“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 allez vous?”
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 chief’s 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.”