Billie ran it through in her mind. “If police come for the girls, and they have no warrant and can’t hold him, I worry what could happen.” She’d been unnerved by the contents of the shed and what she’d heard. She’d have to quiet the uneasiness in her belly and wait. “You get your warrant.”
“I will, Ms. Walker. I give you my word.”
“You can call me Billie,” she told him.
“Billie,” he said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
She described the homestead and its location in detail, gave the specifics of the motorcar and its license plate, and Cooper signed off to set the wheels in motion. She hung up and leaned against the wooden partition of the telephone box with her eyes closed.
She hoped she knew what she was doing, too.
Thirty
Shortly after midnight, Billie movedswiftly along the shoulder of the dark road in her quiet oxfords, having parked her roadster at a safe distance from the Colo homestead.
The quiet before the storm.
The homestead revealed itself against the night. Billie swallowed. Lights were still on, even at this hour. She wished for a sympathetic magistrate and wings under the inspector’s feet. She had alerted the authorities and could not do much else for now, but she had to see that Shyla was safe. And she needed to be there when the police descended. Shyla did not like police, did not trust them, and she had her reasons for that, reasons Billie thought she understood. But what else could she do? In any event, she could not sit this one out. For some reason Billie trusted Hank Cooper, she realized. At least as much as she trusted any cop she’d only just met. She believed he would come. She believed him, and, Great Hera, she hoped she was right to. She hoped he had believed her when she’d explainedthe significance of what was in that shed. She could not have been mistaken about what she’d seen.
The orchard across the road from the homestead was undisturbed, rotting fruit dotting the ground like a crop of small, open-mouthed jack-o’-lanterns, blackened and malformed with decay. Billie crept past and spotted the sooty owl, now perched on a piece of broken fencing, still staring at her with that skull-shaped face. This time it did not fly off. It was staying to watch the show.
Wait.
The gate at the driveway had been unlocked since her departure. Had Cooper telephoned the Richmond police after all? Could they have beaten her here? That seemed unlikely given the distance to Richmond and the sense of quiet at the property. Her heart eased a little at the second possibility her mind grasped on to. Had Frank left the property again? With another lot of goods for Georges Boucher, perhaps? Could she whisk Shyla and the other girls away in his absence? But as she made her way toward the ridge to approach the homestead from the south, hopping the rotting fence and creeping up through a disused paddock, she spotted the moonlight glinting off an unfamiliar motorcar parked beside the Packard outside the shed.
He is not alone.
Who was this visitor? A danger to Shyla and the other girls? Billie made for the shelter of the outer shed and waited. Satisfied there was no one in either automobile or outside the homestead, she approached the vehicle and noted its number plate. It had a distinctive fluted radiator grille. ADaimler? Yes, a midthirties Daimler Light. It was a fine car, as the Packard was, and equally out of place in the rural surrounds.
There was movement at the house, at the rear, close to the outhouse, and a light came on. Billie stayed low and sprinted the short distance to crouch beneath the lit window. There were no curtains here, just as there hadn’t been in the dining room. With such a remote property, perhaps privacy was ensured, and this man, Frank, did not worry about being watched. That was the reason he’d come to this place. To ensure his privacy, to ensure his freedom. What uninvited guest would bother him here, where even the fruit was left to rot?
Footsteps moved toward the window, and Billie flattened herself against the side of the house. A few clicks, and the sound of a bolt or lock, and then the window swung open on its hinge. Billie held her breath, then exhaled when Shyla’s face appeared, dark and resolute, gazing into the night and haloed by the light of a kerosene lamp inside.
“Pssst. Shyla, it’s me.”
A gasp, then: “You’re here. You found him,” in a whisper.
“You found him before me,” Billie replied, also in a low voice. She stood up and the two women were face-to-face at the window, Billie in darkness and Shyla silhouetted by the soft light from within. Billie’s hands were balled in fists, she noticed, and she uncurled them. “Shyla, are you all right? What about the other girls... are they here? Has Frank hurt them? Does he prevent them leaving, contacting their families? Is it as you feared?”
Shyla appeared to consider her words carefully. It was probably only a few seconds before she spoke, but to Billie it felt much longer as she stood outside in the dark bush by the window, wary, unsure, and utterly alone. “One girl, Ruthie, she has more freedom,” Shyla told Billie. “She makes the meals. She showed me the book, didRuthie. I took it for safekeeping.” The young woman reached into her undergarments and pulled something out, then handed a small notebook through the window. Billie took it, puzzled. Shyla spoke again, very softly, after looking cautiously over her shoulder. “The others are locked up. There are two girls, just kids they are, Ruthie says, and locked up for the men he deals with. She doesn’t see them, except to deliver meals. I have not seen them, only emptied the pans.”
The blood in Billie’s veins seemed to freeze. There was a lot to absorb in what Shyla was telling her, and she took a moment to recover herself and push back the bile rising in her throat. The sobbing she’d heard. It had been one of the girls. “How long have you been here, Shyla?” she asked. “Has he tried to...” She tried to form the words.
“I came two days ago for domestic service work. I told him I am twelve,” she said. “He’s ignored me so far.”
“He bought that?” Shyla was clearly older, perhaps eighteen, maybe even in her early twenties.
“His arrogance makes him blind,” Shyla said. Her clever caramel eyes flashed. “I can make myself seem simple, to a certain kind of person.”
Whoever this Frank was, he was bold enough to think he could come to Australia and do what he wanted, in the isolation of the bush, using young, even underage, Aboriginal girls to do his bidding, for whatever purpose he had decided upon. Shyla had infiltrated the house in a way only she could have. But it was risky, potentially downright dangerous, especially so far from any help. Billie was impressed, but deeply worried. Shyla must have read the concern on her face, because she added, “My mob are here. I’ll get them out with you or without you.”
If she anticipated some protest from Billie, she didn’t get it.
“I’m with you,” Billie said in a firm whisper, deciding that now was not the time to talk about the horrifying significance of what was in those sheds. “It sounds like those girls need out and need help. Is Frank armed? Is he alone or are there others with him? Do you have a weapon?” She looked around. Apart from the quiet rustlings of some small animal in the deep bush behind her, nothing stirred outside the house.
“He has a pistol,” Shyla said. “At least one, but he doesn’t always wear it. I brought no weapon, but it wouldn’t be hard to find things here to use. Knives, all these heavy statues. And I think I could get his gun if I needed to.”
Billie allowed a grin to turn up the corners of her mouth. She’d underestimated this young woman, and clearly Frank was vastly underestimating her, and Shyla knew how to use that to her advantage.
