"Thank me, what for?" asked the assistant suspiciously.
Daniel took the little green card the assistant handed to him. "For three of the happiest days of my life."
"What are you getting at, mate?" said the other man, but Daniel was already out of earshot.
He sat alone on the steps outside the tall colonial building and studied the official card. As he feared, it revealed very little:
Name: Guy Trentham (registered as immigrant)
18 November 1922
Occupation: Land agent
Address: 117 Manley Drive
Sydney
Daniel soon located Manley Drive on the city map which Jackie had left with him, and took a bus to the north side of Sydney where he was dropped off in a leafy suburb overlooking the harbor. The houses, although fairly large, looked a little run-down, leaving Daniel with the impression that the suburb might at some time in the past have been a fashionable area.
When he rang the bell of what could have been a former colonial guest house, the door was answered by a young man wearing shorts and a singlet. Daniel was coming to accept that this was the national dress.
"It's a long shot, I know," Daniel began, "but I'm trying to trace someone who may have lived in this house in 1922."
"Bit before my time," said the youth cheerily. "Better come in and talk to my Aunt Sylvia—she'll be your best bet."
Daniel followed the young man through the hall into a drawing room that looked as if it hadn't been tidied for several days and out onto the verandah, which showed indications of having once been painted white. There seated in a rocking chair was a woman who might have been a shade under fifty but whose dyed hair and over-made-up face made it impossible for Daniel to be at all sure of her age. She continued to rock backwards and forwards, eyes closed, enjoying the morning sun.
"I'm sorry to bother you—"
"I'm not asleep," said the woman, her eyes opening to take in the intruder. She stared suspiciously up at him. "Who are you? You look familiar."
"My name is Daniel Trumper," he told her. "I'm trying to trace someone who may have stayed here in 1922."
She began to laugh. "Twenty-five years ago. You're a bit of an optimist, I must say."
"His name was Guy Trentham."
She sat up with a start and stared straight at him. "You're his son, aren't you?" Daniel went ice cold. "I'll never forget that smooth-tongued phony's face if I live to be a hundred."
The truth was no longer possible to deny, even to himself.
"So have you come back after all these years to clear up his debts?"
"I don't understand—" said Daniel.
"Scarpered with nearly a year's rent owing, didn't he? Always writing to his mother back in England for more money, but when it came I never saw any of it. I suppose he thought that bedding me was payment enough, so I'm not likely to forget the bastard, am I? Especially after what happened to him."
"Does that mean you know where he went after he left this house?"
She hesitated for some time, looking as if she was trying to make up her mind. She turned to look out of the window while Daniel waited. "The last I heard," she said after a long pause, "was that he got a job working as a bookie's runner up in Melbourne, but that was before—"
"Before?" queried Daniel.
She stared up at him again with quizzical eyes.
"No," she said, "you'd better find that out for yourself. I wouldn't wish to be the one who tells you. If you want my advice, you'll take the first boat back to England and not bother yourself with Melbourne."
"But you may turn out to be the only person who can help me."
"I was taken for a ride by your father once so I'm not going to wait around to be conned by his son, that's for sure. Show him the door, Kevin."
Daniel's heart sank. He thanked the woman for seeing him and left without another word. Once back on the street he took the bus into Sydney and walked the rest of the journey to the guest house. He spent a lonely night missing Jackie while wondering why his father had behaved so badly when he came to Sydney, and whether he should heed "Aunt Sylvia's" advice.
The following morning Daniel left Mrs. Snell and her big smile, but not before she had presented him with a big bill. He settled it without complaint and made his way to the railway station.
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.