Heart of the Outback (14 page)

“Where are you from?”

“Sydney.”

“Right, there’s some urgency here. Now, how many people injured, killed? What kind of a car was involved? I need to inform the ambulance and the hospital. You’d better come with me in my car to the scene of the accident.”

“Oh. No!” Francey realised she had misled him. “Not people. I didn’t hit any people,” and to emphasise the point she shook her head vigorously. “Kangaroos. Two of them. They came out of the scrub, they didn’t have a chance. I had no warning. Bang. I hit them. It was awful. I braked and swerved but by the time my car stopped, all I could see was two animals limping off into the bush.” She sighed. “Poor things.”

Sam Bianchini had come to stand next to Steve. An odd expression crossed his swarthy face as he said, “Kangaroos? You hit a couple of roos?”

“Yes,” her blue-green eyes appealed to the officer. “I got such a fright. It was terrible. Please, come with
me and try to find them, we have to see if we can help them.” During her three days drive north she had photographed many kangaroos: at sunset, grazing by the side of the road, a mother and her joey too. She was appalled that she’d inadvertently injured two of the gentle creatures.

She watched the officer tilt his broad-brimmed hat back on his head and immediately several locks of dark brown hair fell onto his forehead. It struck her that he had an interesting face. Not good-looking, but interesting. A liveliness enhanced his eyes, which was at odds with the firm turn of his mouth and the stubborn squared-off angle of his jaw. It proclaimed that once he had set a course he would not be easily diverted from it. An impulsive thought popped into her head. I’d like to capture that face with my camera lens one day.

“Roos!” Sam repeated, dumbstruck.

Steve tried to hold down the smile that threatened to tug the corners of his mouth upwards. All this fuss over hitting a couple of kangaroos! Definitely a city dweller. Sam would get great pleasure in spreading this tale around town. It wasn’t hard to imagine the way he’d start it off. Did you hear the one about the tourist sheila and the kangaroos?

“No one gives a stuff about roos around here, miss,” Sam informed Francey. “They’re vermin. Eat the grass, cause accidents. No bloody good at all, except for their skins or to eat if you’re hard up. You’ve done the landowners, myself included, a favour if you’ve knocked a couple off.”

Francey looked up at the policeman, a sergeant no less, and saw a similar opinion reflected in his
expression. “But I may not have killed them. What if they’re injured, in pain? Shouldn’t someone investigate?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Spinetti,” Steve said slowly, liking the way her name sounded as he said it. “Police here don’t have the manpower to do that sort of thing. Besides, they, the roos, have probably bounded off into the bush so we wouldn’t find them anyway.” He glanced again at the VW. “And by the dent on your fender I’d say they were only dealt a glancing blow.”

Francey recognised the suppressed laughter in his voice and her spine straightened. Of course. She should have known. Country folk were used to dealing with this kind of thing. Every day. It wouldn’t worry them at all. They saw kangaroos and buffalo and wild pigs as competition for their cattle and sheep grazing. God, she was out of her depth. A city person all at sea in a country situation. They must think her an idiot. From deep within her the control took over again and she became the sophisticated, urbane woman skilled at covering up the odd gaffe.

“I see,” she murmured stiffly. At least she had to try to save face. “Thank you for putting me straight,” she glanced at Sam Bianchini, “on the roo thing.”

“No harm done — except to your fender,” Steve stated as he studied her. She was a stylish woman. Citified. He sensed a warmth about her, and he liked the way her cheeks reddened as she realised her complaint sounded foolish. He tried to ease her embarrassment by saying, “Drivers have to be careful in the bush. Roos are impulsive, irrational creatures. I suggest that in future you slow down and sound your
horn when you come across them. That usually makes them scatter.”

“Yeah,” Sam Bianchini agreed, then added, curiously, “Where you headed, love?”

Francey, regaining her equilibrium, remembered the business at hand. “Murrundi Downs station. Is it far from here?”

“About twenty kilometres the other side of town, heading south-east. The turn-off’s well signposted,” Steve told her. Then it clicked in his detective-trained mind who she was. “You’re the architect from Sydney, aren’t you?”

Francey’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Yes.” How did he know? Did she have “architect” stencilled across her forehead or something?

“Bush telegraph,” he answered her unasked question. “I believe CJ’s expecting you.”

“Perhaps you’d like a drink, or a cup of tea? Something before you go on?” Sam asked hopefully, ignoring Steve Parrish’s disapproving frown.

Steve wondered what Michelle Mason would think about her lover chatting the Sydney woman up? Not a lot. He watched her smile at Sam and shake her head to his invitation.

“No, thanks. I’d best be on my way.” A sudden anxiety to get as far away from these men — but particularly the policeman — consumed her. Why hadn’t she thought the situation through before she’d reacted? That was her trouble, her father would tell her, her spontaneous nature. She took things too much to heart, hated injustice and liked to be involved. Too involved perhaps — as had happened with Bryan. But over the years she
realised that she couldn’t help it, it was her nature to be like that.

All the way back to the car she felt the officer’s eyes — twin black beams burning into her. She slammed the car door with a loud bang to rid herself of the jangled emotions which rioted inside, and then she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to conjure up Aden’s image. Relief flooded through her as she pictured him, smiling. She sighed. The sooner she did what she had to do here and returned to her own domain, Sydney, and Aden, the better.

It wasn’t until Francey had driven ten kilometres out of Mt Isa that her nerves finally calmed down. The countryside looked different once she’d left the perimeter of the large mining town where access to town water meant greenness and flowers. Once she was out in the bush again, the land returned to the familiar reddish-brown colour with old stunted trees and low-growing shrubs of a dullish-green. Giant termite mounds sprang up like strange sentinels of the hot, silent land. The grass, typical of the harsh climate in which it struggled to survive, looked yellow and tired. The sights and places she’d seen on her journey to CJ Ambrose’s property had left a lasting impression, and she now had an appreciation for the vastness and toughness of the outback, something she wouldn’t have had had she not ventured by road out of Sydney. The people she’d met had been solid country folk. She wished she’d had more time in many of the towns she’d been through to do pictorial studies of the people and the quaint historical buildings.

At precisely twenty kilometres out of town she saw the dirt road turn-off to Murrundi Downs station. Undulating hills almost devoid of trees bordered the western side as she headed south, crossing over several cattle grids along the way. A thin line of shrubs and spindly gum trees marked a water course. As she’d travelled north, she had learnt that’s where the creeks lay. Elsewhere, unless she saw bore water windmills, clumps of anything green were rare.

Five kilometres further along Francey came upon the entrance to CJ’s vast estate. Two impressively high — maybe three metres — rough-hewn sandstone columns stood on either side of the road and spanning them in black painted wrought iron were the words Murrundi Downs. A wire fence on each side of the pillars ran off into the distance. Three large crows perched passively on the wire, as if watching the car, while overhead a kite floated on the air currents, alert for signs of careless prey. Her welcoming committee, perhaps! The sprinkling of cattle forever munching where they could find feed was evidence of the homestead being close by.

Seeing buildings in the distance as she topped a small rise, she parked and got out of the car for a better look. The red-painted corrugated iron roofed house and a multitude of surrounding buildings sparkled like an oasis amongst the surrounding plains of brownish-yellow, and further back a creek snaked crookedly across the property.

As she approached the homestead a three-tiered water fountain surrounded by a lush green lawn and a formal circular drive of crushed volcanic rock made
Francey’s eyebrows lift. It seemed incongruous in such a harsh setting. She parked near the front steps of the house which had been built in typical north Queenslander fashion: high off the ground, three metres at least, and on brick piers to increase ventilation. Masses of latticework had become trestles to carry both flowering and green vines, and they disguised the bottom level of the house. Wide sandstone steps proclaimed the entrance and on each side stood terracotta pots from which a profusion of pink, white and red geraniums blossomed. Even in winter the daytime temperature hovered around thirty degrees Celsius; obviously the geraniums had been tricked into not knowing they were flowering out of season.

The main homestead was indeed impressive. The high-pitched roof had several angles to it and ornate, carved timber adorned each apex. A wide screened-in verandah bordered each side of the box-shaped building and had French windows opening onto it. They in turn were bordered by painted louvred doors, showing the proximity of various rooms.

As Francey walked up the steps she straightened her business-suit skirt and took a deep breath to keep the growing nervousness at bay. She was about to meet one of the wealthiest men in the land and that made her mind automatically hark back to what she had read about the famous CJ Ambrose. Aden’s comprehensive file, thanks to his secretary, covered much of the private and public life of Queensland’s best known businessman. “The man with the golden touch”, journalists called CJ — mostly because every
venture he involved himself in made him wealthier than he already was.

She’d read about his son’s recent death and knew that his wife had died of cancer three years before. He had a stepdaughter, Natalie, and it was assumed that she would one day inherit the Ambrose empire. But what concerned her most in what she had read was the regular reports of CJ’s ruthlessness in business.

Success meant everything to the man. Instinctively, that made her wary even though Aden had impressed upon her the importance of this project to the firm.
That
had irked her a little. Aden’s firm was doing very well, she knew that from the quarterly balance sheet, so she didn’t understand his underlying anxiety for her to do all in her power to get the Ambrose contract. It was pressure she didn’t need. She would, of course, do her utmost as a matter of pride. She was as competitive as the next architect and didn’t need to be reminded by her boss that if CJ liked what she proposed it could lead to more work for the firm.

Mopping a film of perspiration from her face, she grasped the circular handle of the brass knocker attached to the glass panelled double doors. She struck firmly and waited.

The door was thrust wide open by a woman wearing a white blouse and a navy skirt. “Yes?”

“Good morning.” Francey smiled at the middle-aged woman with greying hair. “I’m Francey Spinetti. I have a morning appointment with Mr Ambrose.” She fished a business card out of her jacket pocket and handed it to the woman.

Shellie Kirkby studied the card for a few seconds then stared hard at the dark-haired young woman. Something … As her gaze swept over her features she had the strangest feeling that she had seen or met her before. And her eyes … they reminded her of someone. After a moment or two she realised she was staring, and she remembered when she’d seen her — the interview on
A Current Affair.
Of course! That’s why she seemed familiar. “Sorry, dear, you caught me off-guard. I’m Shellie, CJ’s sister. Do come in.”

“Thank you.” Francey passed over the entrance into the blissful coolness of the air-conditioned interior.

“Come into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I don’t know where Les is — probably around the property somewhere — and CJ’s on an international call. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

Left to her own devices, instead of sitting — she’d done nothing but sit for days as she’d travelled north — Francey strolled around the hugely proportioned living area. The floors were polished jarrah and the walls and ceilings were painted white, probably for coolness. Large circular fans rotated to help circulate the already cooled air. Stained timber louvred doors effectively screened off a large formal dining area and most of the furniture, apart from the occasional antique, had a tropical look. Cane had been used extensively and was attractively mixed with brass and glass ornamental tables.

She had read about Brenda deWitt-Ambrose being keen on
objets d’art
and she found ample evidence of this. A set of two Salvador Dali paintings hung on a timber panelled wall, as well there were pieces of Chinese pottery, probably from some rare
Ming dynasty, and bronze and marble sculptures. Busts of several famous Roman emperors featured on a wrought iron and glass wall unit.

She walked up to one painting to look at the artist’s signature and saw the name, Tom Roberts. Her eyebrows shot up in appreciation and then slowly normalised. Why was she surprised? The late Mrs Ambrose had been able to buy anything she wanted — her husband was a multimillionaire.

“You like Tom Roberts?” came an enquiring male voice from across the room.

Francey pirouetted towards the sound. A tall man, in his thirties, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt had entered the room from a wide hallway. “I do.” She smiled at him. “I like Hans Heyson and Streeton too.”

“You’re a traditionalist then?” Les Westcott asked as he came towards her.

“Definitely.”

“You and Brenda would have got along famously. She couldn’t stand the Dobells, Whiteleys and Dones of this world.” He held out his hand. “I’m Les Westcott, CJ’s CEO.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Westcott.”