Nothing Ventured(25)
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.