Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

When the train from Sydney pulled into Spencer Street Station in Melbourne that evening, Daniel's first action was to check the local telephone directory, just in case there was a Trentham listed, but there was none. Next he telephoned every bookmaker who was registered in the city, but it was not until he spoke to the ninth that Daniel came across anyone to whom the name meant anything.

"Sounds familiar," said a voice on the other end of the line. "But can't remember why. You could try Brad Morris, though. He ran this office around that time, so he may be able to help you. You'll find his number in the book."

Daniel looked up his number. When he was put through to Mr. Morris, his conversation with the old man was so short that it didn't require a second coin.

"Does the name 'Guy Trentham' mean anything to you?" he asked once again.

"The Englishman?"

"Yes," Daniel replied, feeling his pulse quicken.

"Spoke with a posh accent and told everyone he was a major?"

"Might well have done."

"Then try the jailhouse, because that's where he finished up." Daniel would have asked why but the line had already gone dead.

He was still shaking from head to toe when he dragged his trunk out of the station and checked into the Railway Hotel on the other side of the road. Once again, he lay on a single bed, in a small dark room, trying to make up his mind whether he should continue with his inquiries or simply avoid the truth and do as Sylvia had advised, take the first boat back to England.

He fell asleep in the early evening, but woke again in the middle of the night to find he was still fully dressed. By the time the early morning sun shone through the window he had made up his mind. He didn't want to know, he didn't need to know, and he would return to England immediately.

But first he decided to have a bath, and a change of clothes, and by the time he had done that he had also changed his mind.

Daniel came down to the lobby half an hour later and asked the receptionist where the main police station was located. The man behind the desk directed him down the road to Bourke Street.

"Was your room that bad?" he inquired.

Daniel gave a false laugh. He set off slowly and full of apprehension in the direction he had been shown. It took him only a few minutes to reach Bourke Street but he circled the block several times before he finally climbed the stone steps of the police station and entered the building.

The young duly sergeant showed no recognition when he heard the name of "Trentham" and simply inquired who it was who wanted to know.

"A relation of his from England," replied Daniel. The sergeant left him at the counter and walked over to the far side of the room to speak to a senior officer seated behind a desk, who was patiently turning over photographs. The officer stopped what he was doing and listened carefully, then appeared to ask the sergeant something. In response the sergeant turned and pointed at Daniel. Bastard, thought Daniel. You're a little bastard. A moment later the sergeant returned to the front desk.

"We've closed the file on Trentham," he said. "Any further inquiries would have to be made at the Prison Department."

Daniel almost lost his voice, but somehow managed, "Where's that?"

"Seventh floor," he said, pointing up.

When he stepped out of the lift on the seventh floor, Daniel was confronted by a larger-than-life poster showing a warm-faced man bearing the name Hector Watts, Inspector-General of Prisons.

Daniel walked over to the inquiry desk and asked if he could see Mr. Watts.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No," said Daniel.

"Then I doubt—"

"Would you be kind enough to explain to the inspector-general that I have traveled from England especially to see him?"

Daniel was kept waiting for only a few moments before he was shown up to the eighth floor. The same warm smile that appeared in the picture now beamed down at him in reality, even if the lines in the face were a little deeper. Daniel judged Hector Watts to be near his sixtieth birthday and, although overweight, he still looked as if he could take care of himself.

"Which part of England do you come from?" Watts asked.

"Cambridge," Daniel told him. "I teach mathematics at the university."

"I'm from Glasgow myself," Watts said. "Which won't come as a surprise to you, with my name and accent. So, please have a seat and tell me what I can do for you."

"I'm trying to trace a Guy Trentham, and the Police Department have referred me to you."

"Oh, yes, I remember that name. But why do I remember it?" The Scotsman rose from his desk and went over to a row of filing cabinets that lined the wall behind him. He pulled open the one marked "STV," and extracted a large box file.

"Trentham," he repeated, as he thumbed through the papers inside the box, before finally removing two sheets. He returned to his desk and, having placed the sheets in front of him, began reading. After he had absorbed the details, he looked up and studied Daniel more carefully.

"Been here long, have you, laddie?"

"Arrived in Sydney less than a week ago," said Daniel, puzzled by the question.

"And never been to Melbourne before?"

"No, never."

"So what's the reason for your inquiry?"

"I wanted to find out anything I could about Captain Guy Trentham."

"Why?" asked the inspector-general. "Are you a journo?"

"No," said Daniel, "I'm a teacher but—"

"Then you must have had a very good reason for traveling this far."

"Curiosity, I suppose," said Daniel. "You see, although I never knew him, Guy Trentham was my father."

The head of the prison service looked down at the names listed on the sheet as next of kin: wife, Anna Helen, (deceased), one daughter, Margaret Ethel. There was no mention of a son. He looked back up at Daniel and, after a few moments of contemplation, came to a decision.

"I'm sorry to tell you, Mr. Trentham, that your father died while he was in police custody."

Daniel was stunned, and began shaking.

Watts looked across his desk and added, "I'm sorry to have to give you such unhappy news, especially when you've traveled all this way."

"What was the cause of his death?" Daniel whispered.

The inspector-general turned the page, checked the bottom line of the charge sheet in front of him and reread the words: "Hanged by the neck until dead." He looked back up at Daniel.

"A heart attack," he said.

Daniel took the sleeper back to Sydney, but he didn't sleep. All he wanted to do was get as far away from Melbourne as he possibly could. As every mile slipped by, he relaxed a little more, and after a time was even able to eat half a sandwich from the buffet car. When the train pulled into the station of Australia's largest city he jumped off, loaded his trunk into a taxi and headed straight for the port. He booked himself on the first boat sailing to the west coast of America.

The tiny tramp steamer, only licensed to carry four passengers, sailed at midnight for San Francisco, and Daniel wasn't allowed on board until he had handed over to the captain the full fare in cash, leaving himself just enough to get back to England as long as he wasn't stranded anywhere on the way.

During that bobbing, swaying, endless crossing back to America Daniel spent most of his time lying on a bunk, which gave him easily enough time to consider what he should do with the information he now possessed. He also tried to come to terms with the anxieties his mother must have suffered over the years and what a fine man his stepfather was. How he hated the word "stepfather." He would never think of Charlie that way. If only they had taken him into their confidence from the beginning he could surely have used his talents to help rather than waste so much of his energy trying to find out the truth. But he was now even more painfully aware that he couldn't let them become aware of what he had discovered, as he probably knew more than they did.