Primrose made the call, explaining that the detective inspector’s visitor would soon be on the way up with a lift operator, but Billie had a favor to ask of Constable Primrose first. It wasn’t for the whole headquarters to know about, though. Aware she was being observed, Billie began a banal conversation about picnic weather with her young friend. This was a code, of sorts, as anyone who knew her well enough knew she was about as likely to chat about a picnic as a poet was to write about the stock market. Constable Primrose nodded, understanding. Such was the atmosphere at headquarters, they’d been through this before. “Really, I do hope it will be clear that day,” Primrose agreed. The listening ears zoned out of the conversation with an almost audible click.
While Billie continued to talk about the forecast highs and lows and a possible stormy weekend, she surreptitiously scratchedXR-001on a piece of paper and pushed it toward the young woman.
“I would be much obliged if by any stroke of luck I could find out more about this before I move forward with planning,” Billie said clearly; then, like a magician practicing the technique of distraction that aided sleight of hand, she bent at the waist and pretended to straighten the seams of her stockings. Well, one was askew, actually, snaking slightly to the right, and she took the opportunity to fix it. If everyone wanted to stare for a while, it gave her the opportunity for a quick whispered chat as she leaned close to Primrose. “I promise I’ll drop the guy who owns the car in the lap of the police if I can,” she murmured. “I don’t think you have anything on him yet, though if you do, I’d surely like to know what. He’s known to his house staffas Frank. The families of some young girls in his employ are worried,” she finished.
Billie straightened, having said her piece, and the two women locked eyes. It was an agreement. Constable Primrose was frowning, clearly worried about what this Frank character might be up to. The piece of paper had disappeared into her pocket. Billie knew that determined jaw. Constable Primrose would help if she in any way could.
“I do hope the weather improves for your picnic,” the constable said brightly, resuming the coded conversation.
“You know how I love a picnic,” Billie replied, and her smile was sly.
She was just saying her farewell before heading upstairs when another woman’s voice cut in. “I see you are busy, as always,” the voice said rather pointedly, making Billie start.
It was Lillian Armfield. The legendary special sergeant had short hair curled back from a stern, watchful face and lips held as straight as a ruler. Hers was the countenance of a woman who had seen it all in her time as a nurse, and now famously as a detective. Her penetrating light brown eyes were fixed on Billie, and she suspected Armfield had seen her pass the number-plate details over to the constable, while the male officers were either fascinated by her stocking seams or minding their own business.
“Wasn’t I right about my young constable here?” Armfield said, breaking the tension by patting Constable Primrose’s arm. “She’ll go far.”
Billie let out a breath. Lillian generally approved of her schemes, so even if she knew the constable was helping her with something, she was unlikely to cause trouble. “I believe you’re right,” Billie said, recovering. “Right as always.”
Constable Primrose looked at Billie and then Armfield and appeared to relax a touch, though the older detective was of formidable reputation and her proximity was enough to give any young police officer the jitters. But Armfield’s attention was fully focused on Billie again, and those light brown eyes were giving her a familiar look. “We need more women in the force. Have you been considering it? Your father was very good in his day, you know.”
Billie smiled, then recalled his reasons for quitting. There were a few bad eggs giving the force an unsavory reputation, which Barry Walker had wanted no part of. Even after her father’s time as a cop, there had been a spate of police corruption in the twenties and thirties, which Armfield herself had been more than acquainted with as she famously battled the brutal razor gangs, as well as the brothel madam and “Queen of Woolloomooloo,” Tilly Devine, and her nemesis, sly grogger Kate Leigh, the “Queen of Surry Hills.” Had the police corruption corrected itself, the bad eggs been tossed out? It seemed a bit too optimistic. Yet Lillian was playing her part to cleanse the force, determined that new blood was needed, and particularly a better balance of women, who were clearly still few and far between.
“It’s more satisfying than divorce work,” Armfield added with an acidulous touch, knowing perfectly well the professional demand for proof of adultery in the private inquiry trade, and the often distasteful scenarios that entailed. Billie, on principle, never set men up with paid women to get what she needed as proof, though that was a common practice. But she had followed cheating spouses to catch them in compromising moments. It could be an ugly job, but the scenarios were real, at least. No frames. Billie did not enjoy that work, but she didn’t want to have to sublet the last of her father’soffices and acknowledge professional defeat. Her father had handled hundreds of divorce cases—after all, that was how he’d met her mother—and if it was good enough for him... If Billie earned a bit of a reputation—a good one, or at least an exciting one—she might attract more clients, and then she could leave the divorce work to someone else and focus on the trickier cases, like this business with the Brown family. A puzzle like this was more satisfying, though it was proving a lot more dangerous, too. It was yet to be seen how the unexpected publicity today would affect things professionally.
“Barry had the utmost respect for you, Lillian,” Billie said by way of response. She nodded and gave a look that told the older woman that an immense respect for her was very much shared by Barry’s daughter.
“I know a brick wall when I see one,” Armfield replied. She said it warmly, but with some regret. “Strong heads suit women,” she added to no one in particular and stalked out of the station, passing Detective Inspector Hank Cooper, who evidently had come down from his office, tired of waiting for Billie to seek him out.
Cooper was near the lift watching Billie—with a look of what was it? Surprise? Amusement? Curiosity?—and he turned his head to watch Armfield as she disappeared through the archway onto Central Street. When he shifted his attention back to the reception desk, Constable Primrose was a picture of dutiful professionalism. Billie ventured a playful wave at the detective inspector.
“You seem to be unavoidable at the moment, Miss Walker,” he said, striding over on those rangy limbs of his. His tone was even.
“Trouble comes to me, Detective Inspector, not the other way around,” Billie replied, straight-faced. She followed him to the lift. “And it’s Ms.,” she reminded him. “Besides, you asked me here today.”
Cooper waved her into the lift. “How could I not?” he asked. “You’re all over the papers.” He didn’t look convinced about her relationship with trouble, and she couldn’t really blame him for that.
“Indeed, I do seem to be,” she said as the doors were closed and they began their ascent. “Or rather, those unfortunate fellows are. I’m afraid I can’t compete with that display.” The men had picked quite a spot to lose control of the Oldsmobile, andTheSydney Morning Herald’s artist had made the most of it.
The inspector led her to his office, a small private room that smelled of cigarette smoke, frustration, and more of the testosterone she’d detected downstairs. Of the three, she didn’t mind the last one a bit, owing to her personal preferences, but the first two in this small space were just on the edge of objectionable. Central Police Station was becoming cramped and like so many government buildings was in need of a revamp.
Billie watched the inspector from the corner of her eye, trying to anticipate his next move. Was this meeting to be combative or friendly? she wondered. Would he throw his weight around?
He offered her a wooden chair, then walked to the window and hefted it open. Good manners, Billie thought. She thanked him. He closed the office door and they were alone.
“When were you transferred here?” Billie asked. She was aware of the comings and goings at the station, and this man had not been part of the equation the last time she was on the third floor. She would have remembered him. “Or perhaps you’ve been in Europe?” she queried.
“I served in the2/8th Battalion in North Africa and New Guinea,” the inspector replied, almost automatically. “Before being recruited to... a special unit,” he added. Few men who served werecagey about where they’d done so. It was the great divide in Australia and elsewhere—those who had served and those who had not. It wasn’t a conversation one could avoid during the war, or even now, with 1947 already close at hand.
Billie watched the inspector’s face carefully, considering his reply. “Z Special Unit perhaps?” she guessed, cocking her head. “Military intelligence?”
His expression replied with a possible yes, but he quickly closed down again, hauling himself into that clamshell she’d detected back at her flat. “I’ll ask the questions, thank you,” he told her tersely.
Billie sighed openly. “I have no doubt your war record is impeccable, Inspector,” she clarified. “I worked as a war reporter myself, until I came back here when my father was ill. But I do know some of the goings-on in this office. You’re welcome to ask me questions, of course, and I fully expect you to, but in truth I think we could help each other if we shared a bit of information. I consider us to be on the same side, if that hasn’t been clear before now.”
He gazed at her, temporarily unreadable. “I thought you weren’t interested in being a police officer,” he said.
“You have good hearing,” she replied.
