Nothing Ventured

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘I agree,’ said Giddy, clearly not amused. ‘But if one of our customers were to find out that we’d sold them a forgery, and the press got hold of it, we could lose our Royal Warrant.’

  William nodded. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’

  ‘Not a chance. He won’t risk trying to pull off the scam a second time in the same bookshop. And frankly, there are enough of us out there to keep him going for years.’

  ‘So where do you think I should begin?’

  ‘I can give you a list of bookshops that specialize in signed first editions,’ said Giddy, opening a drawer in his desk and handing over a slim pamphlet.

  ‘Thank you,’ said William, flicking through the pages.

  ‘Don’t worry, there are at least a dozen within a mile of here,’ said the manager, as he accompanied William to the lift.

  Detective Constable Warwick spent the rest of the day tramping from bookshop to bookshop, and soon discovered that the Churchill forger was an industrious individual. When he wasn’t buying, he was selling. The kind of cottage industry the government was so keen to encourage.

  Every one of the managers promised to let him know if a man fitting that description offered them a signed set of Churchill’s The Second World War, but they all agreed with Giddy that it was unlikely he would appear in the same shop a second time.

  ‘If he does show up, please call me at Scotland Yard, 230 1212. I’m on extension 2150,’ said William, before moving on to the next shop.

  William didn’t stop his inquiries until the last door closed behind him at six o’clock. He took the tube to Victoria, then jogged all the way back to Trenchard House. He had a quick shower and changed his clothes, taking an unusually long time to decide what to wear. He eventually settled on a blue blazer, an open-neck white shirt, and a pair of grey trousers, but decided against wearing his old school tie.

  As he closed the front door behind him, he realized he would have to take a taxi if he wasn’t going to be late; an expense Mrs Walters wouldn’t have approved of. The cab dropped him off outside Elena 1 in the Fulham Road, with seven minutes to spare.

  ‘This is a very special date for me, Gino,’ said William after the head waiter had introduced himself. ‘A first in fact. So I may need your help.’

  ‘Leave it all to me, Mr Warwick. I’ll put you in a quiet alcove.’

  ‘Oh help, there she is,’ whispered William.

  ‘Ah, signorina,’ said Gino, bowing slightly before taking her hand. ‘Mr Warwick has arrived and is sitting at his usual table.’

  William leapt up, trying not to stare. She was wearing a simple off-the-shoulder yellow dress that fell just below the knee, with a pale green silk scarf, and a jade necklace to complement the outfit.

  Gino pulled back the chair for her, while William waited for Beth to be seated.

  ‘This must be one of your usual haunts,’ said Beth as she settled in her chair.

  ‘No, first time. It was recommended by a friend.’

  ‘But the waiter said—’

  ‘I met him five minutes ago,’ admitted William as Gino reappeared, and handed them both a menu. Beth laughed.

  ‘Now, Mr Warwick, will you have your usual drink?’

  ‘And what is my usual drink?’ asked William. Gino looked puzzled until William added, ‘Beth knows I’ve never been here before. What do you recommend?’

  ‘For the beautiful signorina . . .’

  ‘Gino, don’t overdo it.’

  ‘You do not think she is beautiful?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want her to run away before we’ve had the first course.’

  Beth looked up from her menu. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to run away. Well, not until after the second course.’

  ‘And what can I get you to drink, signorina?’

  ‘A glass of white wine, please.’

  ‘We’ll have a bottle of Frascati,’ said William, recalling a wine his father often ordered, though he had no idea how much it would cost.

  Once Gino had taken their orders, Beth asked, ‘Is it William or Bill?’

  ‘William.’

  ‘Do you work in the art world or are you a gallery groupie?’

  ‘Both. I became a gallery groupie at an early age, but now I work with the Art and Antiques unit at Scotland Yard.’

  Beth seemed to hesitate for a moment, before she said, ‘So your visit to the Fitzmolean was just part of your job.’

  ‘It was until I saw you.’

  ‘You’re worse than Gino.’

  ‘And you?’ asked William.

  ‘No, I’m not worse than Gino.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean . . .’ began William, painfully aware how long it had been since his last date.

  ‘I know what you meant,’ teased Beth. ‘I read art history at Durham.’

  ‘I knew I’d gone to the wrong university.’

  ‘So where did you go?’ she asked as Gino reappeared with two piping hot bowls of stracciatella.

  ‘King’s. Also history of art. And after Durham?’

  ‘I went up to Cambridge and did a DPhil on Rubens the diplomat.’

  ‘I nearly did a PhD on Caravaggio the criminal.’

  ‘Which would explain why you ended up joining the police force.’

  ‘And did you go straight to the Fitzmolean after that?’

  ‘Yes, it was my first job after Cambridge. And it must have been painfully obvious that last night was my first attempt at giving a discourse.’

  ‘You were brilliant.’

  ‘I just about got by, which will become only too obvious if you attend Tim Knox’s lecture next week.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must have been like to stand in for your boss at the last moment.’

  ‘It was terrifying. So, dare I ask if you’re any nearer to finding my missing Rembrandt?’

  ‘Your Rembrandt?’

  ‘Yes. But then everyone who works at the Fitzmolean is possessive about The Syndics.’

  ‘I can understand why. But after seven years, I’m afraid the trail has gone cold.’

  ‘But you can’t have been working on the case for the past seven years?’

  ‘Less than seven weeks,’ admitted William. ‘But I’m confident the Rembrandt will be back in its place by the end of next month.’

  Beth didn’t laugh. ‘I still want to believe it’s out there somewhere and will eventually be returned to the gallery.’

  ‘I’d like to agree with you,’ said William, as Gino whisked away their empty bowls. ‘But no one else in the department agrees with me.’

  ‘Do they think it’s been destroyed?’ asked Beth. ‘I just can’t believe anyone could be that much of a philistine.’

  ‘Not even if it meant they avoided ending up in jail for several years?’

  ‘Does that mean you know who stole it?’

  William didn’t reply, and was relieved when Gino reappeared with their main courses.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Beth. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. But if there’s ever anything I can do to help, please let me know.’

  ‘There is something you might be able to advise me on. We’ve recently come across an outstanding copy of The Syndics, and I wondered if you knew anyone who specializes in that kind of work?’

  ‘Not my field,’ admitted Beth. ‘I deal with dead artists, and then only if they’re Dutch or Flemish. But I assume you’ve already visited the Fake Gallery in Notting Hill?’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said William, as he touched his jacket pocket, searching for a notebook, quite forgetting that he wasn’t on duty.

  ‘They have a number of artists working for them who can knock up a fake of any master you require, living or dead.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. That’s your department,’ Beth said with a grin. ‘But if you’re not spending every waking hour trying to find my Rembrandt, you must be attempting to solve some even bigger crimes.’

  ‘The theft of a small phial of moon
dust, and several signed copies of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War.’

  ‘Are you allowed to tell me more?’

  Beth couldn’t stop laughing when William told her about Dr Talbot and the American under-secretary. She even came up with a suggestion when he mentioned the fake Winston Churchill signed editions.

  ‘Perhaps you should be looking for an unsigned set, so you’ll be one step ahead of your forger.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said William, deciding not to tell her that was exactly what he’d been doing all day. ‘Perhaps we should meet regularly, as you should have been a detective.’

  ‘And you should clearly be giving lectures at the Fitzmolean.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘How awkward first dates are,’ said William.

  ‘Is this a first date?’ asked Beth, giving him a warm smile.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘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.

  ‘The other thing that made my colleagues suspicious is that he always pays in cash.’

  ‘Large-denomination notes?’

  ‘No. We’re always on the lookout for that, following the Treasury’s recent directives on money laundering. Am I making any sense, officer?’

  ‘You are, Mr Webb. Do you know the gentleman’s name?’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ said Webb. ‘We always take the name and address of every customer, but this man has given us several different names, and never the same address.’

  William was suddenly more interested. ‘Do any of your stallholders have any idea who he might be?’

  ‘One of our dealers says he recognizes him, but can’t be sure from where. He claims he doesn’t recall his name.’

  ‘You say “claims”. That suggests you’re not convinced.’

  ‘A few years ago, the stallholder in question was sentenced to six months in prison for handling stolen goods. The probation service asked us to give him a second chance, which we did – reluctantly. But we warned him that if he put a foot out of line again, he would be expelled from the society.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Ken Appleyard.’

  William wrote down the name. ‘And given your experience in the field, Mr Webb, do you have a theory as to why our mystery man is buying so much old silver?’

  ‘To begin with, I assumed it might be money laundering, but he kept coming back. So, unless he’s stupid, that didn’t make any sense. Then I wondered if he was melting the silver down, but that also didn’t add up, because the price of silver has fallen recently. So I confess I’m completely flummoxed. However, my board of trustees felt I should let you know, to be on the safe side.’

  ‘I’m most grateful, Mr Webb. I’ll brief my boss about your concerns, and may well get back to you.’

  The first thing William did after he’d hung up wasn’t to brief Lamont, but to take the lift down to minus one, where the police national computer was housed. A PC who looked even younger than him tapped in the name Ken Appleyard, and in a matter of moments a record of his previous convictions was printed out. It confirmed that Appleyard had been sentenced to six months for receiving stolen goods. William was pleased to see that he had no other convictions, and since his release hadn’t received so much as a parking ticket.

  William returned to his office bearing the charge sheet. Lamont was on the phone, but waved William to the chair by his side. William knew that the boss was assisting an Interpol inquiry into a diamond smuggling ring that worked out of Ghana and Dubai. Once Lamont put the phone down he switched his at
tention to what William had to say.

  ‘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 thumb screws.’

  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 towards 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 afterwards 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.