Heart of the Outback (41 page)

“So far all I can see is that you had a motive. Jealousy. If you didn’t do it you need to come up with an alibi, old son. Where were you on the night the stampede took place?” He looked at his notebook again. “That was Thursday, 28 February, 1996.”

“Jesus Christ, how the hell do I know where I was that long ago? I can’t damned well remember
what I did last week.” Paul ran a hand through his unruly dark hair.

“Well, I’m going to give you some time to see if you can dig something out of your memories. Maybe it’ll come to you. Otherwise you’re coming back to the Isa with me for further questioning.”

“Do you want a tea or coffee?” the young constable asked the now distraught Andronicus.

“What? Yeah. Yeah. Black coffee with two sugars. Thanks.”

The two policemen left the room, leaving Paul Andronicus with his thoughts.

Outside the young constable asked Steve, “Do you think he did it?”

“Hard to tell. He’s sweating like a guilty man, but I don’t know.” Steve paused for a moment’s reflection. “It would be neat for me if he was. I could close the file. We’ll give him half an hour, that’s enough time for him to sweat.”

“Right.”

“How long have you been in the job?” Steve asked the young constable.

“Six weeks. Does it show?” The younger man grinned nervously at the more experienced policeman.

Steve smiled sympathetically. “Not much.”

Steve let Paul Andronicus stew in the interrogation room for forty-five minutes before returning to him, by which time the guy’s tan had faded markedly. He noticed that the offender’s hands were trembling and that he laced them together so it was less obvious.

“Okay, you’ve had plenty of time to reflect. Care to make a statement?”

Andronicus nodded his head. “I didn’t do it. I’ve been trying to think of where I might have been that night. It’s bloody hard trying to remember that far back. Somehow, I think I was either at one of two places. Playing snooker or at the Burke and Wills Isa Resort in a back room playing cards.”

“I’ll need names so I can have your story verified.” Steve’s optimism plummeted. What if his story checked out? If Andronicus could corroborate his whereabouts that night?

“You see, it came back to me when I got to think about it. On Thursday nights in the Isa, if I wasn’t on a date, I’d play snooker or cards. You can check with Remy Schneider on the snooker and, let me think. If it was cards I’d have been with Sam Bianchini, Jerry Duvall and Alby Watts. We had a regular foursome.”

“You’re sure?” Steve asked as he wrote the details down on a pad.

“As sure as I can be with my memory.”

Steve looked at the constable. “Take him back to the cells while I check his alibi. It will take several hours.”

“You see, Sergeant,” Andronicus said as he went out, “I really didn’t do it. I just hope you catch the bastard that did.”

It took four hours for the Mt Isa police to track down those named by Andronicus. His alibi checked out.

Damn it, back to square one again. Steve’s expression was bleak as he left the police station. He’d been fairly certain that Andronicus had been involved. He wandered along the park which bordered the shoreline. The tide was out and sepia
coloured mud flats stretched almost a hundred metres out to sea. He scarcely noticed them. His thoughts centred on the Ambrose investigation. Where could it go from here? He’d better come up with something. His boss, Inspector Reg Clarke, had made several dire mutterings that an officer with his experience should be working in Brisbane where his expertise could be put to better use.

Steve frowned as he walked along, kicking a stone into the mud as he went. Where had his boss got such an idea? Had someone put it into his head, he wondered?

“Natalie deWitt-Ambrose speaking.”

“Hi, love, it’s Trish. I’ve got something for you.”

God, she wished she hadn’t but she had dug deep and found something unsavoury on Francey Spinetti.

“On Francey?”

“Yes. Her old boss, Aden Nicholson, gave me a clue or two. He’s still liverish that she dumped him, business-wise. She was a real dollar earner for his company, you know.”

“Really.” Natalie’s tone betrayed her impatience. She didn’t want to hear plaudits about Francey Spinetti. She was up to her eyeballs in that kind of information. “What did he say?”

“She had an affair at university with her tutor, a professor called Bryan Steinberg.”

“Jesus! What’s radical about that? Probably half the students at Sydney uni have had it off with their lecturers or tutors. It’s one way of getting a passing grade, I guess.” Her long, tapered fingers began to drum rhythmically on the desk top. What was Trish
doing? Having a nice holiday in Sydney at her expense. She’d better not be. This wasn’t what she wanted. It had to be something with more oomph than an affair.

Trish added hastily, “There’s more. Steinberg was married with two kids. Nicholson said Francey didn’t know that at the time of the affair, but we’ve only her word for that. She told him that she found out he was a family man when the wife fronted her and asked her to leave her husband, Bryan, alone.”

“That’s interesting…” Natalie said slowly, fingers drumming, “but …”

“Here’s the best bit. I’m not sure even Francey knows. Aden did a little digging himself, he’s a nosy bastard. He learned that Steinberg’s wife, she’s supposedly a touch nervy, had a stroke because of the trauma caused by her husband’s affair. She was totally devoted to him. Poor woman’s confined to a wheelchair, I checked that out and it’s true.”

Trish took a deep breath and in doing so smothered what remained of her conscience. She might as well get it over with. “Natalie, picture the headline:
Brilliant architect ruins marriage and disables innocent wife.
Should do well in one of the women’s rags, don’t you think?”

“Bloody beautiful!” Natalie’s blue eyes glinted maliciously. She had her! The feeling was sweet, as sweet as good sex. Mmmm … Which reminded her. “When are you coming home?”

After a pause, Trish replied, “Tonight. See you then, lover.”

F
rancey checked and then rechecked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing down the skirt, fiddling with the shoestring straps, realigning the pearl pendant around her neck and the drop earrings. She had chosen the black sheath gown she’d worn the night she had won the architectural award in Sydney because CJ had waggled a finger at her and said that she had to look her glamorous best. As her gaze ran over the gown’s close-fitting form she reflected that this was the most sophisticated outfit she owned.

God, she was nervous. She wasn’t used to being made a public fuss of. Her parents had never had the wherewithal to do so. The thought came to her that maybe she had erred in telling CJ that one day when they’d been chatting. The wretch had remembered and somehow got it into his head that she’d been deprived and secretly wanted a big bash, even though she’d told
him, pointedly and repeatedly, that she didn’t. Aarghh! There were times when she could cheerfully throttle CJ, no matter how well meant the gesture was.

She could hear people arriving, they were coming from everywhere. Flying in from surrounding cattle stations as far away as Normanton to the north and Charters Towers to the east. And there’d be a generous sprinkling of the top echelon of businesspeople in and around Mt Isa. The CEO of the mine, just about everyone on the Chamber of Commerce, and as if that wasn’t bad enough several politicians, long time cronies of CJ were expected. Of course there’d be plenty of friends too. She’d made quite a few since coming to the Isa.

She sat on the backless dressing table stool to do her hair. Up tonight, she decided. A French roll with a couple of loose curls hanging down near the temples. Steve liked it that way. Usually she left her hair loose because it was so untameable but tonight called for an air of sophistication so she decided her hair should look special too. Pleased with the result, she stood up and took several deep breaths. Time to mingle …

The staff at Murrundi, including Shellie, Lisa, Alison and the stockmen, had gone all-out for Francey’s party.

Fairy lights were strung in the pine trees bordering the pool, coloured lanterns hung on ropes around the garden and the canvas sails which normally shaded the pool in summer had been erected to keep any evening dew at bay. In autumn the mornings and nights were generally cooler, but not cold enough to force people indoors. Casual furniture and extra tables and chairs were scattered
around the lawn and several waiters bustled about the outdoor bar preparing the glasses and beverages. Tuning up for the evening was a five-piece band on a makeshift stage at the other end of the pool. The overall effect was one of festivity.

Francey stood on the verandah watching. She blinked a couple of times and shook her head in amazement. All this fuss for her! Beyond the pool she could see the lights of the mini conference centre glowing through the pines. The rooms were being put to good use to accommodate overnight guests and the kitchen was busy preparing supper. Two spits were already turning with sides of beef and lamb and along the verandah were long trestle tables covered in table cloths on which supper would later be served.

“What are you doing? Hiding?” CJ came up and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re the star attraction. Come on,” he took hold of her hand. “There’s some people, neighbours from up Camooweal way I’d like you to meet. They were very impressed with the way you got the workers at the Cloncurry abattoirs on side.”

Francey turned to look at him and, as she did, it was hard not to show her surprise at his changed appearance. The operation and treatment in Geneva had cost him. There was the scar, of course and most of his hair had fallen out. He’d lost close to ten kilos in weight, which made him look trimmer and, thank goodness, his colour had returned. He was so different to how he’d been when he’d first got back — a pale and exhausted old man. Tonight, in his dinner suit, he looked almost like the CJ of old and she was glad.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

She smiled and improvised. “I didn’t expect you to be wearing a dinner suit. Very impressive.”

“Couldn’t fit into it before but now I’ve lost some weight, I thought I’d give it an airing.”

“You look splendid.”

“As do you, my dear,” he said gallantly, smiling at her lie. “Shall we?”

The party was in full swing by the time Natalie and Trish made their appearance. For most of the afternoon Natalie had threatened to boycott the event, and had planned to claim she had a dreadful headache. Only Trish’s skilful diplomacy had turned her around. She’d said that it was poor tactics to be seen to be hurt by the way CJ was spoiling Francey and that it wouldn’t be wise to let people assume that she was jealous of the
birthday girl.
Nor would it be smart to let CJ sense it. Now more than ever he seemed inclined to make the occasional comparison between Francey and Natalie in which his stepdaughter usually came off second-best.

Natalie, standing on the fringe of the crowd and exquisitely outfitted in an ice blue short skirt cocktail frock of pure silk with a matching stole, displayed the elegance of the wealthy woman she was. Trish, too, looked stunning in a pink shot satin number that Natalie’d bought for her.

Les Westcott, who mostly gave Natalie a wide berth, was inordinately attentive. He organised their drinks and their hors d’oeuvre and made polite chitchat. When the conversation dropped to a lull, their gazes became jointly glued on the tableau of Steve Parrish and Francey dancing together.

“Make a nice couple, don’t they?” Natalie said to Les with tongue-in-cheek sweetness. Instinct told her he wanted Francey Spinetti for himself. She saw a naked hunger glint in his eyes every time he glanced Francey’s way. He could hide it from most but not from her, she knew him too well. He’d looked the same when he’d fancied her. Poor old Les, he tended to let his feelings show too much which made it easy to hurt him. Child’s play, really. She went on. “They’re very
familiar
with each other, aren’t they? Like lovers.”

“How would you know? Your experience in a heterosexual relationship is zero, isn’t it?” he countered. “Who was
your
first? That half-caste Aboriginal girl, Sally? Or was it Louise McReady from your boarding school?”

Natalie, pleased that she’d hit him where it hurt, refused to rise to the bait. She pouted. “Now, now, don’t be a bad sport. That’s discriminatory, you know.” Silently though she answered him. Both, Les dear,
both.
First Louise. They’d discovered each other when they were in the school infirmary suffering from influenza — they’d been isolated so the germs wouldn’t spread through the entire dormitory. The house mistress used to check on them every few hours. Remembering made her go all shivery inside. She and Louise had had a wonderful time discovering each other’s bodies for the first time. Then, while on school holidays in Murrundi’s hay loft one drizzly afternoon she had shown Sally what extracurricular activities she had learnt.

“What’s discriminatory?” Shellie asked as she and Barry joined the group.

“Oh, nothing that would interest you, dear,” Trish rushed in. “Just talking politics. Boring stuff.”

“Have you met the Minister for Primary Industry?” Shellie asked Trish. “He’s an interesting man. There might be an article about country life in it for you.”

“No. I …”

Shellie threaded her arm through Trish’s. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Natalie smiled indulgently as the two women and the doctor walked away. Her Aunt Shellie sure was a try-hard. Then her sharp gaze noticed a man she didn’t readily recognise. Curiosity got the better of her. “Who’s that?” she asked Les, pointing discreetly towards the stranger.

“That’s Roy Preston. A journalist. One of CJ’s acquaintances.”

“I haven’t seen him at Murrundi before.” Over the years she had met most of CJ’s friends and business colleagues but not the tall, spare man, probably in his early sixties and dressed in a grey lounge suit. She wondered if Trish knew him and stored the query away in her mind to ask later on.