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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Steve 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.
“We’ve got a kid in here, pig,” one of the men shouted. “Let us out free and clear. She don’t get hurt then.”
“You’re only making it worse for yourself, Andropoulos. We’ve got you dead to rights. Let the child go, then we can talk about a deal.”
“I won’t do no deal with no pig. I’m not going back inside again either.”
From somewhere within Steve heard a child whimpering. He glanced at his watch. Another three minutes — the longest three minutes of his life. He tried to appeal to the younger man. “Nixon, think about it. The law’ll go harder on you if you don’t free the kid. What do you want to do? Five years in gaol or would you rather it be ten?”
“Shut up!”
A bullet came through the back door to emphasise the point and then there was silence.
Where the hell was backup? He thought of Karrin and Pete and flicked the portable on. “Take cover. They might rush the front door.”
The absolute quiet inside began to worry Steve. He knew this sort of crim — he’d dealt with them for years — they were concocting some harebrained plan, his tightening gut told him that. But what? In his initial reconnoitre he’d seen bars on the side windows which eliminated them as a means of escape. That left the front or the back door. They’d know he would have called for backup, so they had two choices. Make a run for it or try to bargain a deal using the child for leverage. With crims, especially types like Andropoulos, one never knew which way they’d jump.
Another piercing scream from the child galvanised Steve into action. He didn’t have time for backup, there had to be action now. Checking that Karrin and Pete were in secure cover and signalling for Mario to cover him, he moved forward. It took two blows with his gun butt to smash in the back window and clamber inside. In a brief glance he noted that the drugs were gone and then, flattening himself along the kitchen wall he crept to the doorway which led into a darkened hall. His ears strained to catch any foreign sounds.
With some surprise he realised the heavy breathing belonged to him, and the only other sound was a child’s occasional sniffle. He deduced that Andropoulos and Nixon were at the front of the house, planning their move. He used his portable to warn Karrin that they might rush the front door and then he assessed the situation. He thought about going into the hallway but if he did he’d be a sitting duck. His throat dried up with tension so he swallowed hard and took several deep breaths. Maybe another verbal appeal might work … Shit, didn’t they know they were cornered?
The next instant Andropoulos’s bulky figure edged around a doorway. The silence was shattered by the explosion of a .38 calibre gun.
“Take that, pig!” The shot was followed by a burst of mad laughter.
The bullet lodged in the plaster wall near Steve’s head and in the dimness fine plaster particles sprayed all over him. Close. Too bloody close!
Seconds later, in a flurry of movements, they made their break. One hurled the front door open and half-bent over rushed through it.
The second man began to follow. Steve aimed and fired. A yelp of pain told him he’d hit his mark. The shadowy figure lurched sideways and fell to the floor, howling with pain.
Then, as he moved down the hall, the world went mad.
He heard a hail of bullets. One, two, three … Steve lost count. Crouching low he crept into the front room and found the child, a street kid of about eleven, cowering in a corner. She looked okay. Several voices yelled, there was a scream, no, two screams after which a rush of blue clad uniformed men stormed the open front door. One officer flicked the hall light on as they entered.
“Parrish,” a constable yelled, “they got your partner. It’s bad.”
Nixon had been wounded in the thigh but Andropoulos, determined not to face more gaol time, had been fatally wounded. Karrin, shot in the neck, stayed on the critical list for three days — the bullet had missed the carotid artery by a mere centimetre. A probationary constable collected a nasty wound, a bullet in the stomach. In the melee the street kid escaped unnoticed.
As soon as Karrin was well enough she resigned from the service. Steve knew she bore him no ill-will but the experience had been too close to live with and her fiancè insisted she leave. There’d been the usual counselling crap, and all the psycho-analysing he could stomach. Plus some he couldn’t. Then his superior suggested a move to another section, state licensing, telling him it was better for him to stay off the streets for a while.
The Police Internal Affairs hearing absolved Steve of responsibility over the Smith-Nixon shooting incident. But for Steve, life had gone downhill from there on in. His long-time girlfriend, Tracy, left him to marry another cop. Karrin’s fiancè popped him one on the nose for almost getting her killed, and half his mates started to drift away, too busy with their families, they said. And no matter what the internal affairs decision had been, he blamed himself, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on why things had gotten out of hand.
He knew in his heart, and that others knew too that he was at fault. Rashness or timing or maybe the decision to storm in through the back of the house had pushed the crims into a course of action that could have been avoided if he’d waited for backup and for a hostage negotiator. Whatever … the cumulative effect on him had been profound.
He blinked and stared unseeingly at the front fence which surrounded his neat, fibro cottage. He slowly shook his head. What was the point in going over it again and again?
The whispers had begun after the I.A. finding. Subtle. Sly. “Parrish’s lost his nerve.” “Parrish can’t stand being on the streets any more.” They said he was washed up as an effective cop, said all he could ever be was a pencil pusher. His mouth turned down in a grimace as he remembered the digs. He’d never heard anything directly though, just second-and third-hand murmurings.
His mind returned to the present and he saw that it was almost dark. Bugs flew around his head and several mossies were finding him a juicy target. He sighed and pushed the past to the back of his mind, his gaze wandering around the rooftops of the houses on the other side of the street. Mt Isa had been his salvation. The NSW police union had organised a transfer to the Queensland service and he’d asked to be posted to the country — as far away from a major city as he could get.
Steve stood and stretched his one hundred and eighty-five centimetre frame in the darkness, welco
ming the cooler night air. Above him millions of stars shone in an ink black sky. He grinned to himself. It had taken him a while to get used to that particular panorama. And then, strangely, his thoughts returned to the dark-haired woman who’d sparked off the memories. Francey … Why was it so hard to get her out of his head? He tried to think about something else.
The ballistics report should be through any day now. When it arrived he would take a run out to Murrundi and acquaint CJ with the results, confidentially, of course. Quite illogically, the thought of seeing Francey Spinetti again buoyed him immensely, though he knew nothing could come of it. Whistling tunelessly under his breath, he opened the screen door and went inside.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The indulgence of being on holiday evaporated the next morning after breakfast when Francey, CJ and Les had a three hour session on the proposed mini conference centre.
After breakfast Les brought out several folders and a rolled up set of plans, and once the crockery and cutlery had been removed, they got to work. Francey hadn’t been idle either. She had compiled a list of items she thought the centre would require and as the hours passed they hammered out what equipment the conference centre would need and just what it was meant to do.
“I see it as having a two-pronged function,” CJ decreed. “I want people, they’ll be important folks, to feel comfortable. Five star accommodation, and all the facilities one would find in a top hotel which caters for conferences.”
“Of course,” Francey agreed. She looked down at her list. “A reception and dining area, with bar. A lecture room that houses state-of-the-art electronic equipment, overhead display unit, closed-circuit TV, hi-fi system. I think you’d also want a business room where guests could get onto the Net, send and receive faxes and e-mail, make phone calls and so on. Alternatively, each suite could be equipped with such facilities. Perhaps a leisure room for pool and table tennis, darts, video games. Accommodation would consist of single and twin suite type rooms with private facilities, mini-bars, spa baths, the usual.”
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