Chapter Two
At what was possibly the most nonsensical statement a public servant had ever made in the state of Victoria, Jack's attention was finally and consistently directed at the Commissioner.
"I'm sorry, sir. For a moment there, I misheard you as suggesting there was too much money." He admired and respected Cooper, but it didn't mean he was ready to call out his own superior officer in the hope that he'd meet friendly understanding in return. To say he quaked in his boots would have been overstating the case. They were, after all, just brogues, not boots.
"That's exactly what I said. There's a group operating the docks here, and they are getting paid royally, and we don't know what for!" The crescendo in the Commissioner's tone showed his frustration as nothing else could. "It's not drugs. It's not bootleg liquor. It's nothing they're bringing in from the Orient and selling on at black market prices. Oh, I'm not saying all of these things aren't happening, but we've got a handle on those and we're tackling them. It's something else."
Cooper settled back in his chair while the DI had now started off on a new train of speculation. What could such an organisation be selling that had slipped beneath their radar? With the obvious candidates already ruled out, he turned back to the Commissioner.
"Can I ask, sir – how do we know the money's coming in?"
Cooper showed a glimmer of satisfaction at the question. Jack Robinson was an officer who'd deserved every promotion he'd ever received.
"At first it was just a few minor things. Observations here and there. When it's cheaper to buy a pint a mile from the docks than right outside the gates? That makes us think. When every man-jack on the waterfront who's got a ladyfriend prepared to accept the title has a home to go to with spanking new curtains and a shiny front door? We wonder. When Joe McCullum starts driving round Melbourne in a car that could give your Miss Fisher's Hispano-Suiza a run for its money, we want to shout the question from the bloody rooftops."
Cooper leaned back in his chair, and raised his hands as if in defeat.
"We don't know, Jack. We just-don't-know." He slapped his hands on the arms of the chair with each angry syllable.
"We've tracked the men. We've kept a close eye on the goods trucks and the shipping containers. Sometimes there's something worth looking at, but nothing in this league." He looked up at Jack. "We've agreed that we need to send someone to the other end of the line, to try to get a look at the receiving end. I know it's a big ask, Jack – you'd be kicking your heels at sea for the best part of six weeks before you can even start work – but I'm hoping the idea of being in London wouldn't be too deadly for you right now?"
That was a twinkle. He was getting a twinkle in the eye of the Commissioner of Police.
If for no other reason, he needed to leave town as soon as possible. After a short consultation with the timetables, the men agreed a plan and Cooper undertook to have his office book the passage. An alias seemed sensible, as he would need anonymity, at least at first.
Two telegrams were sent in the following hours, neither of which made sense to anyone but the sender and recipient.
P. Fisher, London
Strathaird STOP Benedick STOP Good Luck STOP Poorwill Melbourne
Butler, Melbourne
Wardrobe Benedick Strathaird STOP Missfish London