Chapter One
It was unreasonably hot, even for a January day. Albert Johnson wiped a grubby handkerchief across the back of his equally grubby neck and allowed the taxi – completely unbidden – to turn away from the baking streets of central Melbourne to the marginally cooler breezes of St Kilda. There was, he argued with his conscience, the possibility that one of the families who'd decamped to the beach might need a ride back into town. If the co-owner of the cab, Cec Yates, had anything to say, then he could blooming well try taking a shift in a heatwave.
Which failing, there was a property on The Esplanade where a hardworking cabbie was pretty certain of getting a warm welcome and a cold beer.
(Childminding being an optional extra.)
As he came to the end of Fitzroy Street, though, his eye was caught by a lovely young woman. She was dressed for the beach, her swimsuit covered by loose-fitting linen pyjamas, and her blonde hair tied back against the breeze with a brightly-coloured scarf.
All this fashion and pulchritude, however, was not what had drawn Bert's attention, him not holding with that sort of thing.
(Much).
Rather, it was the fact that the woman was walking away from the beach, in the company of a bulky gentleman who had her forearm in his grasp and his hat pulled down to hide much of his face.
The woman was not, it appeared, an eager participant in proceedings. While she was not precisely objecting, she was leaning away from her companion in a way that suggested her to be a captive.
As Bert watched, dumbfounded, the man stopped at the back of a rickety-looking van, and yanked open one of the rear doors. He then indicated that the woman should climb inside. The hand used to open the door had returned to his pocket and appeared to be pushing an implement into her side in a manner that certainly wasn't friendly.
The young woman shook her head frantically, and that was enough for Bert. While he'd never precisely cast himself as a knight in shining armour, he took a consistently dim view of people being told do so something they didn't want to; whether it was drinking-up time in a bar, or bedtime for a certain determined toddler of his fond acquaintance, he was a stalwart defender of the Proletariat against the Bourgeoisie.
He hauled on the brake, and leaped from the cab.
"OY!" he yelled angrily.
As introductions went, it served the purpose. He gained the attention of both parties, at which point the man withdrew his hand from his pocket to reveal a large, and apparently serviceable, revolver.
Bert paused, ready to dodge in the opposite direction to wherever a shot might look to be fired. The gunman narrowed his gaze, and lifted the weapon menacingly.
At this point, the young woman decided to re-enter proceedings. While she might have been hesitant before, the sight of the gun galvanised her to action. The fact that, at that precise moment, it wasn't pointed at her, probably helped too.
She screamed. At length. Loudly, and repeatedly.
What had been a quiet street rapidly acquired several curious and increasingly alarmed Melbourne citizens.
The gunman, glancing around in consternation, weighed up his chances and found them wanting. He hid his weapon again, and abandoned his part in the exercise. Dodging around to the driver's door, he leaped in, gunned the engine and roared up the street, the loose back door of the van flapping madly as he made a two-wheel turn into Grey Street.
Bert ran to the woman, whose screams had now become a series of breathless moans. He grasped her upper arms, and turned her towards him; as her tearful gaze lifted to his face, his jaw dropped.
"Miss Stubbs? Is it you?" he stammered.
"Oh, Mr Johnson," she whispered in response, and promptly collapsed in his arms in a dead faint.