“Shit!” Natalie didn’t hide her displeasure. She looked down at Trish’s bare breasts and repeated, softly this time, “Shit.” With difficulty she brought her raging passion and need for fulfilment under control. “We’ll have to take a raincheck, darling. But don’t run off, I want to talk to you about something important.” She grinned mirthlessly. “It looks like talk is all we’ll be getting to do today.” She remembered Hugh at the door. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
An hour and a half later Natalie reappeared in the office doorway. “Things are getting hectic here, love. There’s not much point in you hanging around.”
“Okay, I’ve got some research to do on an article anyway.”
“Before you take off, I want to run something by you,” Natalie said. “Look upon it as a story idea, if you like.”
Intrigued, Trish waited.
“I want you to go to Sydney to see if you can dig up some dirt on Francey Spinetti, the bitch.”
Trish tried not to let her disappointment and her reluctance show. She’d been dreading this yet unconsciously expecting it sooner or later. “But why? I thought we’d agreed to adopt a wait and see attitude.”
“There must be something in her past, something I can use to drive a wedge between her and CJ.”
“What if there isn’t?” Something deep within Trish rebelled at the thought of checking into Francey’s past. She honestly liked and respected the woman and it didn’t seem smart to try to crucify someone that CJ seemed to admire so much. But to say so to Natalie at this point in the conversation would start a full on rage.
“Use your imagination. Make something up. I don’t know,” Natalie said angrily. “Few people have led perfect lives, nuns and priests included. There’s often something in their past they’d rather keep hidden. Dig deep, find it. Maybe her parents even. I don’t care what it is, just find something I can use. CJ’s flying off to Europe soon and when he comes back he’s going to throw a big birthday party for her. If I could have it by then …” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about the idea.” Then the tone changed, became plaintive, almost childlike. “You promised you’d help me, remember?”
Trish felt trapped. Her conscience longed to say no but the appeal and the hint of desperation in Natalie’s eyes made her want to agree, if only to keep the peace between them. Deep down she knew she was being manipulated by a master manipulator and she also knew that there was little she could do about it.
“All right. When do you want me to go?” Perhaps it would be good to get away from Natalie for a while … and she’d always liked Sydney.
Natalie smiled. She’d won. Trish and her scruples could be such a nuisance sometimes. “The day after tomorrow. All expenses paid of course.”
Having said what she wanted to say she turned and disappeared back into the gallery.
Trish shook her head, her shoulders drooping as she stared reflectively at Natalie’s retreating figure.
CJ stood near the airport window watching several aircraft taxi towards the arrivals section. He didn’t want to think about what lay ahead but he had to. Funny, on reflection he’d found that he wasn’t afraid of the thought of surgery, the radiotherapy or even of dying. He’d thought he might be, but he wasn’t. He’d lived on the land too long, knew the cycle of life: birth, growth, death. Sometimes surprises but no escapes. And, the thought came to him, with what the doctors said he could expect over the coming months dying would be a relief, a release from the pain.
Barry had explained about the radiotherapy and what it would do to him. Nausea, extreme tiredness, his hair would probably fall out. But if the treatment worked and shrank the tumour, then he’d gain the most precious commodity he could think of — time.
He saw Shellie coming towards him loaded up with magazines and a couple of books to read during the long flight to Geneva. He felt guilty because he hadn’t told her the truth yet. No-one but Barry and Les knew. She’d be angry with him when he finally did. He had made the decision that the fewer people who knew for the present, the better — until he set in motion the plans he had to.
There was still so much he wanted to do but he knew he had to prioritise everything and concentrate on the most important things. This treatment should give him time. He grimaced with self-derision: time not money was now his most precious commodity.
The interrogation room of Cairns police station had a strange smell to it even though it was air-conditioned: cheap air deodoriser, cigarette smoke, stale coffee.
As he waited for the prisoner to be brought in, Steve Parrish thanked his tendency towards persistence. The luck had finally turned his way. His one lead for Richard Ambrose’s suspected murder, Paul Andronicus, had been arrested for drink driving. The Mt Isa police station had been faxed and he’d grabbed a flight to Cairns the next day because the offender could only be held for twenty-four hours by law.
The door opened and a police constable led the prisoner in. Steve motioned Andronicus to sit at the table and as he did so the constable moved to sit on the chair near the door.
Steve double-checked the charge sheet. “Paul Andronicus?” His quarry looked the worse for wear. Still hungover with a five-o’clock shadow across his jawline, the swarthily built man dressed in dirty blue jeans, black T-shirt and elasticised boots looked him squarely in the eyes.
“Yeah. So?”
“I’m here to ask you a few questions. My name’s Sergeant Steve Parrish from Mt Isa.”
Andronicus straightened up in the chair. Suddenly alert, he eyed Steve with a modicum of respect. “I didn’t do anything illegal in the Isa mate, someone’s given you a bum steer.”
“That so? We’ll see. I’m going to ask you some questions. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so. But whatever you do say may later be used in evidence. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“Where have you been, Paul? I’ve been trying to find you for over seven months. You left the Isa in a bit of a rush, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did. That’s not a crime, is it?” Andronicus replied with a touch of bravado.
Steve allowed a grin to flash across his face. “Not yet. So, what have you been up to?”
“Nothing illegal. I’m a carpenter, mate, I go wherever there’s work. I’ve been to Charters Towers and down to Townsville then up here to Cairns. Lots of projects going on here.”
“You were in the Isa when Richard Ambrose died, weren’t you?”
Andronicus’ forehead screwed up in a frown. “Reckon I was. Bad luck for the bloke, that stampede. Lousy way to die.”
Steve offered him a cigarette which he refused. The ploy was to try to be his buddy, get his confidence up a bit. “It was. The corpse was barely recognisable. Had to be identified by his dental records.”
“Yeah …” Andronicus gave him a strange look. “Well, what’s that got to do with me? I’m in the can, here for drinking too much and having a car accident. What’ve you come all the way from the Isa to question me about? I paid all my bills, I swear I did.”
“You and Penny Ormond were something of an item until Richard Ambrose started to take an interest in her. Is that correct?”
The eyes narrowed, the tone became defensive. “We might have been. So what?”
“I’ve spoken to several people back in the Isa. They say you were really cut up about Penny Ormond dumping you for Ambrose. That you threatened,” he paused to take a black book out of his shirt’s breast pocket, flip it open and read a direct quote, “‘to teach Ambrose a lesson he’d never forget’. Several people at the Irish Club have given me sworn statements to the effect that you threatened Richard Ambrose’s life.”
“Now wait a minute.” Andronicus held up both hands, palms forward. “How do you expect me to remember something I said almost a year ago? Even if I did say it I was probably pissed at the time. Jeez, what are you trying to pin on me?”
Steve reckoned it was time to get formal. “I
feel it fair to warn you, Paul Andronicus, I have evidence that Richard Ambrose may have been murdered. I am reminding you that what you say here,” he pointed to the video camera at the end of the room, “is being recorded and may be used in a court of law against you.”
“Shit, mate,” beads of sweat began to form on the carpenter’s forehead. “I didn’t touch Ambrose, I swear it.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Paul. Unless you can give me an alibi which can be corroborated, you’re the best suspect I’ve got.”
“What? So CJ’s put you up to this? The old bastard wants his pound of flesh. An eye for an eye stuff … He lost his bloody son and heir so someone has to pay.”
Steve shook his head. “This has nothing to do with Mr Ambrose. I’m a police officer carrying out an investigation into Richard Ambrose’s death. I found evidence that shows the stampede may have been deliberately started. Someone wanted to hurt Richard Ambrose, maybe the intention was to give him a scare, but the scenario backfired and Richard was trampled to death. That makes his death manslaughter, or murder, depending on how the prosecutor views the evidence. On whether he thinks he can make murder stick. Murder, Paul, think about it.”
“I didn’t do it. Honest. It wasn’t me. Give me a lie detector test or something, whatever it is you blokes do. I’m innocent, I swear it.”
“We don’t do lie detector tests, that’s done in the USA.”
Steve watched Paul Andronicus cover his face with his hands. All aggression was gone now and fear emanated from the suspect.
“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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Francey 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 w
orn 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.
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