“Despite
your valiant efforts, Roberts, my guess is there might still be some stones we
need to look under.”
“Possibly,”
said Roberts. “I even began to wonder if perhaps Trentham had changed his name
when he first came to Australia, but the chief of police was able to confirm
that the file he holds in Melbourne is under the name of Guy Francis Trentham.”
“So
if the name’s unchanged then surely any child would be traceable?”
“Not
necessarily. I dealt with a case quite recently in which I had a client whose
husband was sent to jail for manslaughter. She reverted to her maiden name,
which she also gave to her only child, and was able to show me a foolproof
system for then having the original name expunged from the records. Also,
remember that in this case we’re dealing with a child who could have been born
any time between 1923 and 1925, and the removal of just one piece of paper
could well have been enough to eliminate any connection he or she might have
with Guy Trentham. If that’s the case, finding such a child in a country the
size of Australia would be like searching for the proverbial needle in the
haystack.”
“But
I’ve only got six days,” said Charlie plaintively.
“Don’t
remind me,” said Roberts, as the car drove through the gates of the
Governor-General’s residence at Government House, dropping its speed to a more
sedate pace as they continued up the drive. “I’ve allocated one hour for this
party, no more,” the young lawyer warned. “All I want out of the
Governor-General is a promise that he’ll telephone the chief of police in
Melbourne before our meeting tomorrow, to ask him to be as cooperative as
possible. But when I say we must leave, Sir Charles, I mean we must leave.”
“Understood,”
said Charlie, feeling like a private back on parade in Edinburgh.
“By
the way,” said Roberts, “the Governor-General is Sir Oliver Williams.
Sixty-one, former guards officer, comes from some place called Tunbridge Wells.”
Two
minutes later they were striding into the grand ballroom of Government House.
“So
glad you could make it, Sir Charles,” said a tall, elegantly dressed man who
wore a double-breasted striped suit and a guards tie.
“Thank
you, Sir Oliver.”
“And
how was the journey over, old chap?”
“Five
stops for refueling and not one airport that knew how to brew a decent cup of
tea.”
“Then
you’ll need one of these,” suggested Sir Oliver, handing Charlie a large whisky
that he removed deftly from a passing tray. “And to think,” continued the
diplomat, “they’re predicting that our grandchildren will be able to fly the
entire journey from London to Sydney nonstop in less than a day. Still, yours
was a lot less unpleasant an experience than the early settlers had to endure.”
“A
small compensation.” Charlie couldn’t think of a more appropriate reply as he
considered what a contrast Mr. Baverstock’s nominee in Australia was to the
Queen’s representative.
“Now,
do tell me what brings you to Sydney,” continued the Governor-General. “Are we
to anticipate that the second ‘biggest barrow in the world’ is about to be
pushed round to this side of the globe?”
“No,
Sir Oliver. You’ll be saved that. I’m here on a brief private visit, trying to
sort out some family business.”
“Well,
if there’s anything I can do to assist you,” said his host, taking a gin from
another passing tray, “just let me know.”
“That’s
kind of you, Sir Oliver, because I do need your help over one small matter.”
“And
what might that be?” asked his host, at the same moment allowing his eyes to
wander over Charlie’s shoulder in the direction of some late arrivals.
“You
could call the chief of police in Melbourne and ask him to be as cooperative as
possible when I visit him tomorrow morning.”
“Consider
the call made, old fellow,” said Sir Oliver as he leaned forward to shake the
hand of an Arab sheikh. “And don’t forget, Sir Charles, if there’s anything I
can do to help and I mean anything just let me know. Ah, Monsieur L’Ambassadeur,
comment alley Roust?”
Charlie
suddenly felt exhausted. He spent the rest of the hour just trying to remain on
his feet while talking to diplomats, politicians and businessmen, all of whom
seemed well acquainted with the biggest barrow in the world. Eventually a firm
touch on his elbow from Roberts signaled that the proprieties had been observed
and he must now leave for the airport.
On
the flight to Melbourne Charlie was just about able to stay awake, even if his
eyes weren’t always open. In answer to a question from Roberts he confirmed
that the Governor-General had agreed to telephone the chief of police the
following morning. “But I’m not certain he appreciated how important it was.”
“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.
Charfie
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.”