonville. Ken Appleyard. He was only with you for three weeks, between April the ninth and the thirtieth, before he was shipped out to Ford.’
‘What about him?’
‘During his stay, another prisoner, whose name he can’t remember—’
‘Or doesn’t want to.’
‘– may have had a visit from his girlfriend, who we know was called Angie.’
‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘Appleyard recalls seeing a tattoo on the man’s right arm. A red heart with the name Angie scrolled across it.’
‘A nice piece of detective work, young man. The odds aren’t great, but I’ll get back to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Pass on my regards to Bruce. Tell him he has no hope on Saturday.’
‘No hope of what, sir?’
‘Arsenal beating Spurs.’
‘So presumably you support Tottenham Hotspur?’
‘I see the Yard is still only recruiting the brightest and the best. So who do you support?’
‘Fulham, sir. And I should point out that you haven’t beaten us recently.’
‘And I should point out, constable, that that might just be because we haven’t played you for several years, and we’re unlikely to do so while you languish in the second division.’ The phone began to purr.
William spent the rest of the afternoon writing up his report on the meeting with Appleyard and his telephone conversation with SO Rose at Pentonville. He decided to leave out the expletives and the Arsenal references, before he dropped a sanitized version on DCI Lamont’s desk just after 5.30.
William planned on slipping away just before six, so he wouldn’t be late for Tim Knox’s postponed lecture at the Fitzmolean, and supper afterwards with Beth.
He was just about to leave when the phone rang. Jackie picked it up.
‘It’s for you, Bill,’ she said, transferring the call to William’s desk. He smiled, expecting to hear SO Rose’s cheerful voice on the other end of the line.
‘Detective Constable Warwick?’ said a voice he could barely make out.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘My name’s Martin. I work at John Sandoe Books in Chelsea, and you visited our shop last week. Your man is back, but this time he’s looking at a Dickens first edition.’
William raised a hand in the air, a sign that every other available officer should pick up their extension and listen to the conversation.
‘Remind me of your address?’
‘Blacklands Terrace, off the King’s Road.’
‘Keep him talking,’ said William. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘There’s a squad car waiting for you outside,’ said Lamont as he put down his phone. ‘Get moving.’
William ran out of the office, bounded down the stairs two at a time and shot out of the front door to find a waiting car, its engine running and passenger door open. The driver took off, siren blaring, lights flashing, before William had even closed the door.
‘Danny Ives,’ the driver said, thrusting out his left hand, the other hand remaining firmly on the wheel as he accelerated away. He clearly didn’t need to be told where to go.
‘William Warwick,’ said William, who accepted that if a fellow officer didn’t declare his rank he was probably a constable. Though in truth, most of the Met’s drivers considered themselves to be in a class of their own, and that the capital was nothing more than a Formula One racetrack, with the added challenge of pedestrians.
Ives nipped into Victoria Street, dodging in and out of the early evening traffic as he made his way towards Parliament Square. He ran a red light as he passed the Houses of Parliament. Although William had been on a couple of blue light runs in the past, he still felt like a schoolboy fulfilling his wildest dream as cars, vans, lorries and buses all moved aside to allow them through. As they approached the traffic lights at Chelsea Bridge, Ives slowed down and ignored the no-right-turn sign, cutting down his journey by several minutes. He accelerated along Chelsea Bridge Road towards Sloane Street, always particularly busy during the rush hour. He reached the traffic lights in Sloane Square just as they turned red and slipped into the bus lane without stopping. As they swung left past Peter Jones and continued on down the King’s Road, Ives turned off the siren but kept his lights flashing.
‘Wouldn’t want to let him know we’re on our way, would we?’ he said. ‘A mistake they often make in films.’
He turned into Blacklands Terrace, where William spotted a young man standing outside the bookshop, waving his arms. He leapt out of the car and ran across to join him.
‘You just missed the man. I couldn’t stall him any longer. That’s him, in the beige raincoat, heading towards Sloane Square.’
William looked in the direction the bookseller was pointing but only caught a glimpse of the man as he turned the corner.
‘Thanks!’ William shouted as he took up the chase on foot. His eyes continually searching the crowd ahead, but he had to dodge between pedestrians, as he no longer had the help of a siren. And then he spotted a man in a beige raincoat. He was just about to grab him, when William noticed he was pushing a stroller with one hand and holding a small child’s hand with the other.
William charged on, becoming less and less confident with each step, but then he caught sight of another beige raincoat disappearing into Sloane Square tube station. When he reached the ticket barrier he took out his ID card but didn’t give the inspector a chance to check it as he raced past. He saw the man near the bottom of the escalator, but then he disappeared again. William dashed down the escalator, brushing aside the early evening commuters, and had nearly caught up with the man when he turned right and headed for the eastbound District line.
William emerged onto the crowded platform as a train screeched to a halt. He looked left and right before he spotted the man boarding the train about five carriages away. William leapt into the nearest carriage as the doors began to close, grabbed a handrail to steady himself, and caught his breath. When the train came to a halt at the next station, he jumped off, but a beige raincoat didn’t appear. So, like the king on a chessboard, he advanced one square at a time, slipping into the next carriage at each stop.
The passenger in the raincoat didn’t get off, and four stops later William was in the adjoining carriage. He took a seat near the front and glanced through the window of the dividing door to take a closer look at his quarry. The man was turning a page of the Evening Standard, and when they stopped at the next station he didn’t even look up. This was going to be a long journey.
By the time the man folded his newspaper, they had stopped twenty-one times, which had given William more than enough time to be sure
he was following the right man. Sixty, sixty-five, greying hair, slight stoop. He didn’t need to hear his accent to know this was the same customer the manager of Hatchards had described to him.
The man finally got off at Dagenham East. William kept his distance as he left the station. To begin with he was able to lose himself in the crowd, but as the passengers thinned out he had to hang further and further back. He considered arresting the man there and then, but first he needed to find out where he lived, so he would know where the evidence was hidden.
The man turned down a side street, and stopped at a little wicket gate. William kept on walking, and noted the number, 43, as the man unlocked his front door and disappeared inside. When William reached the end of the street, he added Monkside Drive to his memory bank and reluctantly decided it might be wiser not to attempt to enter the house until he’d reported back to DCI Lamont and obtained a search warrant. He felt confident that the man in the beige raincoat wasn’t going anywhere soon.
William turned back and headed for the station, feeling triumphant, but a few moments later his mood changed. He checked his watch: 7.21. Beth must be wondering where he was.
He ran all the way back to the station, but knew as he stood alone on the cold, windy platform waiting for the next train to appear that he had no chance of being in Kensington in time for Dr Knox’s lecture. The jolting progress between each stop, which William hadn’t noticed during the journey to Dagenham when his adrenalin was pumping and he was having to concentrate every second, seemed interminable. The train finally pulled into South Kensington at 8.15. William ran up the escalator and out onto Thurloe Place, but by the time he reached the entrance to the Fitzmolean, the building was in darkness.
As he walked slowly in the direction of Beth’s home, he began to prepare a speech explaining why he hadn’t turned up in time for the lecture. He was almost word perfect by the time he reached her front door.
He stood there for some time before giving two gentle taps on the knocker. A few moments later, the door opened and a tall, handsome young man asked, ‘Can I help you?’
William felt sick.
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