Chapter Fifteen

When Jack gave her a foot up to scale the wall of the compound, Phryne admitted to a hint of nerves; but she reflected that unlike the rest of the women in the place, she knew she had around thirty friends in the immediate vicinity. They were all armed, they were all experienced professionals, and she had to confess that watching them prepare the drills for the night's work hadn't been in any way a hardship.

She dropped down lightly on the other side, and took a moment to scan the area. She had a scant twenty minutes. In that time, she had to get in to the building, find the women's holding area, infiltrate it and at the very least prepare them for what was coming. The raid was coming at precisely 5 a.m. and she knew well that no-one was going to wait.

There was no-one outside the building on guard. Unsurprising – as far as the gang knew, their location was a secret and the goods to be guarded were on the inside. Sticking close to the wall, she ran lightly to the double gates. Swiftly and silently she dealt with each of the bolts, leaving them ready to swing open for the police. To signal that the job was done, she tapped a Morse "O-K" and received the same response from Jack outside.

So far, so good. Next, to get into the warehouse. Sprinting across the courtyard, she reached the back door, and was forced to employ two precious minutes unlocking it with her trusty pick. She debated locking it again behind her, in case it was discovered, but decided that speed was more important.

Edging along the wall, she peered cautiously around the corner. Her best guess at the location of the prisoners was in a high-windowed block to the south of the building, so she began to creep in that direction. Footsteps coming towards her had her ducking into a cupboard, heart racing; two men walked past. Then they stopped. She tensed; but when one asked the other for a light for his cigarette, she relaxed a little. She heard the match spark, a muttered "Cheers", and the two continued on their way.

She met no more obstacles on her route, and peeking round one last corner, found a man sitting alone outside a single door. Bingo. Time for her act.

Reaching behind her, she untucked the skirt she had folded out of the way to let her climb the outer wall; the grey dress was a reasonable facsimile of the smocks the women wore. Reaching up, she straightened the headscarf turbaned around her head; and stepped out into the corridor, leaning saucily against the wall.

"Hello, gorgeous," she leered at the guard. He looked up, amazed.

"'Ow the 'ell did you get out?" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"Didn't go in, did I?" she laughed. "Hid in the truck when we got back. Well, I wasn't going to get you on my own otherwise, was I?"

He was still perturbed, but clearly flattered by the attention. Phryne sashayed towards him, lifting her skirts a little with one hand.

"You want it, don't you?" she taunted, smiling. "Come and get it, then, lover boy."

The man needed no further urging. He advanced on her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pinning her against the wall. Quick as lightning, she brought her knee up to his groin, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his shout of pain. When he doubled over in choking agony, she snatched a pair of standard issue Metropolitan Police handcuffs from under her waistband and cuffed his hands behind him. Her headscarf she tore in two, using half to gag him and the other half to tie his feet, with businesslike efficiency.

That done, she searched him for the key to the door. Unlocking it, her eyes took a moment to become accustomed to the semi-darkness, but the women were already rising from their pallets.

"Miss! Is it really you?" She grinned in response to Kitty's outburst, but held a finger to her lips.

"Shush! Yes, it's me, and I've brought reinforcements to get you all out of here. Right now, though, we have to get that guard in here and lock and bar the door. It's going to get pretty hairy out there in a few minutes, and I have to make sure we don't become hostages."

They dragged the guard into the room where he was dumped on a pallet and unceremoniously sat on by two of the women. The door was locked from the inside, and they then proceeded to drag everything movable in front of it. Just as the last piece of furniture was in place, they heard shouts from the compound.

Phryne and Kitty slumped down with their backs to the pile of miscellaneous furnishings. As they exchanged a glance, Phryne took her hand.

"Kitty, love, I know just what you're up against, but I would be very grateful for your help on something else. And it's going to start with some bad news."

As the shouts and shots came closer, the women – at least thirty, Phryne reckoned – were becoming nervous. Kitty, however, wore her pinched expression bravely.

"Is this about Mary?"

Phryne scanned her face and responded carefully.

"I don't know her name. I was just glad it wasn't you."

Kitty slumped back into the mattresses she was leaning against. How much more, thought Phryne, would this girl have to take?

"Where did you see her?"

"At the morgue."

It was almost more disturbing that there were no tears. No weeping and wailing, no tearing of garments. Just cold acceptance.

"She was six months gone, and couldn't hide it any more. We all knew something would happen. There's no getting away from the pimps; when you're waiting to pick up the next job, they're in sight to get the money, and when you're on it, they're round the corner. If any of us could have escaped, we would've. The time you found me, I'd just finished with a bloke, and Stocky – him, there, the one that Jen and Sally are sitting on – he was the one who coshed you – he'd only lost me in the fog for a minute."

Humour illuminated her face. "You can cosh him back now, if you like."

"Thanks, he's already got a lasting memory of my knee," Phryne responded drily. "I have to ask, though – do you have any idea how Mary died? Her body" at this, Phryne hesitated and glanced at Kitty's stoic face, " – her body was found in the river. The post mortem was pretty sketchy."

"I can guess," Kitty said baldly. "Slapper who's no better than she should be lands up in the drink. Who's going to check for needle marks or bruises?" Her brave words sat in uneasy contrast with her facial expression. She was fighting tears.

"Did you see her that day, Kitty?" Phryne pressed, trying to give the girl something else to think about.

"Sure. She was in the truck with the rest of us in the morning. Difference that day was that she didn't get out."

"What do you mean?" Phryne asked.

"Lachlan was with us that day. Stocky was driving the truck, but Lachlan was riding along. When we got to the drop off, Lachlan came and stopped Mary getting off, put her back on the truck and got in the back with her. They drove off. I didn't see her again."

As epitaphs went, it was about as bad as it could be.

Here lies Mary. I didn't see her again.

Phryne swallowed hard. "But you didn't see him hit her or anything?"

"No," reflected Kitty. "But you could ask Stocky. He was driving the truck." Her face, for the first time, lit up. "Or maybe we should all ask him." She looked around at the other women, who had been gathering round slowly, hesitantly. The sounds of gunfire on the other side of the door were a strange counterpoint to their conversation, and Phryne was suddenly alerted to the fact that she had not thought of Jack, or whether he was safe … or anything other than the tragic tale unfolding in this room full of women who should have been allowed to expect more of their lives.

She looked across at Kitty and raised her eyebrows.

"I think you should all do whatever you can to persuade him to open up. As long as there's something left for the police to charge."

By the time Jack shouted their agreed code through the door, getting the furnishings dragged away and the door unlocked, Stocky had waxed remarkably eloquent. And everyone present agreed that it was very surprising how badly bloodied his face was, given that it was a simple trip over a pallet on the floor that caused it. No doubt once he woke up he would be able to explain how it happened. It was no longer necessary, though, to investigate any further the cause of Mary's death; Jack was instructed to locate a bottle of chloroform and a rag, in a canvas satchel, most likely in Lachlan's office, which had been used to render Mary senseless before throwing her and her unborn child into the river Thames.

The raid had been swift and decisive. They succeeded in capturing all of McCullum's gang; and a search of the warehouse office revealed the all-important records of the women's origins and earnings, while Phryne's safecracking skills came in handy to uncover the ledgers, recording the funds transfers to Melbourne that coincided with each new shipment of women. Warren was over the moon. Lachlan McCullum less so. Stocky didn't appear to have much of a view.