‘I’ve got plenty of my own business to take care of, without you hanging around with me.’

‘What business? You never said. I can come with you.’

‘It’s Elephant business,’ he says, gruffly, staring back at himself. ‘We’re expanding our operations. Freddy Moss thinks we should be moving west. I don’t want you involved with it. Besides, you do alright here, working with the others. The Forties provide security, and you never go short of clothes and money for the pictures, do you? You don’t want to be out lifting without the girls watching your back.’

‘You’d watch my back,’ she says, raking fingers through her hair. ‘I could help you, whatever the business is. Imagine: just the two of us, away from Annie Richmond’s rules, nicking stuff for ourselves. We’d make a mint. And I’d be even bigger than the Queen of the Forties.’

He glances behind, scowling. ‘That’s not the way, Ruby. You’ve had a good day, but don’t get cocky about it. We all have good days – and days when we’re a gnat’s whisker from gaol. Besides, you’ll do as Annie tells you, if you know what’s good for you.’

The finality of his tone tells her that there is little point in arguing now. She’ll try again later.

‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ she wraps her arms around him and nuzzles into his back, hiding her annoyance for a moment before turning him to face her. ‘Here, let me sort your tie out. It’s crooked. You can’t walk into the Crown like that.’

She repositions the knot to her liking, waiting for his frown to disappear.

The saloon is filling up. It’s only Wednesday so there’s no rowdy party, just people coming in to meet, drink and converse. Mostly men. The honest women are in their houses, trying to create miracles with scrag ends of meat and yesterday’s cabbage, but a few of the Forties are here. Billy swaggers in as though it’s he who owns the place, not his sister. He pauses at the bar to collect a gin for Ruby and a pint for himself and exchanges a few words with Clara before hailing his business partner, Charlie Wagstaff. Charlie and Billy run the betting from the Crown. Charlie, the more fastidious of the two, is sitting at a table, hunching his burly shoulders over a copy of Sporting Life, with several sheets of notepaper also spread out in front of him and his pencil scratching a scab on his ginger scalp. Charlie has a head for figures and a stomach for beer, counting up and down in multiples faster than most people can blink even when he can barely stand upright. Billy’s nearly as quick, but no one can sort the odds faster than Charlie.

‘Billy.’ Charlie raises his chin and shifts his chair to make room.