Heart of the Outback (54 page)

“Can I get you something? Coffee, wine?”

She smiled. So formal, so tense. “A coke would be nice.” A good stiff whisky would have been better. She thought it might give her a touch of courage to say what she wanted to say.

Steve returned with a glass of coke and a beer for himself. He sat in one of the chairs and sipped at his beer. “What can I do for you, Francey?”

Her second smile was tremulous. “This is … awkward,” she admitted. “I … I feel like an intruder, that I’m imposing, but you’re the only person I felt I could turn to, could ask for help.”

He shrugged. “I’m a policeman, it’s my job to help people.”

She almost winced. He sounded so impersonal. Then her words came out in a rush. “It’s about CJ. I know he’s not guilty. He couldn’t have killed Natalie even if he says he did. It, it’s just a …” she groped for the right word and couldn’t find it, “he thinks he has to protect me, you see. That’s why he said he did it.” Her blue-green eyes appealed to him. “Steve, surely, you don’t believe, I mean, you have reservations about his confession, don’t you?”

He had, but to admit it wouldn’t be professional. “Did you kill Natalie, Francey?”

Her eyes widened. “No!” She sighed. “Look, I know there’s some heavy circumstantial evidence against me, motive and all that, but I didn’t kill her.”

Steve leant forward in the chair. “I’d like to help, really. It’s just that …” He stopped, thought, and then said, “I have to go by the law. CJ made a confession and it seems believable. Inspector Clarke, myself and a police department psychologist discussed
the possibility of him confessing to protect you, but after due consideration we rejected it.”

“Why?”

“We’d already made certain enquires as to Natalie and her relationship with CJ. For years there’s been an obvious estrangement. So, for years, the dislike had been building between them. Then there’s the circumstance of Richard’s death. First it appeared to be an accident, everyone accepted that until I questioned the possibility of it being deliberate. Who would gain the most from Richard’s death? Even though she’s quite wealthy, the obvious person at the time was Natalie.” He stopped for a few seconds to study her. “Although we could never prove it in a court of law she most likely orchestrated Richard’s death. CJ’s a passionate man — everyone knows that — and when he somehow learnt or guessed at Natalie’s possible culpability, he sought revenge. I’m sorry, but under the law revenge is often regarded as a near perfect motive for murder.”

She’d heard this before, from Les, and read it in the newspapers too. “You had other suspects: Mike Hunter and Les and who knows else? Perhaps someone else could have been on the property that night.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A stranger. Someone just passing through. Maybe Natalie disturbed him and he killed her. We hear about such happenings in the papers practically every day.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You’re clutching at straws now, I think.”

“I’ll clutch at whatever helps me prove that CJ isn’t guilty.”

“Look, Francey, I’m sympathetic, however, I need something more tangible than wild ideas. A hunch, a clue, facts, something more definable. Otherwise …”

“Oh, Steve, CJ’s going to die and I don’t want people to remember him as a self-confessed murderer. He deserves better than that.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. Francey Spinetti was one damned stubborn woman, but he already knew that. Why couldn’t she accept the fact that CJ had confessed, rather nobly, he thought, to keep her safe. “I don’t want to argue the point with you, it’s just that I don’t have anywhere else to go with this case that doesn’t put
you
, instead of CJ, in jeopardy.”

Her eyes snapped with anger. “So, this is the easy way out. It’s easier, no, more comfortable, for CJ to appear guilty than to do some hard work and really find who did it?”

“That’s not fair and you know it. I’ve worked my arse off on this case.”

An uneasy silence rested in the room between them. Francey was getting nowhere and she knew it. She glanced across at him, saw his tight features, the expression unreadable. So typical. She missed the old Steve. The Steve who’d dropped his guard to her and had pulled down the emotional walls between them. The Steve who cared. Her heavy sigh was eaten up by the quiet in the room. She had wasted her time by coming here. He couldn’t be moved or changed. Accepting that she got up and put her glass on the coffee table.

“Look, what I can do is to go through all the paperwork again. Maybe we missed something,” he offered, not wanting her to go. Then he too stood up.

“Would you?” Her face brightened noticeably, her heart skipping a beat at his sudden closeness. “Thank you.” It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.

He walked her to the front door and opened it wide. They stood in silence looking at each other, neither able to bridge the gap which had risen between them. For what seemed an eternity but was in reality only several seconds they stared at each other.

As Francey turned away she whispered, “I miss you.”

Her close proximity was driving him crazy. He could hardly think straight and his muscles and nerve endings were so finely tuned he thought he would burst. He’d have to be made of solid granite not to be affected by her beauty, the sad expression in her eyes. And then, in one of those rare moments of clarity he realised that what he felt for her transcended all else, including his stupid male pride. Her expectation of great wealth and her relationship to CJ wasn’t important. What mattered was
them
, that they should be together. It had taken him a while to see the light, but how could he make up for the mess he’d made of their relationship through his sense of insecurity? He’d painted himself into a corner from which there looked to be no easy escape.

With a great deal of effort Steve got control of his feelings. “I didn’t quite catch that,” he said as he swallowed hard to loosen the emotional lump lodged in his throat.

She touched his cheek briefly, blinked back a tear. “Doesn’t matter, it wasn’t important.”

Steve stood silhouetted in the open doorway and watched her walk all the way to her car, get in and
rev the engine. There was a singular, coherent thought which ran through his mind as she drove up the street: you never appreciate what you’ve got until it’s out of reach. So true, so bloody true!

Billy Wontow stood with half-a-dozen other stockmen on the ground below the verandah of Les Westcott’s cottage. As he listened to Les give the orders for the day his dark eyes caught a glint of something bright stuck between the floorboards of the verandah. Rays from the early morning sun were picking up a flash of light.

“Billy. That Braford bull we bought last month, Maestro, has damaged some of the stockyard fence uprights. We’ll be needing those yards at the end of the week so move him to one of the outer paddocks then fix the fencing. Then I want you to take one of the bikes and check on how that experimental herd of camels has settled in.”

Lucky sniggered. “Yeah, Billy, put on your Lawrence of Arabia cape when you do that, will you.”

Les grinned briefly. “Don’t scoff, Lucky. Camels are an up-and-coming export meat market. In a couple of years it’ll be a nice little money earner for Murrundi.”

Ignoring Lucky’s remark, Billy dipped his weather-worn hat in acknowledgement, “Right, boss.”

Other men were assigned their duties and started to amble off in several directions but Billy, characteristically curious, wondered what was caught between the floorboards. He shuffled off more slowly
than usual, waiting for Les to head towards the homestead. Once Westcott was out of sight Billy headed back to the verandah and, using his penknife, dug the item out from between the boards.

Billy checked his find. A small white button with an edge of gold around it — that’s what had caught the light. Squinting, he placed the button in the palm of his hand to study it. He’d seen this type of button before. Where? His forehead puckered in a frown of concentration. He blinked several times as it came to him. On the shirt Natalie had been wearing when she’d been fished out of the pool. Two buttons had been missing, he remembered. His level of curiosity multiplied tenfold. What was the button doing here, on Les’ verandah?

He glanced about to make sure no-one was around, got down on his hands and knees and loosened a piece of lattice put there to discourage small animals from making the cooler under-space their home. He then crawled under the verandah which, in traditional Queensland fashion, was almost a metre off the ground to allow for better ventilation. For twenty minutes he grubbed around the soil and found an assortment of cigarette butts, old nails, pieces of metal and lolly wrappers that had been blown under during strong winds. Close to giving up on the second button he moved a piece of white paper and a small round object slid onto the ground. The second button!

Billy almost whooped with glee. With care he placed the two buttons in the top breast pocket of his shirt and fastened the flap. Before he emerged, he checked again that no-one loitered around the yard and then he headed for the stockyards.

Work first, he decided. Then a trip into town. Steve Parrish, he reckoned, would be mighty interested in what he’d found.

Steve sat among a pile of files scattered over the length and breadth of his desk. Funny, he mused as he sifted through the paperwork in Neil’s file on the deWitt-Ambrose case, if one eliminated, say, Francey and CJ, and applied logic of probable motive or lack of it to the other suspects, the one who appeared to have the strongest motive to get rid of Natalie was, in his opinion, Les Westcott.

He tapped his pencil on the top of a file as he thought. There was an air of smugness about the man. As if Westcott was privy to information no-one else had. That had niggled and annoyed him ever since the investigation had begun.

Neil had assembled a substantial dossier on Westcott. Some hearsay, some of it facts which dated back almost twenty years. The overall picture was that of a quietly ambitious, intelligent, very determined man. Over the years Westcott had worked his way through promotion at Murrundi into CJ’s confidence and apart from Francey, was the other most important person in CJ’s business empire. People around the Isa said he’d once been in love with and had wanted to marry Natalie. Neil’s information included the purchase of an engagement ring from a Mt Isa jeweller. And wasn’t it logical to believe that by marrying Natalie Les would assure himself a place in the Ambrose heirachy. No marriage had occurred and Neil had noted why. Natalie simply wasn’t interested in a heterosexual relationship.

More facts had emerged. According to banking information requisitioned by the police department, Westcott was a wealthy man in his own right. Steve’s eyebrows lifted in envy of the man’s healthy bank balance. No doubt judicious investments over the years, assisted by inside knowledge via CJ, had made him financially independent.

And Steve personally knew that Westcott wanted to be romantically involved with Francey.

So, if he put all the pieces together, what did he have? Suppositions, possibilities and a man who coveted CJ’s business empire and, perhaps desperately, wanted it for himself. Now, the easiest way — the only way in fact — to get it was through marriage to Francey Spinetti. But how did that work as possible motivation to kill Natalie? He tapped his pencil again on the top folder, thinking through the possibilities.

Les could have perceived Natalie as a threat to his plans. The woman was emotionally unstable and getting worse. She had tried to dispose of Francey once, she might try again. Also, Natalie would inherit part of CJ’s estate on his death but if she died before CJ, the entire estate went to Francey. This would make marriage to Francey a very attractive proposition indeed.

Yes, motivation was there and like the other suspects Les didn’t have an airtight alibi for the night of the murder. He stroked his jawline, this line of investigation looked promising …

His head shot up as someone knocked on his office door.

Neil poked his head around the half open doorway. “Steve, Billy Wontow wants a moment of your time.”

“Send him in.”

Billy shuffled into the office and plonked his lanky frame down into the seat Steve pointed to.

“Good to see you, mate,” Steve welcomed him. “Want a tea or coffee?”

“Not gonna be here that long,” Billy’s reply was laconic. “Got something for you.” He fished the two buttons out of his top pocket and placed them on the desk blotter. “You recognise them?”

Steve frowned, thought for several seconds, “Natalie’s shirt, I think.”

“That’s what I reckoned too.”

“Where did you find them, Billy?”

“At Murrundi. One was stuck between the floorboards of the cottage where Les Westcott lives, the other had fallen through the verandah into the dirt.”

“You’re sure that’s where you found them, both of them?”

“Too right, mate,” Billy said with a grin. “I’ve got enough dirt on my clothes to prove it.”

Steve grinned back, elated. Maybe, just maybe … “Billy, I’ll need you to make a statement about where you found the buttons and then I want you to do me a favour.”

Billy’s dark eyes narrowed. “Sure, Steve. What do you want?”

“Keep the information about the buttons to yourself. Don’t tell anyone, not even Alison. Can you do that?”

“Sure, mate. No problem.”

An hour later Steve assembled his investigative team in one of the station house’s interrogation rooms.

“Are you serious?” Erin Cooper said boldly, “you want to reopen the case on the strength of the two buttons Wontow found?”

“We have a confession from CJ Ambrose, remember?” Glen McAlpine put in.

Steve held up both hands. “I know, I know. It’s a slim lead but it’s evidence that throws a new light on things. The whereabouts of the buttons tell us that Natalie was at Westcott’s cottage the night of the murder. Possibly that’s where she was knocked unconscious and strangled. Her body may then have been moved and dumped in the pool.”

“You think Wontow’s telling the truth about where he found the buttons?” Neil asked.