“Other men who come here call him Franz.”
Franz.A German name. “Where is he now? Is he still awake? And who arrived in the Daimler?”
“He’s at the other end of the house with the visitor, an older man,” Shyla said. “You should keep that,” she added, pointing at the small book she’d given Billie. “Keep it safe. He will find it in time if I keep it on me. It’s better with you.”
Billie looked around. Satisfied they were not about to be interrupted, she opened the leather-bound notebook. Not daring to use her torch, she angled it so the light of the sitting room fell upon the pages. There were some neat scrawls in German, but the small book was not in code. It was, in fact, too horribly plain. In the upper-left corner was written the wordKlient,in pen, and below it, in pencil,gin jockeysin quotation marks, as if this offensive colloquial termhad been added at a later date as a curiosity of language. Billie’s stomach churned. Aboriginal women were sometimes derisively calledgins.It was a derogatory and sexually humiliating term.Jockeyswere the men who consorted with them, the term seeming to imply their mastery, their superiority. Billie’s face was hot. It was worse than she’d imagined. Perhaps worse than Shyla had first believed. She flipped through the notebook’s pages. It looked like a list of transactions, yet it did not list monetary amounts. There were just the names, along with dates. Some had several entries beneath their names. She didn’t recognize most of them, butGeorges Boucherstood out a mile.
“Is this... what I think it is?” Billie asked. Names and dates. That awful slur.
“I did not know until I came,” Shyla said. “We must get the girls out, Billie. I must go now or he will suspect something.”
Billie’s fists were clenched again. She was holding in her hand a little black book detailing the indecent assault of the girls here. The girls had been sent to do domestic work but were being held against their will and horribly abused as some sort of power play by the owner of this book. His notekeeping would come back to bite him, she hoped.
“When he realizes the book is gone, you’ll all be in danger,” Billie said.
“We are already in danger,” Shyla replied simply. It was hard to argue against that. “Take the book. Keep it safe.”
Billie nodded, stuffing it under her driving coat. It was evidence. “Yes, I’ll keep it safe,” she assured her friend. Cooper, perhaps, was the right cop for this. If not, she’d take it straight to Lillian Armfield,and if that didn’t get something done, well, those names would find their way to someone who would extract justice.
Shyla turned to leave, then turned back and pointed at the book, her face dark with anger. “Notgin jockey.” She spat the words out. “Rapists.” Her rage was palpable.
Billie had let Shyla down by not investgating this man sooner. Three days had been lost since she came to Billie, but she’d had so little information and there’d been no way of knowing it was so urgent. And now Shyla herself was inside the house, and though Billie had her Colt, she couldn’t know what she would find if she went in, gun blazing. The girls might get hurt. He might use them as hostages. They alreadywerehostages.
How long could the situation hold?
“Does he suspect you?” Billie whispered.
Shyla shook her head. “I think no. I should go back,” she said again, pulling away.
“Wait... I went to get help,” Billie admitted, reaching out and touching the young woman’s shoulder. “I didn’t want anything happening to you. There are police coming. When they do, stay down and let them take the man. He is... he’s a war criminal.”
“Gunjies?” Shyla said urgently in a distressed whisper. “You brought coppers?” Her eyes widened with a stricken expression—the expression of someone betrayed.
“I know some cops I can trust,” Billie tried to assure her, thinking of Cooper. Constable Primrose, too, though she didn’t wield the same power, yet. This was too big to keep under wraps, even if Billie wanted to. “We can’t keep this from the police.” She patted the book of names through her coat. “They’re already on their way.”
Shyla narrowed her eyes, as if regretting having asked for Billie’s help.
“Please trust me,” Billie said. “This book is valuable, and with the right cops we can get him. There is more evidence against him in those sheds, and the cops need all of it. There is no telephone here, right?” she asked.
Shyla shook her head. “Nowhere near these parts. Richmond Railway Station is the closest, I think.”
“What happened to the other girl—you told me in Sydney there were four?” Billie thought to ask.
“She ran.”
Billie nodded. They’d have to see if they could track her down as a witness. “Have you seen what’s in the sheds, Shyla?”
“No. He won’t let us near them. They’re locked.”
And little wonder, she thought. “You just have to trust me,” Billie said, racked with anxiety and guilt, even though she believed she had done the right thing in calling Cooper. Or at least she hoped.
“Will you last another few hours?” Billie asked her.
“I’ve lasted almost two days here,” Shyla said, as if insulted.
“Okay.” Billie felt suitably chastened. She knew the cops would be a mixed blessing for Shyla. They would end this madness, but what else might they bring? “I’ll stay nearby and watch until the right moment,” she promised. “I’ll be in the bush, out there.” She pointed. “I’m sorry about the police, Shyla. I truly am. But there is no other way.” She pulled back from the window and slipped away from the house.
A noise grabbed her attention—a grunt?—and she turned. Therewas a rush of movement in the darkened room, shadows whirling, and Billie frantically retraced her steps.
