Heart of the Outback (16 page)

“I’d insist on paying the money back, for one thing, and that would take time. And there’s the question of loyalty. I was taught that loyalty is an important attribute. As I see it I owe Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle. They’ve had faith in me, in my talent as an architect. It wouldn’t be right to leave them in the lurch to set myself up as a competitor, not yet anyway.”

“I’d say with the new business you’ve already brought to them that you’ve paid them back tenfold,” CJ interposed as he drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table.

“Maybe,” she shrugged her shoulders in acknowledgement. She had. Aden had said so, of late quite often. “Guess I’m just old-fashioned. I’d be uncomfortable accepting patronage from someone else and, as there’d be the likelihood of strings being attached, I wouldn’t like that.”

CJ laughed loud and long. Then he slapped his hand down hard on the table top, causing the crockery to rattle ominously. “By God, you’re not putting me on. I believe you mean every word,” he said, his voice tinged with unaccustomed amazement.

Shellie, who’d been standing by the doorway with a tray of mango sorbets, a light dessert to precede the iced coffee or tea, nodded approvingly. “Good for you, Francey.” She looked at Les. “Mike Hunter’s just called in, he’s down by Bindi Creek. One of the stockmen, Fred Muir, has had an accident. They think his leg’s broken. Mike said they’ll need a four-wheel drive to bring him in.”

Les grimaced. “Who’s around the place to drive out to them?”

“Billy Wontow. Mike has him doing some fencing around the western dam, where the soil’s eroded away.”

“All right. Have Billy kit out the vehicle so that Fred can be laid flat in the back. Tell him to take him straight to the Mt Isa hospital.” He shook his head, disgusted by the turn of events. They were short-handed and way behind in the winter season’s work schedule. Damn it for another piece of bad luck. Bad luck and strange happenings seemed to have dogged Murrundi since Richard’s death. “Phone the hospital and tell them he’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

With an understanding nod, Shellie about-faced to do his bidding.

Les’s general grin encompassed Francey in particular. “You might have thought life was peaceful on a cattle station. Not so. If it’s not the animals it’s the staff. Always some drama happening.”

Francey laughed. “So I see.”

CJ liked the way she laughed. There was throaty, honest amusement to it, nothing faked. And he could see why Les was drawn to her. She was lovely, in a slightly foreign way. As well, by the way she’d spoken
she wasn’t overawed by him either. Another unusual occurrence. The other two architects had fallen over themselves with nervousness and a willingness to accede to his every whim. No spines at all, he remembered dismissively. Somehow he didn’t think Francey Spinetti would be so accommodating. From the little nuances, the things she said and the way she said them, he deduced that she was an independent, strong-willed woman. His Brenda had been like that and he’d respected her for it, even though they’d had many clashes during their marriage.

It would be interesting to see the kind of design the architect from Nicholson’s came up with for the new complex. He had the feeling it would be like her, a little beauty.

Punctually at four o’clock that afternoon, Les knocked on Francey’s door for the grand tour, and as suggested she had changed into jeans, a clean T-shirt and Doc Martens. In her right hand she held a broad-brimmed straw hat to keep the sun off her face.

It took an hour and a half to see over the property and its various buildings and places of interest. He took her through the six bedroom house, and showed her where Lisa worked. One bedroom had been converted into an electronic state-of-the-art office with an adjoining door which led to CJ’s study. In the roomy, modern kitchen she met Alison Wontow, Billy’s wife, and was shown an area off the conservatory which had been made into a spa and sauna — though why they’d need a sauna so far north perplexed her.

Then Les showed her the room CJ had fitted out as a draughtsman’s office. Seeing it, Francey began to
resign herself to the likelihood of staying at Murrundi until she came up with a design for the new complex. What CJ Ambrose wanted, she thought wryly, it seemed he usually got!

The swimming pool and garden at the side of the homestead were delightful and Les promptly told her that the gardens had been planned by CJ’s late wife. Brenda had grown up on the coast and she’d been determined that if they were to live inland permanently, she would recreate some of the flora that abounded around Townsville. No expense had been spared to achieve this. The poolside and the gardens had been professionally landscaped, tonnes of soil had been trucked in and more wells had been bored to obtain a ready supply of water. Water was the necessity which kept everything green and lush in what was undeniably an inhospitable climate.

Francey marvelled at the height and density of the row of conifers that created a protective, living wall around the pool and the artificially grassed tennis court. And then they moved on to the other buildings. There was Les’ cottage at the back of the homestead; the station hands bunkhouse and kitchen; a small foreman’s cottage; two barns; a stable capable of housing a dozen horses and several outbuildings which housed a myriad of farm machinery. A small generating plant was separated by a high barbed wire fence and beyond that lay two dams still relatively full. Further back were mazes of fenced yards for the stock and way in the distance stood a huge, barn-like structure: a hangar which housed a helicopter and CJ’s Learjet. A thin black line lay beyond — the airstrip.

Francey took it all in with a growing respect for CJ’s empire. Already getting the feel of the place, she studied the high-standing homestead from a distance, and began to think about the type of design that would best suit the conference complex and where the building should be situated.

As she gazed towards the horizon she noticed something unusual. Out beyond the last building, towards the north, was a hill, no, not exactly a hill, more like a gentle rising slope. Atop the slope stood a large peppercorn tree. A fenced off grassy knoll surrounded the tree. Curiosity made her ask as she pointed, “Les, what’s over there?”

“The family cemetery,” Les said. “Several of the Ambrose family are buried there. When Brenda passed away, CJ had a plumber put in a water pipe to the area and planted the tree. Looks like a little oasis, doesn’t it? It’s quite a walk though, so we’ll leave that for another time.”

As they returned to the homestead via the swimming pool and garden, Natalie and her friend Trish lazed on a couple of loungers after a swim. From the window of his den CJ watched Les introduce the women to Francey. The two had spent the day at Lawn Hill National Park and were animatedly telling Francey that it was a great place to visit. He studied the three women, each of them so different, but his attention returned to the dark-haired Francey Spinetti. She intrigued him, no doubt about it. He frowned, as if annoyed by the thought and with a shrug went back to his desk.

S
teve Parrish sat in the wicker chair nursing a beer, oblivious to the condensation that dripped between his fingers then fell in a puddle at his feet. He concentrated on the sun as it set over the western side of Mt Isa; slowly turning the sky a pinkish-orange, then red and finally a mauvish-grey. This was his favourite time of day. He liked to sit here and recap the day’s events, going over the ins and outs of life in a big country town where often the worst crime committed that day might be a kid stealing a car and taking it for a joy ride. So different from Sydney.

His lips twitched in a wry grin as he remembered the dark-haired woman and the kangaroo story. Francey Spinetti. He rolled her name around in his head, elongating the syllables, and then his grin widened. She had been the high spot of an otherwise routine day. It was almost as if she had been
physically lifted from the streets of Sydney and miraculously deposited on the main street of the Isa. Everything about her screamed
city
, from her lacquered fingernails and perfect make-up job to her power suit and high heels. He closed his eyes and let her image form behind the lids. What a looker! A cosy warmth stole through his body and for once he didn’t fight it. Sometimes he did, but now he went with the flow, even though he knew he’d probably suffer later on with a restless night or erotic dreams that stimulated rather than soothed.

Sam Bianchini had said after Francey had marched off in high dudgeon that she was the prettiest sheila he’d seen in a month of Sundays. Not exactly original, but poor old Sam wasn’t big on originality. He agreed with him though, which he didn’t do often.

Thinking about Francey reminded him of Sydney. Up until three years ago he’d lived there all his life. Without wanting it to happen his thoughts kicked into reverse and took him back in time. Sometimes he missed the big city so much his gut tightened into a hard knot, but at other times he was sure he never wanted to walk down George Street or see the garish neon lights of Kings Cross again.

The best young detective sergeant around, many of his colleagues and superior officers had said of him. He swallowed a mouthful of cool ale, savouring the malty crispness as it trickled down his throat, then he leant back in the chair and closed his eyes. Christ, he had a string of certificates and awards to prove he was good. Not bad for a kid who’d grown up in Redfern and who could have just as easily
ended up a crim. But the accolades hadn’t done much good the night he’d almost got his partner killed.

His eyes flicked open and in the gathering twilight the expression in his dark depths was bleak. She’d been pretty too! Senior Constable Karrin Brookes of the NSW Police Department’s Drug Squad; his partner for six months. He chuckled to himself as he recalled … half the members of the squad had been running a book on whether they were in the middle of a torrid affair though it wasn’t so. Karrin had fallen hard for a guy in the hospitality business and she planned to resign when he got the expected posting to Switzerland.

The drug bust should have been routine.

Steve had been tipped off by a reliable source that a street load of smack was going to be packaged in a semi in Camden Street, Newtown. Routine. Bust them, charge them, write the reports, bloody pages and pages — that was part of the job too, the dead boring part. The raid hadn’t gone according to the book though, had it? Shit, no. It had turned into a life and death situation.

Warm, soft rain and a moonless night, deep shadows along corrugated tin fences welcomed Steve and Karrin and two junior police officers that night. From a back lane littered with rubbish they peered into the backyard of the semi through a rusty hole in the fence. As midnight approached most of the houses were in darkness and the area looked and sounded deceptively peaceful.

Silhouetted through the shades of the back window of the semi Steve could make out two people hunched over something. “Looks like the real thing.
I’ll call for backup,” he whispered as he reached for his portable radio.

“Shouldn’t we make sure they’re actually packing the drugs before we call? The sarge at Newtown station won’t be happy if we call a car out on a wild goose chase,” Karrin countered.

Steve nodded in agreement as his gaze roved over the tin fence. It might collapse if he tried to climb it, and he’d make the devil of a noise doing it too.

“We could go over the neighbour’s side fence, its palings are less than two metres high. Looks sturdy enough,” Karrin suggested, reading his mind.

“You’re intrepid tonight.” He chuckled as he spoke. He looked at Pete Forrest and Mario d’Agusta. They nodded in agreement. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Four minutes later the four stood at the rear of the backyard. Placing his finger over his lips, Steve signalled that he’d get close to the window to see what was going on. He carefully threaded his way through the piles of rubbish, tin cans, and old car parts which were strewn across the yard. At the side of the window he edged forward to peep through a tear in the shade. He recognised two men: Lenny Andropoulos, a known drug dealer, and a younger man, Paul Nixon. Both were known to be buddies in the Sydney drug scene. On the table lay a pile of drug making paraphernalia: scales, capsules, paper and plastic envelopes.

Satisfied, he returned to his team. “It’s a go,” he whispered to Karrin. “Call for backup. No sirens. There’s a narrow side passage round to the front, looks relatively unobstructed. Karrin, Pete, make your way out to the street. Mario and I will hold a
position here in case they try to flit out the back. When backup arrives, we’ll synchronise and go in.”

The call to the station made, Karrin gave the thumbs up signal and she and Pete moved off. Steve watched until they were out of sight and then, signalling for Mario to stay put, he edged towards the window.

In hindsight, Steve could never work out what tipped the dealers off. Maybe they’d had a
dog
on lookout. Suddenly the two men jumped up from the table and doused the lights. Steve strained his ear close to the window pane and heard furtive whispering but couldn’t get the gist of what was being said.

Then he heard a third voice. A scream. A child’s scream. Then silence!

With the traffic situation in King Street Steve knew it would take a police car four to five minutes to get to the address. But now there was a new dimension — a child the crims could use as a hostage, a bargaining point. Damn. Wait, he stifled the urge to react. See what their next move was. His heartbeat began to accelerate, the palms of his hands sweated up. The back door opened a couple of centimetres and the barrel of a revolver peeped out of it.

No time for backup. Maybe they’re going to rush out the back, he thought. Could they be bluffed into giving up? He hand-signalled Mario — a probationary constable with about six weeks experience on the job — to take cover. “Andropoulos, Nixon, police. We’ve got the place surrounded. Come out with your hands up. Now!”

“Bloody pigs. I told you,” a voice yelled.

The door slammed shut and Steve heard a bolt being thrown across it.