Heart of the Outback (11 page)

“You sure?”

“As sure as a bloke who was scared shitless could be,” he quipped back with a grin. “What you want to know all this for? The young boss is gone, the old boss is getting used to him not being around. You not gonna stir up trouble, are you?”

“Just doing my job, Billy, that’s all.”

Steve could feel the hairs on the back of his neck
rising and knew it had nothing to do with the weather. Something didn’t feel right. He pulled his hat off and ran his fingers through black, neatly cut hair. Was he being overly suspicious for no logical reason? Circumstances and the coroner’s report pointed to the stampede and Richard’s death being an unfortunate accident. And who — if one took the opposite point of view that it was planned — would want Richard Ambrose dead? As far as he knew the young man hadn’t had an enemy in the world.

Steve Parrish had thirteen years police training and experience behind him. Ten years in the NSW Police Service during which time he’d risen to the rank of detective sergeant and served in a variety of squads, including homicide, narcotics, vice and police rescue. He’d transferred to Queensland and had worked for three years at Mt Isa, where he was now one of the station’s most senior officers.

“You finished with me, Steve?” Billy shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Don’t like this place.”

“Yes. Thanks for your cooperation, Billy.” He shook his hand and put his hat back on.

“You going now?”

“Not yet. I’m going to walk up to the top of the western ridge.”

“Why you wanta do that?” Billy’s curiosity got the better of him.

Steve wasn’t sure. “It’s the highest place to view the waterhole.”

Billy shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Okay, Steve. See you around. Maybe you come out to Murrundi soon.”

“Maybe. Thanks, Billy.”

He watched the stockman swing into the saddle and ride away then he turned towards the western slope. By the time Steve walked up the incline covered with loose rocks, low growing bluebush and saltbush and the odd termite hill, he regretted his decision to get to the top. Sweat glistened on his forehead below the line of his hat, and damp stains under the armpits of his fawn police shirt had formed. Still, the view was better, in fact, perfect.

Looking down he could see the waterhole, and because there’d been no rain or strong winds to erase anything, a multitude of cattle tracks sparking off in about six directions. How they’d scattered after they’d been spooked could be clearly seen. Yes, all very straightforward.

Curious, he began to wander about, checking the view of the waterhole from several different positions. The ground was dry and hard, with sproutings of acacias and mulga scrub, and the few spindly eucalypts afforded little shade from the sun. His gaze dropped to the earth and in a long dried up puddle he saw the impression of a horseshoe. Interesting. Billy Wontow hadn’t ridden in from the west, Murrundi Downs station lay due south. But someone had, and a while ago. And then … a chance kick of a rock unearthed what he had been subconsciously looking for. Something caught the sunlight and glinted up at him.

He dropped to his haunches and, using a twig, moved three brass casings from their hiding place. Bringing them up close to study, his tanned forehead creased into a frown. Unusual type. He couldn’t recognise the type of rifle from which they’d been
fired but the fact that there were three put, in his mind, too much strain on coincidence. His gaze scanned the bush around him. Not a lot of cover but probably enough for someone dressed in drab clothing, in the early morning light. He fished a small plastic bag out of his back trouser pocket and placed the shell casings inside. They’d have to go to the ballistics department in Brisbane. A long shot, he knew … no pun intended, but there just might be fingerprints, or parts of prints on the casings.

He stood up again and whistled softly, a habit he had when he was thinking at top speed. The horseshoe print and the shell casings put a very different connotation on the stampede. Three rifle shots, three casings. Small bore, probably. Coincidence? No!
Deliberate.

And then, almost casually, his dark eyes came to rest on one of the eucalypts. Part of the trunk had been shattered, unnaturally so. Frowning with curiosity he strode towards it. Trees didn’t usually shatter like this, he thought. He pulled out a pocketknife and carefully scraped around the hole. The dead bark and timber came away and something small fell onto the ground. Steve picked the object up and rolled it between his fingers. A bullet.

Suddenly he realised that he had to go carefully with this evidence. There was no point going to his superiors or to CJ Ambrose with half-baked ideas, mere theories. He needed more proof than shell casings and a spent bullet to show there’d been foul play. And if the media or CJ got wind of what he’d found before he could back it up with more evidence, there’d be a bloody circus.

He stopped whistling and began to remember the circus that had occurred on an investigation in Sydney, and had ultimately driven him out of the city he’d been born and raised in.

He stalked back to the four-wheel drive, turned the ignition and the air-conditioning on and stood outside until the cabin’s interior cooled down. Finally he slid behind the wheel and gunned the accelerator.

Careful, he knew that’s what he’d have to be. Damned careful.

T
he waters of Sydney Harbour shimmered in the morning light as the O’Connors’ yacht,
Good Times
, cut white water in the light noreasterly. They had sailed from the marina at Waverton, gone under the bridge, passed Circular Quay and were gliding towards their destination for the day, Middle Harbour. Brett O’Connor, solid of build and with sandy ginger hair, steered from the stern. Aden, an experienced sailor, so Francey Spinetti had found out on instruction from Brett, attended to the main sail, tacking from starboard to port to catch the prevailing wind.

In the yacht’s small cabin Francey and Meredith sat on vinyl cushions watching the men work. Both women knew Brett and Aden didn’t consider sailing
work.
To each it was invigorating exercise, fun.

“Nice for a change, isn’t it?” Meredith murmured, suppressed laughter in her tone. “Usually I steer while
you and Brett work the sails. It’s good that Aden knows about sailing, otherwise we’d be taking orders from the ‘master’ instead of being comfy and in here.” Shorter than Francey, Meredith had a freshness to her that was enhanced by styled shoulder-length light-brown hair framing an oval-shaped face. Make-up free she looked younger than her twenty-seven years and into her fifth month of pregnancy she had just begun to show. Under her windcheater she wore a multicoloured long, loose top over black pants to disguise the growing bulge. Meredith’s seeming light-heartedness hid a sharp intelligence that had seen her rise — getting a degree part-time and doing a string of courses — to the rank of sergeant in the NSW Police Service faster than most.

With the wind tangling her hair and caressing her face, Francey gazed surreptitiously at Aden, observing how he moved lithely across the deck as if he’d spent half his life on the water. Wearing white jeans, a blue polo-necked sweater and canvas sneakers he looked so fit and tanned that she concluded he must spend a lot of leisure time out of doors. Until today she had only seen him in work clobber: suits and ties. Aden Nicholson in casual clothes, his masculine form subtlely displayed, was a visual delight.

Studying him as he worked the pulleys and manoeuvred the ropes a frisson of excitement coiled around her stomach. It was the same feeling caused by the special way he had looked at her when he’d called for her this morning. On seeing him she had actually gone weak at the knees. But the next instant, in a contrary burst of self-anger, she brushed the confession aside. She was a grown woman for God’s
sake and it wasn’t odd to respond to a very attractive male. She continued to scold herself — she should stop acting like a silly teenager.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Francey broke her reflective thought. “You know Brett’s trying to teach me the intricacies of sailing. I could do with the practice. Maybe I should go and help.”

“Look at them. They don’t need your help,” Meredith retorted as she observed Aden moving to the bow to tie the spinnaker down. Her brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “So, give about your boss. Where have you been hiding him for the last three years?”

“I haven’t been hiding him anywhere, it’s just that … Well, until now it’s been all business.” Her friend’s half smirk made her add in a rush, “Honest.”

“I think he’s gorgeous and,” Meredith winked, “acceptable. Your dad must be over the moon.”

Francey rolled her eyes towards a cloudless sky, relishing the warmth of the winter sun on her face. The O’Connors were well-acquainted with her father’s obsession to see his only daughter married. “He is. He met him the night of the awards. Since then Papà quizzes me all the time about him. You know how he nags when he gets his mind on something. But,” again her gaze pulled towards Aden who was now with Brett at the yacht’s stern, “it’s early days yet. Actually, this is our first official date.”

“Indeed!” Meredith remarked. “The
Good Times
and the O’Connors consider themselves honoured. What’s his background?”

Francey knew that Meredith’s curiosity was caused by the detective coming out in her. She had
always been a stickybeak, seeking information about almost everyone she came in contact with. “North shore upbringing, private school tie, family well-heeled. He has a younger sister and a brother. Lives alone,” her lips twisted in a cheeky grin, “so I’m told, in a luxurious Neutral Bay penthouse. He’s been engaged once, so his secretary told me, but it didn’t work out. He started his architectural firm from scratch, straight out of uni, and has done amazingly well in ten years. Nowadays, the firm’s turnover is several million annually.”

“So, he has good prospects?” Meredith stated the obvious as she gave Francey a searching look. “It’s about time. You deserve someone nice. That bastard Steinberg did a real job on you. Turned you into a man-hater.”

“I don’t
hate
men,” Francey shot back, “I just find it hard to trust them.”

Meredith’s words triggered things from the past and, thinking back on it, she admitted that she hadn’t had much luck with the opposite sex. First, Mark Rosso. Sexy, Italian, a handsome young man. Mark had been her first experience at falling in love, and theirs had been a brief, passionate affair during her first university year. Mark rented a pokey studio apartment off Missenden Road where they’d met for lover’s trysts. Those had been heady days. Freedom from being under the watchful eye of her father, making love with Mark, attending lectures and tutorials, plus the seemingly never-ending round of parties. Not that she’d gone to many. She’d had to work her way through university and study, plus two part-time jobs had left little time for socialising. She
and Mark had parted good friends, though he’d dropped out of architecture in the third year. She’d heard that he had married his current girlfriend and they’d moved to Byron Bay where he worked for an architect, drawing up plans.

She felt no rancour or sense of loss when she thought about Mark. With Brian Steinberg the feelings were different. Nothing in her background — growing up in a modest home with loving parents, and a noisy Italian family with cousins and aunts and uncles galore — had prepared her for Bryan. It had all started so innocently …

“A penny for your thoughts, love?” Meredith clicked her tongue reprovingly. “You’re not thinking about
him
, are you?”

Meredith’s voice jerked Francey back to the here and now. She blinked and looked around. The yacht was leaning into the wind as it rounded the port side of Middle Head National Park to head west into Middle Harbour. “Yes and no.”

“Well, don’t. He’s not worth it.” She hastened to change the subject. “I think the guys could do with a coffee. How about it?”

“Sure.” Francey stood, got her balance on the rolling deck then moved forward to the small galley. The burst of activity successfully pigeonholed memories of Bryan Steinberg back into her subconscious.

As she prepared the coffees and opened a packet of biscuits she glanced out the bow and starboard portholes. Of all the harbour’s wonderful bays and hideaways they had explored in the past two years since Brett had bought
Good Times
, Middle Harbour remained her favourite. Parks ran along many of
the foreshore areas and there was an abundance of beautiful homes which, on some blocks, came down to the water’s edge. An architect’s delight. One day she imagined herself designing a multistoreyed mansion for a millionaire along one such waterside site.

Brett took the mug of coffee from Francey with a grateful nod of his head. “Want to steer for a while?”

“I’d love to.”

Lunch was a gourmet affair served by turning part of the deck into a table top. They all sat cross-legged as they ate, while the yacht, with sails furled, rocked gently in the lessening breeze. Meredith had gone to some trouble with the picnic basket: champagne and beer, pâtè and crusty bread, cold meats, two different salads, tabouli and several cheeses because her husband had a weakness for them, and for dessert, strawberries marinated in kirsch and cream.

After they’d eaten, the motion of the yacht, plus a couple of glasses of champagne and a beer for Brett, lulled the O’Connors into a semi stupor. They lay flat out on the deck on towels, using the furled sail for shade as they napped.

“I like your friends,” Aden said as he and Francey cleared up the remains of their repast, washing crockery and cutlery in the galley.

“I’m glad. Meredith and I go back a long way — to first grade. She met Brett on a blind date and for them it was the proverbial love at first sight. They’ve been together for three years and I’ve never seen a happier couple.”

“Brett’s in construction, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Medium density. He took over his father’s company when Fred O’Connor wanted to retire. He’s almost doubled the business since then. Meredith reckons he’s a workaholic.”