Heart of the Outback (50 page)

Francey’s eyebrow arched. “Sure.” Macho cops! Who did they think she was, their servant? “Down the hall and across the living room, the door on the left is the kitchen. Help yourself.”

Steve grinned as he turned back to her. Winking his approval he then saw Les Westcott, decked out in a tweed jacket, woollen tie and moleskins striding towards them. Typical bloody squatter gear but, grudgingly, he had to admit that on him it looked good.

“Francey, we’d better get a move on.” He nodded sombrely to Steve. “I’m glad you’re here, Steve. I’ve a question. When are you going to release Natalie’s body for burial? There’s the funeral to organise, you know.”

“Tomorrow, I believe,” Steve’s response was to the point. He didn’t like the way Westcott put his arm proprietorially around Francey’s shoulders.
Damn, he didn’t like it at all. He waited until the man had turned away then he said, “Les, when you and Francey return from Cooktown I’ll want to talk to you, to both of you.”

Les swivelled back around, his gaze fixing on the policeman. “We’ve already given statements. What more do you want?”

“In the light of other emerging facts to do with the case, it’s likely that I’ll need to interview you both again. We can either do it at Murrundi or in Mt Isa. Which do you prefer?” he said formally.

Les Westcott made an exasperated sound. “We’re both as busy as hell, Parrish, as I’m sure you know.”

Francey intervened, placing her hand on Les’ arm. “Steve’s only doing his job, Les. We want to give him all the help we can, don’t we?”

Steve almost smiled. The appeal in her voice, the look on her face, who could resist it? He was pretty sure Westcott couldn’t or wouldn’t. After all, one day she would be his boss in the truest sense of the word.

“All right,” Les returned stiffly. “We’ll do it here. I’ll call you when we get back.” He glanced first at Francey then Steve. “Okay?”

“Fine.” Steve watched them walk away, his hands clenched at his side. What had he seen? His thoughtful gaze remained on their departing figures. It had been just a glimpse, but the expression in Westcott’s eyes before he’d disguised it was crystal clear. The man was head over heels in love with Francey. His dark eyes narrowed even further. Why hadn’t he cottoned on before? His hands balled into impotent fists at the sudden realisation. Jesus, he was supposed to be a good cop, a top detective in his day.
Shit. What had he done? Gone and handed her to Westcott on an invisible silver platter. Stupid. Bloody stupid!

CJ emerged from a room down the hall and beckoned to him. “Hey Steve, may I have a word with you? In the study.”

The day after Natalie’s funeral the symptoms relating to CJ’s tumour began to escalate. Dr Barry Ryan ordered him hospitalised so that he could monitor the medication and make him as comfortable as possible. Outside the private room in the Mt Isa hospital, Shellie and Barry stood talking quietly.

“It won’t always be like this, Shellie. As the tumour grows other symptoms will take over. The headaches will become less intense, but there’ll be other problems. His whole system, the vital organs will begin to break down.” He sighed. “All we can do is medicate him for the pain and keep him comfortable.”

Shellie wiped away a tear, she’d been prone to teariness since CJ had told her of his condition. “I don’t know if I can take this, love. First looking after my father, then helping nurse young Miles and then Brenda, now my own brother. It’s too much.” Suddenly the urge for a drink almost overwhelmed her. Alcohol blurred the problem, made life bearable. Oh, she was tempted … but she wouldn’t. She had Barry’s support, he’d help her through her weaknesses.

“I know it’s hard,” Barry comforted. “But you and Francey are all CJ’s got now. You have to be strong for him and your niece.”

“Francey’s on her way in,” Shellie said. “I left a message with Lisa and as soon as she and Les get off the plane they’ll be here. I’m going to tell her.”

Barry frowned. “CJ said he didn’t want Francey to know yet.”

“For God’s sake, she’s not stupid. Don’t you think she’s going to put two and two together? Besides, he’s her father, she has a right to know. And for other reasons too. Francey has to start to prepare herself to be in command.”

Barry didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know. CJ’s not going to like it.”

Shellie gave an impatient shake of her head. “For once in my life I don’t care what CJ likes. My niece should know and if I have to be the one to tell her then so be it.”

Francey sat on a utilitarian chair at the side of CJ’s bed watching him and, periodically, all the monitoring equipment that was attached to him. Terminal.
Dying.
The fingers of her right hand came up to stroke her forehead, trying to ease the pain away. She didn’t, still couldn’t believe it, even though Barry had confirmed Shellie’s confession ten minutes ago.

For a couple of seconds she closed her eyes and remembered the first day she’d come to Murrundi and her initial impression of CJ. Her mouth curved in a fleeting smile. She’d been frightened half out of her wits back then. God, how everything had changed. He’d thrust her into a world beyond her imagination, given her challenges that had pushed her beyond the limit of her own self-belief and capabilities, and she had triumphed and grown.

She had come to love him long before she’d known he was her natural father. And now, her eyes watered, she was going to lose him … before they’d had the time to experience much of a life together. CJ might see the situation as a great cynical joke on himself and life, but she didn’t. Her heart, all the way down to the depths of her soul had been devastated by what Shellie had told her. Dying. CJ.

The thought of something, a rogue something; blood, tissues and other matter growing uncontrollably inside his brain, taking over and squeezing the life out of him, turning him into what? She couldn’t bear to think about it. But even so a wave of helplessness rushed through her. There was nothing she or anyone on earth could do. “The man with the golden touch” and all he’d accomplished, it had seemed larger than life. How could she, how could anyone who knew him accept what was to be his fate?

She struggled mentally to find a level of acceptance, and wished she believed more strongly in her faith — that might give her some degree of succour. And then she thought about another thing, with his passing, and God knows she didn’t want to think about it but she had to, the mantle of responsibility for Murrundi and all his enterprises would fall to her. She wasn’t ready. There was still so much to learn. Sensing a movement from the bed she looked up. CJ lay there studying her in much the same way as she had often caught him watching her in the past.

“You’re awake,” she said superfluously.

He nodded, and then his gaze probed her features deeply. “You know?”

Her hand reached out to cover his and she nodded affirmatively, suddenly unable to speak because her throat had constricted with emotion.

“It’s all right, you know.” He smiled at her. “I don’t want you to be sad for me. I’ve had a good life.” He chuckled weakly, “Damn it, I’ve had a great life. Done just about everything I wanted to. How many people can say that before they go to meet their maker?”

“But it’s so unfair. We were just … just …”

“I know.” His expression was understanding. “My only regret is that I won’t be around to spoil my grandchildren.” He frowned suddenly. “No more tears though. That’s an order now.”

With a last sniffle she struggled to comply. “I’ll try.”

“And here’s another. I’m not coming back to this place.” He looked about the room. “Ugh, I hate hospitals. If I have to fit out a hospital room with all the paraphernalia and staff at Murrundi, I’ll do it. I’m not going to die in this sterile place.”

Francey bit down on her lower lip as she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. She agreed. “Okay.”

He grinned at her agreement and then made an effort to perk the conversation up. “Now tell me how you got on in Sydney, the Blue Mountains project. It’s going to set other developers back on their arses, I feel it in my bones.”

The four-person investigation unit sat around a table half covered with a variety of files and reports. It had been eight days since Natalie DeWitt-Ambrose’s
death and they’d come together to collate and discuss the various pieces of information they had accumulated since the homicide, and to plan future moves.

Steve looked briefly at the papers in front of him then spoke, “The post-mortem report places the time of death between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. It states that the cause of death was asphyxiation due to strangulation. No water was found in her lungs. Also, there’s no evidence that she’d been sexually assaulted. And according to the doctor performing the autopsy, the contusion on her temple could have caused a light concussion, enough to stun or render her unconscious.

“So, we know how she died but not where. Her clothing showed signs of a struggle. Torn seams and two buttons were missing from her shirt. She could have been killed by the pool and her body thrown in to make us think, initially, that she’d tripped and maybe drowned. However, it seems more likely that death occurred elsewhere and her body was dumped in the water afterwards.” He glanced at the man opposite. “Okay, Glen, what have you got?”

Detective Glen McAlpine, a slim man whose face was a mixture of angles and planes, with a receding hairline shuffled his paperwork. He had been seconded to the original three-person investigation unit to give them a hand with what was becoming a major homicide investigation.

State and even interstate newspapers had sent a sprinkling of journalists to cover the story and the funeral, and to interview just about anyone in the Isa who had a tale to tell about the Ambrose family.
They’d made some interesting copy — especially with the news of Francey’s association to CJ still fresh in the public’s minds — for the Sunday editions.

Glen McAlpine opened a folder. “I interviewed Trish Pentano in Brisbane, the day before yesterday. She more or less confirmed that Natalie had been under a lot of strain for several months, longer than that, actually, over a year — because of CJ’s relationship to Francey Spinetti. The fact that CJ said Francey would be the major beneficiary of his estate seemed to play on her mind. Natalie, according to Ms Pentano, hated Francey for usurping her position and had been doing all she could to cause a rift between Francey and CJ.

“Pentano’s no psychologist, but she’s known Natalie for years, even before they had a relationship. She thinks Natalie had emotional and maybe some mental problems that could go back a long way. Symptoms such as moodiness, rages and illogical behaviour began to manifest themselves after her mother’s death, and later on after her half-brother’s death. Ms Pentano thought Natalie had a persecution complex and felt very insecure, even with all her wealth. She also confirmed that Natalie was a lesbian and had been since the age of fifteen.

“Oh, yes. I picked up the report on the Stinger rifle while I was in Brisbane. It’s a match for the bullet you dug out of that tree where the stampede took place. They dusted the rifle too. The only fingerprints found belonged to the deceased.”

“So Natalie could have orchestrated the stampede,” Erin said in a wondering tone as she flicked a strand of hair off her forehead.

Steve’s pencil drummed thoughtfully on a notepad. “That’s a strong possibility but we may never know for sure. She had means and opportunity — knowing the area so well — but I’m stumped for the motive. Why would she want to kill her brother?”

“Money?” Neil Smith suggested.

Steve shook his head. “I’m not sure. She was already a very wealthy woman and would have been wealthier when CJ died. If greed, money, was the motive why wasn’t CJ her target?”

“A fight, perhaps? She and Richard may have had a row over something,” Erin suggested.

“That’s possible,” Steve agreed. He looked at Neil. “What have you got on Mike Hunter?”

“I did a background check, the usual. He was regular army for ten years, did a stint in a commando unit. Later he bought a property in western NSW and married. Three years ago things got tough for him and the bank took over his property. He also split with his wife. She divorced him and went to live in Wollongong with the kids. He was pretty bitter about the loss of the station and the family split. Apart from that he seems a regular kind of bloke. The stockmen at Murrundi consider him a good boss. According to a couple of the men he had a thing for Natalie. They reckoned she was just having a bit of fun with him, that she wasn’t serious.”

“What about the Swiss army knife found at the crime scene?” Steve asked.

“Mike identified it as his. He claims he lost it the night of Francey’s birthday party,” Neil added succinctly. “We’ve only his word for that, of course,
even though CJ said he’d seen him looking for it around the pool.”

“Maybe he was just saying that. Or, maybe the killer found it and planted it by the pool to incriminate Mike,” Erin said. “Alternatively, if Mike met Natalie the night of the murder and they argued, with his army background he’d be capable of stunning her and then strangling her, maybe losing the knife in the struggle.”

“What else have we got?” Steve asked.

“Les Westcott doesn’t have an alibi for that night, neither does CJ’s daughter,” Glen said.

“Westcott was known to have been in love with Natalie,” Neil informed everyone, “according to rumours in the station’s bunkhouse and general opinion around the Isa. It’s only hearsay, I guess, but Lisa Dupre said Les was furious when Natalie gave him his walking papers about eighteen months ago. He keeps it pretty quiet, but according to Lisa Westcott’s very ambitious and wants to run CJ’s whole show eventually. The man considers himself CJ’s unofficial son even though there’s no blood relationship.”

Steve groaned inwardly. And he’d given the man a free hand with Francey, fool that he was. “You said he has no alibi for the night of the murder?”

“Westcott says he went for a drive into town early on, then came back and listened to a couple of CDs and went to bed,” Neil said.

“Hhmm, that isn’t much of an alibi,” Erin agreed. “The post-mortem put the time of death at close to 11 p.m. Francey Spinetti said she worked on some drawings till about ten thirty and then retired,”
she said, looking down at her notes. “But here’s something interesting. According to her Aunt Shellie, she and Francey had fought the night before. Mrs Kirkby had to break them up.”