Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"I see," said Roberts. "Then I'll be back in touch with his office first thing tomorrow. Sir Oliver's not renowned for remembering promises he makes at cocktail parties. 'If there's anything I can do to assist you, old chap, and I mean anything'"—which even managed to elicit a sleepy grin from Charlie.

At Melbourne Airport another car was waiting for them. Charlie was whisked away, and this time he did fall asleep and didn't wake again until they drew up outside the Windsor Hotel some twenty minutes later. The manager showed his guest to the Prince Edward suite and as soon as he had been left on his own Charlie quickly undressed, had a shower and climbed into bed. A few minutes later he fell into a heavy sleep. However, he still woke around four the next morning.

Propped uncomfortably up in bed supported by foam rubber pillows that wouldn't stay in one place, Charlie spent the next three hours going through Roberts' files. The man might not have looked or sounded like Baverstock but the same stamp of thoroughness was evident on every page. By the time Charlie let the last file drop to the floor he had to accept that Roberts' firm had covered every angle and followed up every lead; his only hope now rested with a cantankerous Melbourne policeman.

Charlie had a cold shower at seven and a hot breakfast just after eight. Although his only appointment that day was at ten o'clock he was pacing round his suite long before Roberts was due to pick him up at nine-thirty, aware that if nothing came out of this meeting he might as well pack his bags and fly back to England that afternoon. At least that would give Becky the satisfaction of being proved right.

At nine twenty-nine Roberts knocked on his door; Charlie wondered how long the young lawyer had been standing outside in the corridor waiting. Roberts reported that he had already telephoned the Governor-General's office and that Sir Oliver had promised to call the chief of police within the hour.

"Good. Now tell me everything you know about the man."

"Mike Cooper is forty-seven, efficient, prickly and brash. Climbed up through the ranks but still finds it necessary to prove himself to everyone, especially when he's in the presence of a lawyer, perhaps because crime statistics for Melbourne have risen at an even faster rate than our test averages against England."

"You said yesterday he was second generation. So where does he hail from?"

Roberts checked his file. "His father emigrated to Australia at the turn of the century from somewhere called Deptford."

"Deptford?" repeated Charlie with a grin. "That's almost home territory." He checked his watch. "Shall we be off? I think I'm more than ready to meet Mr. Cooper."

When twenty minutes later Roberts held open the door of the police headquarters for his client, they were greeted with a large formal photograph of a man in his late forties that made Charlie feel every day of his sixty-four years.

After Roberts had supplied the officer on duty with their names they were kept waiting for only a few minutes before Charlie was ushered through to the chiefs office.

The policeman's lips formed a reluctant smile when he shook hands with Charlie. "I am not sure there's a lot I can do to help you, Sir Charles," began Cooper, motioning him to take a seat. "Despite your Governor-General taking the trouble to call me." He ignored Roberts, who remained standing a few feet behind his client.

"I know that accent," said Charlie, not taking the offered chair.

"I beg your pardon?" replied Cooper, who also remained standing.

"Half a crown to a pound says your father hails from London."

"Yes, you're right."

"And the East End of that city would be my bet."

"Deptford," said the chief.

"I knew it the moment you opened your mouth," said Charlie, now sinking back into a leather chair. "I come from Whitechapel myself. So where was he born?"

"Bishop's Way," said the chief. "Just off—"

"Just a stone's throw away from my part of the world," said Charlie, in a thick cockney accent.

Roberts had not yet uttered a word, let alone given a professional opinion.

"Tottenham supporter, I suppose," said Charlie.

"The Gunners," said Cooper firmly.

"What a load of rubbish," said Charlie. "Arsenal are the only team I know who read the names of the crowd to the players."

The chief laughed. "I agree," he said. "I've almost given up hope for them this season. So who do you support?"

"I'm a West Ham man myself."

"And you were hoping I'd cooperate with you?"

Charlie laughed. "Well, we did let you beat us in the Cup."

"In 1923," said Cooper, laughing.

"We've got long memories down at Upton Park."

"Well, I never expected you to have an accent like that, Sir Charles."

"Call me Charlie, all my friends do. And another thing, Mike, do you want him out of the way?" Charlie cocked a thumb at Trevor Roberts, who still hadn't been offered a seat.

"Might help," said the chief.

"Wait outside for me, Roberts," said Charlie, not even bothering to glance in the direction of his lawyer.

"Yes, Sir Charles." Roberts turned and started walking towards the door.

Once they were alone Charlie leaned across the desk and said, "Soddin' lawyers, they're all the same. Overpaid toffee-nosed brussels sprouts, charge the earth and then expect you to do all the work."

Cooper laughed. "Especially when you're a grasshopper," he confided.

Charlie laughed. "Haven't heard a copper described that way since I left Whitechapel." The older man leaned forward. "This is between you and me, Mike. Two East End boys together. Can you tell me anything about Guy Francis Trentham that he doesn't know?" Charlie pointed his thumb towards the door.

"I'm afraid there isn't a lot Roberts hasn't already dug up, to be fair to him, Sir Charles."

"Charlie."

"Charlie. Look, you already know that Trentham murdered his wife and you must be aware by now that he was later hanged for the crime."

"Yes, but what I need to know, Mike, is, were there any children?" Charlie held his breath as the policeman seemed to hesitate.

Cooper looked down at a charge sheet that lay on the desk in front of him. "It says here, wife deceased, one daughter."

Charlie tried not to leap out of his chair. "Don't suppose that piece of paper tells you her name?"

"Margaret Ethel Trentham," said the chief.

Charlie knew he didn't have to recheck the name in the files that Roberts had left with him overnight. There hadn't been a Margaret Ethel Trentham mentioned in any of them. He could recall the names of the three Trenthams born in Australia between 1924 and 1925, and all of those were boys.

"Date of birth?" he hazarded.

"No clue, Charlie," said Cooper. "It wasn't the girl who was being charged." He pushed the piece of paper over the desk, so that his visitor could read everything he had already been told. "They didn't bother too much with those sort of details in the twenties."

"Anything else in that file you think might 'elp an East End boy not on his 'ome ground?" asked Charlie, only hoping he wasn't overdoing it.

Cooper studied the papers in the Trentham file for some time before he offered an opinion. "There are two entries on our records that might just be of some use to you. The first was penciled in by my predecessor and there's an even earlier entry from the chief before him, which I suppose just might be of interest."

"I'm all ears, Mike."

"Chief Parker was paid a visit on 24 April 1927 by a Mrs. Ethel Trentham, the deceased's mother."

"Good God," said Charlie, unable to hide his surprise. "But why?"

"No reason given, nor any record of what was said at that meeting either. Sorry."

"And the second entry?"

"That concerns another visitor from England inquiring after Guy Trentham. This time on 23 August 1947"—the police chief looked down at the file again to check the name—"a Mr. Daniel Trentham."