Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

Charlie went cold as he gripped the arms of his chair.

"You all right?" asked Cooper, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Fine," said Charlie. "it's only the effects of jet lag. Any reason given for Daniel Trentham's visit?"

"According to the attached note, he claimed to be the deceased's son," said the chief. Charlie tried not to show any emotion. The policeman sat back in his chair. "So now you know every bit as much about the case as I do."

"You've been very 'elpful, Mike," said Charlie as he pushed himself up to his feet before leaning across to shake hands. "And if you should ever find yourself back in Deptford, look me up. I'd be only too happy to take you to see a real football team."

Cooper smiled and continued to trade stories with Charlie as the two men made their way out of his office to the lift. Once they were on the ground floor the policeman accompanied him to the steps of police headquarters, where Charlie shook hands with the chief once again before joining Trevor Roberts in the car.

"Right, Roberts, it seems we've got ourselves some work to do."

"May I be permitted to ask one question before we begin, Sir Charles?"

"Be my guest."

"What happened to your accent?"

"I only save that for special people, Mr. Roberts. The Queen, Winston Churchill and when I'm serving a customer on the barrow. Today I felt it necessary to add Melbourne's chief of police to my list."

"I can't begin to think what you said about me and my profession."

"I told him you were an overpaid, toffee-nosed boy scout who expected me to do all the work."

"And did he offer an opinion?"

"Thought I might have been a little too restrained."

"That's not hard to believe," said Roberts. "But were you able to prise any fresh information out of him?"

"I certainly was," said Charlie. "It seems Guy Trentham had a daughter."

"A daughter?" repeated Roberts, unable to hide his excitement. "But did Cooper let you know her name, or anything about her?"

"Margaret Ethel, but our only other clue is that Mrs. Trentham, Guy's mother, paid a visit to Melbourne in 1927. Cooper didn't know why."

"Good heavens," said Roberts. "You've achieved more in twenty minutes than I achieved in twenty days."

"Ah, but I had the advantage of birth," said Charlie with a grin. "Now where would an English lady have rested her genteel head in this city around that time?"

"Not my hometown," admitted Roberts. "But my partner Neil Mitchell should be able to tell us. His family settled in Melbourne over a hundred years ago."

"So what are we waiting for?"

Neil Mitchell frowned when his colleague put the same question to him. "I haven't a clue," he admitted, "but my mother's sure to know." He picked up his phone and started dialing. "She's Scottish, so she'll try and charge us for the information." Charlie and Trevor Roberts stood in front of Mitchell's desk and waited, one patiently, one impatiently. After a few preliminaries expected of a son, he put his question and listened carefully to her reply.

"Thank you, Mother, invaluable as always," he said. "See you at the weekend," he added before putting down the phone.

"Well?" said Charlie.

"The Victoria Country Club apparently was the only place someone from Mrs. Trentham's background would have dreamed of staying in the twenties," Mitchell said. "In those days Melbourne only had two decent hotels and the other one was strictly for visiting businessmen."

"Does the place still exist?" asked Roberts.

"Yes, but it's badly run-down nowadays. What I imagine Sir Charles would describe as 'seedy.'"

"Then telephone ahead and let them know you want a table for lunch in the name of Sir Charles Trumper. And stress 'Sir Charles.'"

"Certainly, Sir Charles," said Roberts. "And which accent will we be using on this occasion?"

"Can't tell you that until I've weighed up the opposition," said Charlie as they made their way back to the car.

"Ironic when you think about it," said Roberts, as the car headed out onto the freeway.

"Ironic?"

"Yes," said Roberts. "If Mrs. Trentham went to all this trouble to remove her granddaughter's very existence from the records, she must have required the services of a first-class lawyer to assist her."

"So?"

"So there must be a file buried somewhere in this city that would tell us everything we need to know."

"Possibly, but one thing's for certain: we don't have enough time to discover whose filing cabinet it's hidden in."

When they arrived at the Victoria Country Club they found the manager standing in the hallway waiting to greet them. He led his distinguished guest through to a quiet table in the alcove. Charlie was only disappointed to find how young he was.

Charlie chose the most expensive items from the a la carte section of the menu, then selected a 1957 bottle of Chambertin. Within moments he was receiving attention from every waiter in the room.

"And what are you up to this time, Sir Charles?" asked Roberts, who had satisfied himself with the set menu.

"Patience, young man," Charlie said in mock disdain as he tried to cut into an overcooked, tough piece of lamb with a blunt knife. He eventually gave in, and ordered a vanilla ice cream, confident they couldn't do much harm to that. When finally the coffee was served, the oldest waiter in the room came slowly over to offer them both a cigar.

"A Monte Cristo, please," said Charlie, removing a pound note from his wallet and placing it on the table in front of him. A large old humidor was opened for his inspection. "Worked here for a long time, have you?" Charlie added.

"Forty years last month," said the waiter, as another pound note landed on top of the first.

"Good memory?"

"I like to think so, sir," said the waiter, staring at the two banknotes.

"Remember someone called Mrs. Trentham? English, strait-laced, might have stayed for a couple of weeks or more round 1927," said Charlie, pushing the notes towards the old man.

"Remember her?" said the waiter. "I'll never forget her. I was a trainee in those days and she did nothing except grumble the whole time about the food and the service. Wouldn't drink anything but water, said she didn't trust Australian wines and refused to spend good money on the French ones—that's why I always ended up having to serve on her table. End of the month, she ups and offs without a word and didn't even leave me a tip. You bet I remember her."

"That sounds like Mrs. Trentham all right," said Charlie. "But did you ever find out why she came to Australia in the first place?" He removed a third pound note from his wallet and placed it on top of the others.

"I've no idea, sir," said the waiter sadly. "She never talked to anyone from morning to night, and I'm not sure even Mr. Sinclair-Smith would know the answer to that question."

"Mr. Sinclair-Smith?"

The waiter motioned over his shoulder to the far corner of the room where a gray-haired gentleman sat alone, a napkin tucked into his collar. He was busy attacking a large piece of Stilton. "The present owner," the waiter explained. "His father was the only person Mrs. Trentham ever spoke civilly to."

"Thank you," said Charlie. "You've been most helpful." The waiter pocketed the three banknotes. "Would you be kind enough to ask the manager if I could have a word with him?"

"Certainly, sir," said the old waiter, who closed the humidor and scurried away.

"The manager is far too young to remember—"

"Just keep your eyes open, Mr. Roberts, and possibly you might just learn a trick or two they failed to teach you in the business contracts class at law school," said Charlie as he clipped the end of his cigar.

The manager arrived at their table. "You asked to see me, Sir Charles?"

"I wonder if Mr. Sinclair-Smith would care to join me for a liqueur?" said Charlie, passing the young man one of his cards.